A Dozen Spanking Setups

Physical Therapy

“And that’s when I saw the tablecloths,” Cooper said with dramatic inflection. “Do you know what they had on them?”

Dr. Davies shook his head. He was seated in a typical pose, leaning back in the chair behind his desk, holding a pen in his right hand. Now and then he used the pen to make a note about how fucked up Cooper was on the pad in front of him.

Cooper knew he was fucked up. That was why he’d been going to therapy for his entire adult life plus about half his teens years.

Therapy had never managed to do anything about how fucked up he was, but he kept trying.

Dr. Davies was the latest in a long line of therapists, and definitely the best looking of them.

Cooper had started with female therapists because of that transference thing where patients supposedly developed crushes on their doctors, but he’d never been able to relate to women—undoubtedly his mother’s fault—and so at some point he’d switched to men.

Not that he’d gotten any further with male therapists (which was obviously his father’s fault), maybe because they were all straight.

Or so he assumed. You weren’t allowed to ask, which he knew because he’d tried asking Dr. Davies.

Because of him being so attractive and all.

Dr. Davies had thick hair in a rich shade of dark brown, worn in a lustrous swoop, and an equally thick beard, which Cooper wanted to rub all over himself.

Dr. Davies also had piercing brown eyes behind appropriately studious glasses and sternly compressed lips.

He always dressed in maximum professional attire with a jacket and tie, the whole nine yards, and was every inch the perfect therapist. But Cooper didn’t feel any better.

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” he told Dr. Davies. “The whole Chuck E. Cheese dining area was done up in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The tablecloths, the napkins, the plates, all of it.”

“I see,” Dr. Davies said, making a note on his pad. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Invisible. Like my parents just didn’t listen. I’d told them I wanted Power Rangers. I never even watched the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were radically uncool. Everyone at the party was probably laughing at me.” He picked at a bit of lint on his sweatpants.

“And you were how old at this point?”

“Six. But it’s been like that my whole life, Doctor. I could give you a hundred examples.”

“I’m sure you could.”

That had sounded a little sarcastic, as if Dr. Davies was bored of listening to him explain why his life had been nothing but misery and failure. Your therapist wasn’t supposed to get tired of you. Your therapist was supposed to care about you and fix you.

“I don’t see how I can forge a trusting relationship as an adult when my trust was so thoroughly broken when I was a kid.”

“So you feel that if there had been Power Rangers on the tablecloths at your sixth birthday party you would be a functioning adult today?”

“Well, it’s not just the tablecloths. It’s the whole thing. Years and years of neglect.”

Dr. Davies consulted his notes.

“And by neglect you mean getting tangerines in your snack pack instead of fruit bites.”

“I wanted fruit bites,” he reminded Dr. Davies sulkily. He needed a new therapist. Sure, Dr. Davies looked like a dream, but he didn’t seem to understand the gravity of Cooper’s situation.

“And you believe this relates to your inability to form lasting romantic relationships how?”

“Because what I learned as a child, over and over, is that I’m going to be disappointed. And then my boyfriends do it too. They disappoint me.”

“Yes, so you’ve mentioned.” Dr. Davies tapped his pen on the pad in front of him. “Your last relationship—Mike, I believe.”

“No, Mike was the one before that. My last relationship was with Steve. If you can call it a relationship. Basically he fucked me and forgot me.”

“After you blew up his phone with thirty sequential text messages while he was trying to take an exam.”

Cooper crossed his arms over his chest. This was why he didn’t bother to voice his needs.

Because they never got met anyway. It wasn’t wrong to expect the guy who’d fucked you last night to respond to a text the next morning, and it wasn’t wrong to explain to your therapist why it bothered you when he didn’t.

“Cooper,” Dr. Davies said in a tone that sounded more weary than therapeutic, “we don’t seem to be making progress here.”

Cooper shook his head. He totally agreed they weren’t making progress, but he didn’t appreciate the implication that it was his fault. Someday he would find the perfect therapist. Then he would be able to find the perfect boyfriend, and then his life would be perfect.

“You’ve been repeating the same patterns for years without resolution. I don’t believe further talk therapy is indicated.”

