"What brings the two of you here today?"
Not even five minutes into therapy, and already, I wish I was anywhere but here. My father and I sit as far apart from each other as possible on a stiff gray couch that's probably older than I am, in a bland room with wood-paneled walls straight out of the seventies, and stained, musty carpet beneath our feet.
Neither of us answer the therapist's opening question. To say that my father and I don't get along is an understatement, and I'm hard-pressed to believe that talking through our issues with a stranger is going to make things any better.
I sit straight-backed with my arms folded across my chest, not trying to conceal my displeasure in the slightest. 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, my blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.
My father does not look like the kind of man you'd ever find in a therapist's office. His faded jeans and grease-smeared boots give him away as a blue-collar worker who frequently likens therapy to "hippie nonsense." His hands are rough and calloused from working as a mechanic for the past twenty years. His black hair is uncombed, and the hard set of his jaw tells me I'm not the only one having second thoughts about therapy.
But since my mother passed last year, all we do is fight. It was his idea to seek outside help. And given the fact that I still live at home and pay exactly zero bills, I didn't get a lot of say in the matter. And that's how we ended up trapped together in a stranger's office forty miles outside of town.
When it becomes clear that I'm not going to speak first, my father says, in his voice like wool, "She never listens to me. She's always coming home past curfew with alcohol on her breath."
I roll my eyes, earning myself a glare from my father, and an inquisitive look from Dr. Barnaby, the plain-faced man tasked with mending our hopeless relationship. He raises a bushy eyebrow over his too-large spectacles and asks, "Do you have something to say, Maddie?"
I throw my hands in the air, exasperation leaking out of me from the seams. "I'm nineteen years old. The fact that I have a curfew at all is ridiculous."
"While you live under my roof--," my father starts, but I interrupt him.
"Am I not allowed to go out with my friends now and then?" My voice grows louder. "I'm working part-time and I'm taking classes at the community college. It's not like I'm a total deadbeat."
Annoyance simmers in my father's eyes, at odds with his usually well-composed demeanor. I've really been testing his patience lately. "You're not old enough to be consuming alcohol, young lady." He turns to the therapist and tells him, "Since her mother passed, she's lost all respect for me. She doesn't listen to me at all. She completely ignores my rules."
I scoff, a move that does not escape either my father or Dr. Barnaby. They wait for me to speak, so I say, with no small amount of resentment, "Since my mother passed, he's become unreasonable about everything. He won't accept the fact that I'm an adult. He can't treat me like a little girl forever."
Dr. Barnaby's pen skitters across his notebook while I speak, and the sound makes my skin crawl. I feel like a caged animal at the zoo, trapped behind a glass wall while a stranger on the other side pokes and prods at my mental state. The therapist clears his throat and tells me, "Maddie, the very fact that your father is here today means he wants to connect with you. You understand that don't you?"
Isn't the therapist supposed to remain unbiased? Already, it feels like he's not on my side. "You know what? This is a waste of time. I've got a test to study for." The couch creaks as I neatly pick myself up and head for the door, ponytail swishing in my wake. But just as I reach the door, a firm grip clamps down on my forearm, holding me back. My father has a hold of my arm, and he's furious.
"Sit down, young lady. We're going to finish this session whether you like it or not." I see the rage in my father's hard blue eyes, another sign that his restraint is slipping. Though he's never actually hit me, I can see the temptation in his expression. I swallow nervously and sit back down.
Silence weighs the air as we wait for the therapist to come up with some magical solution to all of our problems.
Dr. Barnaby brings a pale hand to his chin, deep in thought. His eyes brighten as if something miraculous occurred to him in the ninety seconds since my father's bold display of parental authority. After a moment, he asks, "Have you tried spanking?"
The word hangs in the air with the weight of a ton of bricks. I shift on the couch, suddenly aware that my bare legs are on display, while a blush creeps up my neck and wraps around my throat. Did our therapist really just suggest spanking? Surely, he has to be joking.
"I'm nineteen years old," I stammer, my voice noticeably quieter than it was five minutes ago. My wide eyes dart between my father, the therapist, and the door that seems too far away. The room is suddenly stifling.
