Colonel Maitland's Study

I hung up the phone and scrabbled in the desk drawer. To my relief, I found the key and hurried back into the bedroom. I picked up my nightgown and was about to put it on when I heard Peter outside in the hallway. My heart was pounding. I dropped the nightgown and rushed across the room to the far door. Peter pushed it open just as I was about to insert the key into the lock.

"Time for bed, honey," he said breathlessly. "I see you're ready. Sorry I kept you waiting."

Jennifer Williams, Ph.D.

As a practicing mental health professional, I decided some years ago to write my fiction under a pseudonym to avoid complications, such as patients thinking they recognize themselves in my characters. But this time disguising my identity is essential, because this is not fiction, it is a true story, drawn directly from my clinical practice. So, for obvious reasons, I have changed all the names -- including mine!

At first I was convinced that Sarah's story about being punished by a professional disciplinarian was too utterly far-fetched to be true. A psychiatrist? A sophisticated, highly-educated, wealthy, attractive woman like Dr. Zimmer? But I came to believe every word of it, partly because I ended up getting punished by Maitland myself. That, and then some.

I'll never forget that phone call from Whitcomb.

"Dr. Williams? My name is Neil Whitcomb. You don't know me, but I have something of yours."

A sickly pang of emotion surged through me. Sarah had told me about Whitcomb.

"What do you mean, Mr. Whitcomb?"

"I have a folder in my hand. It seems to be a clinical record on one of your patients, someone called Sarah."

"Where did you get it?" It was hard to keep my voice steady.

"Well, there are several possible scenarios, aren't there? Perhaps someone found it in a taxi and passed it on to me, for example."

"I never use taxis. The file must have been stolen from my office."

"Possibly. But perhaps my duty as a good citizen would be to send the file directly to your licensing board, with a note saying I thought mental health professionals were expected to take greater care to ensure the confidentiality of their clients' protected health information. Let them sort it out."

Very clever. Even if I ended up being exonerated by my licensing board, I would spend months in fear of losing my professional livelihood, and thousands of dollars in lawyer fees. He and I both knew how devastating a threat he was making.

"What do you want from me?"

He explained what he wanted from me in some detail.

I'm pretty confident that you will be able to tell from my descriptions whether these things actually happened or not. I admit that when it came to it I nearly chickened out. I'm not going to tell you exactly where to find it, but there is a video of my encounter with the Colonel and his henchmen freely available on the Internet. No one can identify me from that footage, but if I fail to abide by the contract everything will be posted, including my enthusiastic statement on camera that I enjoyed being disciplined, that I wanted Colonel Maitland to punish me mercilessly, and that I routinely encouraged all my clients to try it for themselves. Naturally, I intend to keep my end of the bargain so my shame and humiliation will never be revealed to the whole world.

I was shown into the Colonel's study on a Friday night. I was terrified. I had been anticipating that moment for several days. I remember the smell of furniture polish and the deep pile of the carpet. Maitland was sitting behind the famous desk, and he stood as I approached him. I had imagined him as a sinister figure, a caricature of a heartless sadist, but in fact he looked so ordinary in his three-piece suit he could have been a teacher or an accountant or someone's favorite uncle. He greeted me graciously and introduced me to Whitcomb, whom I had met briefly at his office following our phone conversation, and Miles Casben, a computer science student who was already known to me. Whitcomb, also wearing a suit, looked at me impassively, his expression hard to read. Casben, in jeans and a tee-shirt, quickly went back to whatever he was doing with some electronic equipment at the other end of the room near a king-size brass bed.

Over at the desk I was asked to sign a formal legal contract to certify that I was doing this voluntarily, initialing every page. Whitcomb had given me an advance copy when we had met in his office. In view of what was coming next I was finding it just a little hard to concentrate, so I skimmed over it quickly. I was feeling tense and impatient. I told Whitcomb,

"I've seen this before, Neil. I don't have to read the whole thing again. Where do I sign? Let's get this over with."

Maitland and Casben signed as witnesses, and Whitcomb made me swear to it and stamped it with his notary public seal. He was obviously delighted, and he didn't even try to conceal it.

