Father-Daughter Counselling Sessions
"What made you both arrive here today?"
Hardly five minutes into the therapy session, and I wish I was anywhere other than there. I'm trapped between my father and a stiff gray couch, in a drab room with wooden panels from the 70s, and dingy, musty carpet under our feet.
Neither of us responds to the therapist's opening question. It's common knowledge that my father and I don't see eye to eye, and I doubt talking about our issues with a third party will make things any better.
I sit stiffly, my arms folded across my chest, showing off my disapproval. It's a squeezed-in-between feeling. I've just come from my shift at the campus coffee shop, so I'm dressed in a short tan skirt and a tight black t-shirt, with my blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.
My father doesn't look like the type of person you'd find in a therapist's office. His worn-in jeans and black boots expose his working-class background. His hands are calloused from being a mechanic for the past twenty years. His black hair is unkempt, and the scowl on his face reflects my own doubts about the effectiveness of therapy.
But with my mom's passing last year, all we've done is fight. My dad's idea to seek help outside the home, with me still living there and not contributing to any expenses. We're caught in a counselor's office, pretty much forced into it.
When I won't start the conversation, my dad speaks first, his voice like coarse wool. "She doesn't listen to me. She comes home past curfew, drunk."
I groan, getting a glare from my dad and a curious look from Dr. Barnaby, our designated relationship fixer. He furrows his brow and asks me, "What's your side of the story, Maddie?"
I throw my arms out wide and my annoyance peeks out. "I'm an adult. Why should I have a curfew?"
"And you're living in my house," my father retorts, "and you're not even twenty-one yet!"
"I'm a full-time student working part-time and taking classes at the community college. I can't be babied forever," I state my case with resentment.
Anger flashes across my dad's face, but he's known to keep a calm front. He ramps up the tension. "You're not allowed to drink alcohol, young lady." His attention shifts to the therapist. "Ever since her mother passed, she's stopped caring about my rules."
I scoff in response, earning the attention of both my dad and the therapist. "I'm tired of being treated like a child. Can't he accept that I'm an adult?"
The therapist's pen scratches notes on paper. The sound makes me itchy, feeling like a wild animal at the zoo, on display for some stranger to examine. He clears his throat and comments, "Maddie, your father's here to try to connect with you. He wants to repair your relationship, doesn't he?"
His neutral stance makes me question his loyalties. "This is a waste of time. I have a test I need to study for." I try to leave the room, but my dad's got a tight grip on my arm. His fury shows in the hardness of his stare, and I can almost feel the temptation to use physical force. I sit back down, still tense.
As we wait for a solution from Dr. Barnaby, we sit in silence, letting the uncomfortableness of the situation sink in.
The phrase floats in the air, as if it carries the weight of a thousand bricks. I shift on the couch, becoming aware that my exposed legs lie in view, as a blush spreads up my neck and encompasses my throat. Did our therapist truly suggest spanking? Is he just joking around?
"I'm only 19 years old," I stutter, my voice significantly quieter than it was five minutes ago. The room is quickly becoming stifling, and I eye the door, which seems far away.
Dr. Barnaby shrugs. "Age doesn't matter, my dear. Spanking is an efficient method for correcting negative conduct. Your dad has provided for you your entire life—don't you think it's only fair to show a little appreciation every now and then? Do you think it's too much to ask for you to follow his rules?" He talks in a smooth tone, yet there's an edge in his words that's clearly offensive.
My father stares thoughtfully at his hands. "I've never spanked you," he says. "But if you believe it will be effective, I'll give anything a try."
I'm dumbfounded by my father's openness to the idea of spanking me, and I sense I've been transported to an alternate realm. Why, from all places, is he contemplating doing this? "Absolutely not," I retort. "What would be the point?"
Dr. Barnaby's hands rest on his desk, folded neatly. He tilts back in his chair, thoroughly pleased with himself for coming up with a brilliant idea. My focus centers on his left hand, noticing the faint ring of white skin where a wedding band should be. "Spanking will help revive the dynamic between the two of you. You need to accept your father's authority, Maddie. That's never going to change, no matter how old you get." The eye contact lingers, and he adds, "Additionally, I find spanking to be a great method for fostering closeness, though it may seem unusual."
I begin to question where my father met this guy. I wonder about Dr. Barnaby's credentials, concerned that I'm a senior portrait in an upcoming Dateline segment. A knot tightens in my stomach as I notice the room's lack of personal items—no paintings on the wall, no photos of loved ones, and no diploma displayed prominently.
"Let's begin," suggests Dr. Barnaby, establishing eye contact with my father. "Let's get started, Tom."
Could he possibly mean for my father to spank me right here, in front of him? My heart thumps loudly against my ribcage. I attempt to move my skirt further down my thighs in an effort to cover myself but, unfortunately, the only action I produce is a futile wriggle.