Cooper sighed. One more person letting him down. Now he would have to find a new therapist and start over from scratch with explaining how his parents had made him choose between karate and soccer because doing both was supposedly too time-consuming or too expensive or something.

“Never mind then,” he said dispiritedly as he rose to his feet.

“Sit down. We’re not done yet.”

Their hour wasn’t up, but what was the point in staying if Dr. Davies couldn’t help him? But Dr. Davies gave him a particularly stern look, so he sat down.

“What I would suggest in your case is an alternative therapeutic style I sometimes practice, a sort of regression therapy where we return to the original source of your problems and correct them, retroactively as it were.”

“Really?” That sounded great. “Like, we get some Power Rangers tablecloths and take them to Chuck E. Cheese?”

“Not quite like that.” Dr. Davies smiled, a secretive, speculative smile that gave Cooper shivers. His enthusiasm for the new therapy dampened. He wasn’t sure he was going to like it.

“I don’t know. You really think it’ll help?”

“It’s worth a try.” Dr. Davies shrugged lightly. “I have nothing else to offer you, and you’ve made the rounds of the therapeutic community. If you’re ever going to improve, a new approach is needed. Difficult cases like yours require more drastic measures.”

Yeah, that was the ticket. Cooper’s case was difficult. He’d always known it, and now at last someone was acknowledging it. His prior therapists had all acted like he was a bit of a drama queen.

“Okay. Let’s do it.” He sat up straighter, excited to get started, especially when Dr. Davies smiled at him again. A really happy smile this time, like Dr. Davies was as excited to get started as he was.

“Excellent. If you’ll please disrobe and arrange yourself on the exam table.

” He gestured at the corner of the room where a thin, presumably padded slab of fake leatherette stood at about waist height with a sheet of paper covering it, just like in a regular doctor’s office.

Cooper had always wondered why a therapist would have an exam table.

And why on earth would he need to get naked?

“Um.”

“Briskly,” Dr. Davies said as he took off his jacket and began rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. “You only have half an hour left,” he added with a glance at the watch on his left wrist, “and we’ll need every minute of it.”

Cooper dallied for a moment to admire Dr. Davies’s forearms, which were nicely veined and covered in a light coat of hair, but a stern frown from Dr. Davies had him moving toward the exam table.

“You can leave your clothes on the couch.”

He wavered between the couch and the exam table, irresolute, but ultimately he reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.

Then he kicked off his sneakers and shucked his sweatpants.

He dropped everything in an untidy pile on the couch and made another move toward the exam table.

“Underpants too.”

“Um,” he said again. The word underpants sounded so juvenile for one thing. And taking them off seemed too intimate and revealing for another.

“Briskly,” Dr. Davies reminded him. He had both sleeves rolled all the way up and was standing next to the exam table, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves. It seemed Cooper really was going to get an exam. A naked exam.

Well, Dr. Davies was a good-looking guy.

Maybe Cooper wouldn’t mind being examined by him.

And the way he was looking at Cooper right now, super sternly and a little disapprovingly, made Cooper want to obey him.

If you couldn’t be intimate and revealing with your therapist, then who could you be intimate and revealing with? No one. Which was exactly his trouble.

So he shucked his boxers and dropped them onto the pile. Then he climbed onto the exam table and sat with his legs dangling over the end, nervous about what was going to come next.

“Lie down,” Dr. Davies ordered. “On your stomach.”

Lie down on his stomach? What kind of exam was Dr. Davies planning to give him?

Being on his stomach would at least hide his junk, which would be just as well since his dick was beginning to chub up, so he rotated face down and stretched out on the table.

Of course this position put his ass on display, but he’d always been told he had a nice ass.

Dr. Davies made a sound of approval, as if he were thinking the same thing. Then he touched the ass in question.

Cooper jerked, surprised and a little alarmed to feel his therapist’s glove-covered hand tap his right butt cheek.

“This will hurt a little,” Dr. Davies warned. “But nothing has ever been gained by taking the easy way.”

“What’s going to hurt?” Cooper asked, but his question was answered before he’d even finished asking it when Dr. Davies’s hand stopped tapping and started smacking.

“Ow,” he complained, reaching back to touch the spot where Dr. Davies had slapped him as if to verify it had really happened. “What did you do that for?”