I had more or less known what to expect, but when Maitland told me to strip I suddenly felt weak and giddy. My hands were trembling so much it was difficult to unfasten my slacks, but I got everything off and just stood there for a moment. The two older men looked relieved. Casben was busy with the cameras. Maitland smiled at me. The carpet tickled my bare feet, and there were cool drafts between my legs. My breasts felt very sensitive for some reason.

Standing there in the nude with the three men in that elegant study was just so utterly strange and unreal that I honestly don't know how to describe it. I was scared to death. I was ashamed and embarrassed. And I was feeling a tingly, sexual excitement all over my body. Then Maitland put something on the desk in front of me, and I just stared at it stupidly.

"Pick it up if you want, Doctor Williams."

I did, and for some reason I giggled. It wasn't a cane. It was a thick, wide leather strap, heavy and highly polished, no attachments.

Whitcomb was talking.

"We'll have to edit out what I'm about to say. We should get her to say something on camera. Smiling. Saying she enjoys being punished, it's a fetish. Something like that."

Maitland smiled.

"Why not? Is that OK with you, doctor?"

Whitcomb interrupted.

"Wait. She's already got her clothes off. It might look better if she is fully dressed, outside, next to her car with the keys in her hand. Then no one can accuse us of kidnapping her or say her statement was given under duress."

I had had enough of this.

"Gentlemen, let's just do this right here and now. I'll make a statement on camera. If you don't like it, I'll get my clothes back on and we'll do as you suggested. But if you are impressed by my performance, probably so will anyone else who ever gets to see it. And I certainly hope that will never be necessary."

My suggestion carried the day. I made quite sure my statement was convincing. I spoke earnestly, smiling and blushing. The blushing was no act. Everyone was satisfied with the recording. Maitland got down to business.

"Miles, call Jackson in here for moment, will you?"

I looked on apprehensively as the fourth man entered the room. Maitland told him to take my clothes away (what the hell was that about?), and after Jackson had left the room Maitland locked the door behind him.

"Over here, doctor." He led the way to the far end of the room. To the bed. I just stood there. I was feeling weak and faint. Maitland turned back. He and Whitcomb came up to me. Two tall men in their suits, me in the nude, my hair brushing my nipples. Somehow I felt at a disadvantage.

"I thought I was going to get spanked! At the desk!"

"You should have read the amended contract, doctor." Whitcomb was smiling. "The one you just signed for me in front of these two witnesses is a little different from the one you saw in my office."

My heart was pounding.

"All right. This agreement is void as of right now. Give me my clothes. To hell with your attempts to blackmail me into this. I'm just going to take my chances."

"Sorry, doctor. You have formally agreed that you will not leave this room until the entire punishment has been delivered."

"And we're locked in. And that man took my clothes away."

"Exactly. Get on the bed, please. Lie down on your front."

"I refuse."

"Then we are entitled by our contract to force you."

"No way! No contract could permit something like that!"

Whitcomb riffled through the pages and pointed. Helplessly, I looked at the printed words. They swam before my eyes. 'Hereby agree to be restrained for the duration of the punishment . . . consent to be overpowered by Colonel Maitland and his assistants if necessary . . . I desire this because of my strong interest in and preference for unconventional sexual practices between consenting adults, as expressed in the video recording I freely provided . . . even if I protest and object, you may take this as a simulation on my part to be true to the scenario in which I voluntarily seek to participate.'

Sarah had told me about the bed during one of our recent sessions. Yes, we were still meeting on the quiet despite Whitcomb's best efforts. Sarah had seen it when she first went into Maitland's library with her husband, but she forgot all about it. I found that quite understandable, given that a few minutes later she had to take all her clothes off and get caned. She remembered the bed during a marathon therapy session we had during which she described the entire Marshfield experience in detail.

The brass bed was huge, pulled well out from the wall so that one could walk all around it. There were no pillows or sheets or blankets, just a creamy white cushiony mattress. Then I saw the handcuffs attached to the headboard and some ropes tied to the low brass rails at the foot of the bed and my insides turned to water. I must have been out of my mind to sign that damned contract without reading it.

