Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
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As an educator, and as a mother I have a special hatred for Conversion Therapy. Put simply conversion therapy is the Spanish Inquisition dressed up as therapy, torturing gay, bisexual, or transgender youth until they agree they are cis hetero, and until they agree that they retroactively consent to being tortured into compliance. I am an extremely fit fifty-year-old redhead, stand about five seven, weigh in about 190 and am curvy enough to cosplay Jessica Rabbit with enough physical resemblance to stop traffic. As a true redhead when I anger, it burns hot, bright and terrible. Conversion therapy angers me greatly.
I have seen "successes" turn from bright, strong, well adjusted kids with bright futures into drug addicted cutters, bulimics, and suicides. This does not leave youth magically rendered cis hetero, any more than it will make the sun purple and the moon green; but if you break a person to the point, they will agree that everything they learned about themselves was not just untrue, but sick, hateful and vile, they will hate themselves. Frequently expressed as harming themselves or seeking others to do the harming for them.
The US courts recently overturned a state ban on Conversion Therapy, citing religious freedoms. Can't stop burning witches or beating gays because torturing people and getting tax breaks are what religion is all about. Left to my own devices, I would treat these people to a very quick introduction to their deity of choice, and an unmarked grave, but My Lady is a woman of more grace, mercy, and wisdom than I. She is attempting to make me a better person, even when I am still sure that some people are best retasked as landfill.
What follows is fantasy, because I really do not believe in retroactive consent. Rape in any form is wrong, and illegal, even if the courts have decided torture is OK as long as you pray while you do it.
The funeral for Ashley was a bitterly divisive affair. Her friends from school were glaring angrily at her family, who was in turn shielded by the sheltering arms of their church congregation. Ashley had been a very bright girl, on track for university and an Engineering career. She had finally flowered from the shy almost antisocial introvert into a confident and expressive young woman. She had also come out as lesbian. Not everyone in school was OK with it at first, but admitting and owning her sexual orientation was part of accepting the woman she was growing into, and the power she was claiming as her own. Within a semester, her friends had gone past accepting it to understanding it wasn't a change, it was always who she was, and now it was impossible to see her as anything or anyone else. Her parents did not agree.
They hired a "service" through their church. Mrs Conway was the woman behind the Ministry. Her husband gave the sermons, and cashed the cheques, but she took care of all the details and did any dirty work from pulling strings, peddling influence, or outright blackmail that was required to make his work a success. She had been running his "Pray not Gay" intervention services for years. Her team of six would take the child, in some cases legally an adult, from their parent's hands. In the eyes of the church, children were their parents property so their willingness was a non issue, as long as the parents agreed. Days, sometimes up to weeks of teams of her people "praying" and "testifying" with the child, never allowing them rest, and only allowing them food if they accepted it as part of prayer, broke anyone eventually. Before they were allowed to go, they would sing papers authorizing the treatment, giving consent after the fact, acknowledging that as long as they were gay, they were mentally unwell, and only now as they are cured are they competent to give consent to treatment.
Ashley had taken eight days without rest, before she broke and confessed. Eight days to admit being a lesbian was wrong, to admit that god hated her for being a lesbian and only if she hated being gay would god or anyone love her again. Three weeks her family got to bask in having cured her of her gayness through the power of prayer. Then she ate her mother's bottle of tranquilizers, and was gone. Mrs Conway told the papers that it was a miracle that they were able to cure her before she died, because now she can be in heaven.
I was unwilling to let Ashley's death go. I am bisexual, one of my daughters is gay. There is no difference between how I love any of my children based on who they love romantically, nor would I ever wish them to hurt or lessen themselves pretending to be something else to please their father or me. The idea of hiring strangers to torture my children into fearing to live as the person they know themselves to be is beyond insane and into evil. The people who do such work are not therapists, they are torturers. With Ashley's death, murderers.
I held the desk with my hands, and My Lady plied the doubled belt like a precision instrument, laying criss cross stripes from my shoulders to my knees, paying special attention to my heart shaped ass. My ass was now a nice shade of pink, about half way between my pale white skin and flame red hair, and the tears were streaming down my face. My Lady had beaten me to the point that I had enough physical pain to channel the internal pain, and the dam broke. I began to rant and rave about Mrs Conway and her "Pray not Gay" torturers. I screamed out my rage, and my pain. My Lady grabbed me by my hair and I was prepared for a strong smack to stop my shouting, or a ball gag to stop me saying things violent enough to bother her, but that is not how My Lady works.
She pulled my head down onto her shoulders and held me. Petting my hair like comforting a child, she let me cry and rage until all that was left was clinging onto her and letting the storm pass through me. There are reasons she owns me. Reasons she deserves to. Reasons that if I prayed, it would be to her alone. Petting my hair she kissed away my tears and began to instruct me. As My Lady, when she decides I require instruction, she does not yell, nor make grand gestures, or assume positions of outward power. She does not need to. When she gives instructions to me, I am silent, attentive, and obedient.
"Now Jan, I know doing violence to Mrs Conway would bring you pleasure, but it would solve nothing and possibly rob me of a useful pet." My Lady spoke as she cupped my face, and guided me down to her breast. Suckling on her breast, and at her wisdom, I let my fingers stray down into her panties, not feeling the smack on the top of my head that would have told me I was overstepping, as she continued to instruct me.
"Did you ever stop to think about what could drive someone like dear Mrs Conway to hating and fearing lesbians so much? Did you ever wonder if she was trying to convert all those poor children to silence the voices inside her looking at two women kissing and wanting so desperately to be one of them?" My Lady's voice was getting throaty, my fingers on her clit and mouth at her breasts were building on the heat that whipping me always brought out in her, yet her control was so strong that she could continue her instruction when I would have been reduced to animal need and speechless already.
"What would you think about taking Mrs Conway for me, bring her to me, and we shall see if I can use my Conversion Therapy on her. Perhaps Ashley will be the last who have to suffer for Mrs Conway's refusal to accept herself."
It took little to set up the meeting. I forwarded and email to Ashley's parents, reminding them of my own daughter being lesbian, and wondered if they could pass my number to Mrs Conway so we could talk about pursuing Conversion Therapy. It was a set of true statements. Together it allowed all parties concerned to understand that this was a meeting designed to lead to a woman being held against her will and tormented until they were willing to surrender their sexual identity to the will of another. If they assumed I was uncaring enough to deliver my own daughter to such a fate, not inviting Mrs Conway to experience it, well that was neither thier first nor most costly mistake. Mrs Conway got to choose to participate in non consensual sexuality coerscion, which is more than her victims got to do. She may have mistaken which end of the transaction she would be enjoying, but she at least consented to participate before she was "treated".
Mrs Conway was a very photogenic blond. I wasn't going to offer an opinion yet on her breasts, but I was willing to bet now that her blond was from a salon not from Scandinavia. She was dressed in a just below knee length skirt of checker pattern, a cream-coloured blouse and pink knit scarf. Her makeup was the kind that takes hours to put on and renders the face a tool for displaying what you choose to put there, not what comes from inside. She was of a height with me, but hers was due to heels and mine was due to too many Vikings in the ancestry. I had served us both tea as we awaited our final guest.