"Dad, don't—", I gasp, cut off when my father faces me. While maintaining a composed demeanor, he firmly but gently guides me over his lap. With a hint of discomfort, I note the awkwardness of my position and feel like a misbehaving child.
There's a brief silence, during which my father contemplated his next step, then his palm connects with my left butt cheek. I wince, first feeling the sting, then the warmth as he continues rubbing in slow circles, caressing my plump flesh. A moment passes. Finally, his hand moves to caress my right butt cheek. Seemingly satisfied with my rear end's suitability for a spanking, he starts to lift my skirt.
I feel a mix of apprehension, restraint, and sadness. I've never before seen this side of my father, and his polite touch belies the imminent punishment. My father sounds determined, but I detect a hint of guilt in his eyes. "This will earn us a stronger bond, honey," he tells me quietly, an air of finality in his voice, and raises my skirt.
His hand, which gently explored my behind moments ago, now spanks me, bringing mild warmth to the area. The tips of his fingers brush my skin tenderly, as if preparing me for the main event.
"That will hurt," he warns me, signaling the start of his efforts. "But we'll come closer together through it." My skirt is lifted as he continues his cautious approach to discipline.
I cover my eyes and prepare myself for impact.
The initial smack makes me whimper involuntarily. My father's hand swings through the air, landing on my behind. It's not as painful as I thought it would be, but the action itself is a knock to my system. His other hand remains firmly on my back, pinning me in place.
"Good," says Doctor Barnaby. "Again."
Another smack. And another. I'm utterly dumbfounded to find myself being spanked by my 40-year-old father at the request of a therapist, with the therapist observing from six feet away, taking notes in his pompous little notebook. I feel like a timid little girl, resisting the urge to flee with my palms covering my backside. But such an act of cowardice would only add to my humiliation. Therefore, I continue to bear the spanking, praying it will end soon.
Doctor Barnaby falls silent, observing my spanking session like a puppeteer from behind his desk. "If you want this punishment to be effective, Tom, you'll need to spank her harder," he says. "Keep in mind how terrible she's been."
There's a moment of hesitation before my father considers.
"Wait," I plead, "You don't have to..." And then another smack, a harder one that leaves a searing pain on my backside. I cling to the edges of the sofa, struggling not to slide forwards off my father's lap. Tears begin to blur my vision, and I bury my face in the crook of my elbow.
"Go ahead and cry as much as you want," advises Doctor Barnaby. "The consequences of this exercise will benefit you in the long run, Maddie."
I shudder at the next smack, and every smack that follows. Despite this being the most humiliating moment of my life, there's a burning warmth spreading in my lower abdomen that catches me off guard. Damn it, this isn't happening.
My father doesn't stop. Surely, in the years he's fantasized about disciplining me, he's wished he could just lay a hand on me in frustration. Now, he has a therapist's permission to act on his impulses. I feel his anger as his hand comes down again and again on my behind. The next dozen spanks reverberate through my body, reminding me of the punishment I've earned.
Bolder, my father tugs up my panties until only a narrow strip remains between my cheeks, exposing more of my vulnerable butt to the air. I shudder as the fabric rubs against my inner thighs, causing a friction that makes me flush. I gasp when he pulls the wedgie even tighter, lifting me off my father's lap momentarily before he places me back down. It feels like a game, like I'm being toyed with. I whimper as the next smack lands.
Each smack leaves a sharp sting in the shape of his hand, and the pain lingers for a few moments before I'm hit again. I'm sure my reddened backside is now warm to the touch.
"To maintain a healthy father-daughter relationship," says Doctor Barnaby, his voice barely suggestive enough for my liking, "there must be no boundaries between you both." My father doesn't waste time on compliments; he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my pink panties and slowly pulls them down, revealing my exposed backside.
I'm aware that there's a damp patch in the crotch of my underwear. I press my legs together in a futile attempt to hide my embarrassment. My father caresses my stinging cheeks, and it feels strangely comforting, even though the circumstances are absurd. I push myself backward into his touch, unable to resist. "You're doing so well, darling," he reassures me.
I'm completely helpless, my bare buttocks bared for the two middle-aged men in the room. It's mortifying, yet it provokes a feeling I can't explain.
"Carry on," instructs Doctor Barnaby.
For several minutes, the room is silent, aside from my gentle exhalations with every smack from my father's hand. Gradually, I surrender to his touch, allowing my bottom to arch into his palm. A throbbing desire between my legs grows stronger, and I can't help but want his firm hand on my backside. As he continues to punish me, rubbing my inflamed buttocks every now and then, I gradually become aware that this might be what I've been missing in my upbringing. spanking
I am absolutely drenched in my own juices, marring my father's pants with my soaking wetness as he tenderly rubs my aching bottom. I spread my legs, craving any sort of friction against my sweltering pussy, fully aware of my father's unobstructed view of my sopping wetness. I'm struck by the desire to have my father touch me there and my face flames red with embarrassment. Why on earth am I reacting like this to this misguided psychological experiment?