Casben was operating a camera near the bed. Some very bright lights were switched on overhead. Maitland again told me to lie down on my front. I climbed up on the bed and sank into the softness of the mattress. He ordered me to put my hands through the brass rails of the headboard, one upright rail between my hands, and then he quickly clicked the handcuffs on my wrists. I was now naked, helpless, and handcuffed to a bed in a locked room, waiting for whatever punishments the sadistic Maitland might, at his whim, decide to impose on me.

If I hadn't been so preoccupied with what was going to happen next I could have enjoyed lying on that bed. It was very comfortable, and the soft material I was lying on gently tickled my breasts and my belly. Having all my clothes off is usually a deliciously sensual experience for me, and the presence of the men was making me feel very sexy indeed. But I wasn't entirely comfortable, of course. I couldn't move my hands, so I had to toss my head to shake my long hair out of my face. And then I became aware that Maitland and Miles Casben were doing something behind me at the foot of the bed. I felt the tug as a rope was looped around my right ankle and pulled tightly. I gasped aloud.

"No! Don't! Please!"

That fell on deaf ears. It was hard to see behind me, but I could tell that Maitland was tying the other end of the rope firmly to the brass-work. He put a loop around my other ankle and stretched my legs apart as he tied the rope to the rail. Then he stood up and came over to the head of the bed, and all three men were looking down at me. I struggled uselessly against the restraints and kept picking my head up to see what they were doing. I was feeling a peculiar mixture of emotions, both scared and sexually aroused. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I didn't remember giving up the leather strap, but the Colonel had it. He laid it across my bottom and stepped back. I was straining to look behind me to see what was going on, but my hair was in my face and I couldn't see much. Rather pointlessly, I tried to wriggle my rear end so the strap would fall off, but I didn't succeed. Despite my restraints I was in constant motion, tossing my head, writhing, trying to kick my legs free of the ropes. May as well give them a good show for the cameras. Casben was filming from the head of the bed, and every time I looked up he zoomed in on my face. I realized I was scowling at him, so I made a conscious decision to smile and look as if I was OK with everything. Maitland looked pleased.

"Very good, doctor. Remember that you are enjoying this. You have asked me to punish you because you are kinky and it turns you on."

The Colonel turned away and I did my best to keep smiling at Casben's camera. The tension grew. Then Maitland gave me a ringing slap on the bottom with the strap. It hurt, a sort of dull glowing smart, and my whole body jerked and I cried out in a sort of hoarse gasp. He kept right on thrashing my bare bottom. I wanted to feel my buttocks with my hands, but of course I couldn't and as Maitland kept at it my rear end was throbbing and it was getting sore. When he eventually stopped he told me they would leave me tied to the bed for a while to give them a chance to replay some of the video to make sure it had recorded OK. Besides, he said, I needed a break for a few minutes. A break? There was going to be more?

There certainly was. To my horror, Maitland had decided to hand over to Whitcomb, and my heart pounded out of my chest as I saw the cane he was holding as he approached me. I yelled at him to get away from me. I begged the Colonel to let me go, screamed at him, told him as emphatically as I could that I had had enough and could not take any more. I even shouted for Casben to help me. No one said a word. I couldn't see Maitland or Casben. Whitcomb just stood by the side of the bed, smiling down at me. By that point I was bouncing the whole bed trying to break loose, but all I accomplished was to give them some embarrassing video footage of my pointless writhing and tugging as Whitcomb turned away and went out of view.

The caning was indescribable. Although I tried to brace myself, nothing could have prepared me for that first blow. At least I knew when it was coming. Casben had set up a video monitor near the head of the bed within my field of view, though it soon got uncomfortable having to hold my head up to see the screen. I put my head down for a second and felt a tickle on my rear end. I quickly looked up at the screen. Whitcomb had rested the tip of the cane on my bottom, and he gently sawed it back and forth a little. I just wanted him to stop tantalizing me and get it over with. But then he drew the cane up and swished it down on me with gusto. The sudden fierce, stinging pain absolutely stunned me. I bucked wildly and uselessly against the cuffs and the ropes, shrieking and squealing and sobbing as the bastard relentlessly delivered blow after blow. My rear end was smarting and throbbing and glowing. I was frantically telling myself it had to be over soon, but I was disappointed.