Dr. Barnaby shrugs. "Your age is irrelevant, dear. Spanking has long been proven to be an effective method for correcting bad behavior. Your father has provided for you your entire life -- don't you think you should show some appreciation now and then? Is it too much to ask to be home by curfew, to follow his rules?" His voice is calm, but there is an edge beneath his words that is clearly accusatory.
"I've never spanked her," says my father, his expression thoughtful. He runs a hand through his hair, something he does when he's stressed, and then leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, as if he's actually entertaining this stupid idea. "But if you think it will be effective, I'm willing to try anything."
My jaw nearly hits the floor at my father's willingness to spank me, and I'm convinced I've entered a parallel universe. He should be as disgusted by this idea as I am. "Absolutely not," I say aloud. "I don't see what this would accomplish."
Dr. Barnaby folds his hands on his desk and leans back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself for coming up with such a perfect solution. My attention is drawn to his left hand, and I notice there's a pale ring of skin where a wedding band should be. "Spanking will help restore the balance of power between the two of you. You need to learn to accept that your father is in charge, Maddie, and that's not going to change no matter how old you are." At my look of disbelief, he adds, "I also find spanking to be an effective bonding activity, unconventional though it may be."
Where did my father find this guy? I have a sudden urge to see Dr. Barnaby's credentials. For the first time, I notice the lack of personal effects in the room -- no paintings on the wall, no pictures of family, no framed diploma anywhere in sight. I wonder if Dr. Barnaby is even a real therapist as I imagine my smiling senior picture on the next episode of Dateline.
"Shall we begin?" he suggests, with an eye towards my father. "Go ahead and get us started, Tom."
Wait, does he mean for my father to spank me right now? In front of him? My heart pounds against my too-tight rib cage. I inconspicuously attempt to yank my short skirt further down my thighs in an attempt to cover my exposed skin, but all I manage to accomplish is a pathetic wriggle in my seat.
My father turns to face me. It's clear that he's made up his mind. He wants to do this. "Bend over my lap," he orders calmly.
"No," I say, my voice wavering.
My father glances to Dr. Barnaby, unsure how to proceed. I guess it didn't occur to him that I would refuse to play along. The doctor tells him, "Hold firm, Tom. You're in charge here."
My father faces me again with a renewed determination. "Bend over my lap this instant, or it will be much worse for you." The threat in my father's voice is not one that I've ever heard before. I suddenly don't recognize the man who raised me. His palms twitch at his sides, as if the need to spank me is so strong he can't contain it. But there is also a softness in his eyes that conveys guilt for what he's about to do.
Dazed, I climb slowly over my father's lap. It's awkward at first, but I feel my father's strong hand press into my back to push me down across his knees. He handles me with a familiar gentleness, positioning my body so that my shoulders are pressed against the cushion and my hips are slightly raised. I feel foolish, like a little girl in trouble for misbehaving.
Nothing happens for a moment, and I imagine my father is staring down at his daughter's backside and wondering if he really wants to cross this line.
"This will bring us closer together," my father assures me, and himself, while slowly lifting up my skirt.
I'm wearing pink cotton panties with lace trim, the kind of panties a father should never see on his daughter. I exhale as I feel his hand softly caress my right butt cheek. He squeezes my flesh, testing the firmness, surveying the canvas he's about to paint red. His hand travels unabashedly across my ass to squeeze my other cheek. Seemingly satisfied that my rear is spankable, be begins to move his hand in slow circles across my round, fleshy globes, and for a moment, I feel warm and safe, a contrast to the impending punishment. Mercifully, he leaves my panties in place.
I close my eyes and brace for impact.
The first spank elicits a gasp from my mouth. I jump as my father's hand swings through the air and makes contact with my ass. It's only a light slap, and it doesn't hurt like I expect it to, but the very act itself is a shock to my system. His other hand remains firm on my back, holding me in place.
"Good," says Dr. Barnaby. "Again."
Another slap. And another. I'm completely dumbstruck that I'm being spanked by my forty-year-old father at the behest of a therapist, while said therapist observes from six feet away, recording everything in his pretentious little notebook. Inside, I feel like a shy little girl, resisting the urge to run away with my hands covering my bottom. But such a display of cowardice would only embarrass me further. So, I continue to take my spanking, in hopes that it will be over soon.