My father holds my slippery thighs apart, exposing my infatuated state to him. From somewhere behind the couch, Dr. Barnaby's voice can be heard. "Look at how eagerly she's accepting you, Tom," says the doctor, impressed. "She's definitely learning her place. Go ahead," Dr. Barnaby encourages. "You can touch her."
My father's rough thumb parts my engorged pussy lips, drawing a low moan from deep within me. He strokes my slippery folds, twirling his fingers through my copious fluids. His breath is hot against my neck as he says through gritted teeth, "You feel like silk, my sweet girl." I writhe on his lap like a horny canine. I gasp as the pad of his thumb locates and starts to massage my engorged clit.
A finger probes my wayward opening, testing my limits before sinking inside me. He pauses for a moment, allowing me to adjust to the fullness, then pushes deeper, bringing a muffled moan from my lips. "You're so tight," he acknowledges, before adding a second finger. He keeps still to let me adjust before resuming his steady strokes. I can hardly hold back my muffled groans. I ponder idly if anyone passing by in the office building might come running at the sound of my emerging screams, but my thoughts wander off before I form a plan. Does it really come down to this? Am I about to let my father bring me to climax? This has truly turned my world on its head.
Dr. Barnaby emerges from behind the couch and peers over my father's shoulder. "It appears you're doing a wonderful job conditioning your daughter, Tom," he says with appreciation. He then moves around the couch to look me in the eye. "Do you enjoy your father's fingers penetrating you, Maddie?"
I'm unable to answer, so my father's masterful fingers abruptly draw away from my frantic core, leaving me a moist puddle. I bawl as a stinging swat descends onto my buttocks. "Yes!" I cry, my voice muffled by my sobs.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" asks Dr. Barnaby soothingly, clearly enjoying the power dynamic at play.
"Yes," I say, my voice subdued.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I enjoy my father's fingers inside me." My voice is meek.
Dr. Barnaby nods his approval. "It would appear you're close to giving in to submission, Maddie. You've undergone a rather strict spanking after all. Would you agree with me?"
I can hear my father's fingers finger-fucking me, making me squirm helplessly. "This is unconscionable," I mumble, before noticing the hard lump in my father's trousers.
"You're doing very well, Maddie. You've now earned your reward," says Dr. Barnaby with an air of satisfaction. "Are you willing to let your father make you come?"
My breath catches in my throat as I feel my father resume his faster pace with my pussy yet again. I'm embarrassed to orgasm in front of my father and the doctor, but it's obvious I'll be going home empty-handed if I refuse. "This is twisted," I say through gritted teeth, even as I get closer and closer to tipping over the edge.
My father's fingers retreat once more, leaving me depleted, and I start to sobbingly lament my inevitable demise. My father inquires, "Why is it a shame for a father to care for his daughter? I only ask for your respect and submission, and I'll always care for you, sweetheart. Will you respect and submit to me?"
He pushes into me with even greater speed, letting out a moan of frustration. My moans become louder as my innards clench around his fingers. "It's not fair to ask me that," I groan.
"I want to give you pleasure, my dear. I want to make you come for me," he says in a fond voice, pushing back into me.
I shake my head in stubborn resistance, the tears still streaming down my cheeks.
"There you go, making your daddy happy. I sincerely believe you're close to climaxing. May I ask you to give in and let yourself come for your father?" Dr. Barnaby says, his voice brimming with relish.
I can hear the sounds of my own wetness becoming louder as my father finger-fucks me with more intensity. "It's... wrong," I gasp, yet oddly powerless against my fate.
He pulls his fingers out of my sloshing cunt, leaving me aching and needy. "C'mon, baby," he coaxes, squeezing my thighs. "Can you come for me?"
Dirty wordsPierce through me like a lightning bolt, and my pussy grips his fingers tight, causing spasms to run through my entire body. I twitch on my father's knees, as he skillfully produces an intense orgasm from within me. A torrent of liquid catapults from my body, immersing his hand as well as the couch's cushions. He guides me through the climax, telling me affectionately, "You're such a good girl, Maddie. I'm so proud of you." A final spank leaves a tender sting, extending my orgasm a few delightful moments longer.
Breathing returns to a level headed state, and I become composed once more. His fingers are still inside me, lovingly coaxing my center.
The fingers withdraw, leaving a noticeable void. A tissue on the nearby table is employed to mop up the mess between my legs. The sky blue panties are pulled back into place, followed by an adjustment of the skirt, and I'm patted on the backside. He re-positions me, sitting upright again. "From now on, it'll get better and better," he whispers reassuringly into my ear.
"Great start," Dr. Barnaby exclaims, returning to his desk and struggling with his zipper. "We'll be seeing you both next Tuesday to continue exploring your relationship."
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