Whitcomb stopped, but only briefly. He told me we had made a good start, but now I had to beg him to give me six more strokes. I had to put on a good act, he said, because this was for the cameras and the audio and it needed to be convincing. I had no choice, so I did what he said and asked him please to give me a hard caning as punishment for my misbehavior. Then he ordered me to count the strokes aloud, and I hardly recognized my own voice as I hoarsely enumerated them, finally reaching six with such a flood of relief that I was laughing through my tears.

But it turned out that my evening in Colonel Maitland's study was not over yet. In fact, events took a decidedly different turn.

Miles Casben

Dr. Jenny Williams is my therapist. She would never tell anyone, even in this document she's editing, but even though it's weird she told me it's OK for me to write about it in my section. She told me all the names are going to be changed anyway. I wonder what name she will use for me?

I found out about Dr. Zimmer being Jenny's patient from the Colonel. He told me Jenny was going to be brought in to be disciplined. I nearly freaked. Jenny is a lively, slim, athletic redhead who could easily be a model if she ever got tired of listening to people's problems. I've had serious fantasies about her ever since our first therapy session, and of course I knew what I would get to see when she had her encounter with the Colonel in his study with the door locked. And I would be getting every second of it on video.

When I went in for my next therapy session with her I had to tell her I knew. I was surprised how calm she was.

"This is truly ironic, Miles. When you first told me you had been offered a job with a rich British guy who makes movies of models in his mansion, I thought it would be an excellent experience for you in getting over your shyness around women. But, of course, neither you nor I knew the details yet."

"Since you mention it, Jenny, I'm definitely not as shy as I used to be around nude women."

She smiled briefly.

"Miles, I've been thinking a lot about how to handle this with you. I know what goes on when women get sent to Colonel Maitland, and I know you do all the camera work. It makes it easier that you already know I have to go there myself. I have no choice, by the way; it concerns another patient, and I can't talk about it. But it must be obvious to you that I can't possibly imagine continuing to be your therapist if you are going to be there when it happens. I'm sure you can understand that."

"I guess so. But I don't have to tell anyone you're my therapist! And I know you won't. Doesn't that make it OK?"

"Sure, that part's OK. But, come on, let's not be naïve. You know better than me what goes on in Maitland's study. And you will be part of what happens to me! I don't have to spell it out, surely? I'll have my clothes off! It's going to be humiliating and painful. I will probably lose all control and cry and scream and swear. You will see the whole thing, and get it all on your cameras. It's horrible that our professional relationship has to end that way, but there's no alternative, it absolutely has to end."

"I won't think any the worse of you for what happens there. You already told me you don't judge me for what I do with the Colonel, even though you object hugely to women being treated that way. I will still respect you as my therapist, why not?"

"Can you really imagine sitting down in here a day or two after my meeting with the Colonel and picking up on the therapy as if nothing had happened? Assuming I can sit down, that is."

It went on like that for a while. She knew I had to be there, because I was the only one who could do the camera work the way the Colonel likes it done. In the end we agreed to take it as it comes and talk on the phone afterwards to see how we felt about the therapy. So the day came, and my therapist ended up in the Colonel's study with me focusing the cameras on her as she stripped for him.

Jenny Williams in the nude was stunning. Her skin is completely clear and very white. Her long red hair was wild and fanned out across her back and shoulders, perfectly matching her blazing patch of wiry pubic hair. The Colonel made her lie on the bed on her front. Jenny has long legs and the cutest bottom, and she was restless and had this sort of uncertain smile, tossing her head to try and see what we were doing behind her, and every time she moved, her hair was spilling out around her shoulders and down her back. She looked kind of saucy and impish and frisky. I think she really wanted to be spanked. Either that or it was a big act, her way of handling it, maybe.

The Colonel was his usual self. He never really hurts the women badly, but he puts on a pretty good show for the cameras and he did make Jenny gasp and cry out as he lashed her with that strap. But Whitcomb was another matter entirely. It was hard for me to watch that part. At one point, when it got really bad and Whitcomb was working himself up into a frenzy with that cane, she was pleading with him to stop and making all kinds of wild threats and promises, but we could hardly make out her words as she was squealing in such a high-pitched voice, her screams drilling through us.