“We are very sorry you had to see that, Mr. Davies.”
Paul prided himself on control but couldn’t quite keep the glint of rage from his eyes as he replied. “It is not me that you should be apologising to. Had I known what this procedure entailed, I never would have brought Celia here.”
“I am sorry,” the white-coated technician stammered, her hands raised in a placating gesture that was weakened as they trembled under the pressure of his wrath. Though it was contained, for the moment, it charged the air palpably and all but crackled in his glare. “Your wife needs no apology. She got no more than she came for, no more than she wanted, and also no less.”
“You are gravely mistaken about my wife,” Paul replied, the words a staccato of tension as images of his wife’s pale limbs thrashing in agony played an endless loop behind his closed eyelids.
“There was no mistake on our part,” the slight woman replied, calmer and more confident as she became adjusted to his tension, slipping into a well-practiced speech. His anger showed that the couple had promise, but only if the next few moments were handled very delicately.
“No one should have to go through that kind of agony. If only my lawyer knew. . . though I suppose that’s the sort of thing the consent form prevents. All the same, don’t expect me to be silent about this. You call this therapy? You pretend that you’re helping people? Once the world knows the torment you cause here-”
“We did not cause any torment. It is quite harmless, let me show you,” the woman replied hastily, picking up the leads that had only recently been clamped to his wife’s flesh and pressing them against her own. With a quick flick of a switch, the apparatus was live, indicators flashing brightly as the ambient lighting dimmed with each zish of electricity. Throughout it all, the technician’s face remained impassive. “It’s all for show; it’s meant to intimidate. The sensation might not be pleasant, though it would hardly qualify as torturous. You can try if you’d like.” She extended the leads toward Paul. “They won’t hurt you, and won’t alter your mind for that matter.”
He could feel his anger as he accepted them, an emotion still dangling within him but temporarily suspended in, superceded by shock and confusion. With a questioning look at the technician, he seized the leads in opposite hands. Poising himself such that any convulsion or collapse would turn the device back off, he flicked the switch with his elbow.
An odd tingling ran up his arms, though it wasn’t nearly as bad as a shock from a shorted wall socket. If anything, it was most like testing a 9-volt battery with the tongue, a shock more flavour than pain. He flicked the switch back off, facing the technician in confusion. “That is what Celia felt?”
“Yes, sir,” she assured him, and while her voice remained steady the slouch in her shoulders betrayed her relief that he had calmed.
“And. . .and you’re saying that you didn’t change her, that this whole thing was a hoax?”
“Not the words I would use,” the technician replied uncomfortably, “though I suppose there is no avoiding the fact that much of the procedure is a deception. Celia is a deeply submissive woman, but deeply uncomfortable with her nature. She felt it was something she had to hide, but no longer. She thinks she’s been altered, that the torment she underwent- the torment she created for herself in her mind- has intensified her submissiveness, made it impossible to repress.”
“But why not tell me?” Paul asked.
“Your reaction had to be genuine,” she assured him. “You had to appear loving, concerned. To do otherwise would have been against your nature and may have tipped our hand. Your wife mustn’t know any of this. She believes that she has been transformed, and it is your responsibility to reinforce that. To help her accept who she is, who she has now allowed herself to become. The result may be worthwhile, but we regret that the experience must be trying for you.”
“If it’s as worthwhile as you say, why the regret?” Paul asked evenly, still struggling to understand what had and hadn’t transpired.
“With her, she at least asked for this, if not directly. Deceiving you, however, while necessary, is different. You did not ask for this, but if you love her, if you want this to work, it was something that we needed to do.”
“I will do anything for her.”
“Then you must help her complete the final steps into her submission.”
“If that is what she desires. . .” Paul trailed off, lost in memories of intimate moments past, times when Celia almost. . .
“It will work beautifully, I assure you, but you must not tell her. If she knows of the deception, she will harbour resentment and embarrassment.”
“I couldn’t possibly keep this from her,” Paul said, a defeated look beginning to settle on his features as he sought in vain for some plan, some way to save himself and his wife from the seemingly inevitable consequences of this deception. “It would be too painful for her and for me to keep her in the dark.”
“Painful, yes, but no more so than a proper spanking.”
Paul huffed. “A proper spanking? That is entirely different. It is agreed in advance. She knows when she needs one, and I am happy to deliver it. It is physical pain, but that she can recover from. But this. . .”
“There are differences, yes, but the concept is not as dissimilar as it may appear. There is mental pain in a spanking as well, a surrender to another power, the acceptance of the pain. This is no different in that regard. The deception may be painful, but you need keep it up only until she surrenders, until she accepts that her submission is part of her. Watch for that moment- or perhaps just a bit longer to be sure- then you can tell her without fear.”
Paul’s expression remained torn for a moment more, then his features firmed into place with decision and he turned to face the technician more fully. “What must I do?”
The technician allowed herself a small but true smile. “Why, spank her of course.”
The recovery room looked as though it belonged more in a luxury hotel than a hospital, crisp and clean but with a comfortable, almost sumptuous, plushness. He stood at the threshold for a moment before entering, admiring Celia’s diminutive form perched on the bed, gazing out the window as the last puddles of afternoon sunlight faded. She looked small in the oversized bed, and vulnerable- not so much from her size but her posture. He longed to tell her, to end this madness and take her home and away from here. He made up his mind to do so, striding into the room and closing the door behind him.
Celia turned at the clack of the door. She met his eyes only briefly before lowering her gaze, her expression sad, but not quite calm. It might look like defeat to one less familiar with her, but with a jolt he saw it for what it was. Acceptance. And everything changed.
“You know why I am here,” he said simply.
“Yes, Sir,” the words flowed from her lips, and he knew the title was more than the semi-mocking foreplay in which it had been used before.
“You know I was sceptical; you know I was hesitant to do this. But it is your choice- was your choice. It is made and there is no going back now.”
“Yes, Sir,” she hummed again, raising her eyes just enough that he could see the longing there, the pleading need. He sat beside her, hugged her for a brief moment before patting his lap. There was no need for words now as she slid into place, a place she had always belonged. Even still, he could feel a tendril of tension and fear as she lowered herself into place. Understandable, considering what they had done to her- what she had done to herself, he inwardly corrected.
He caressed her behind briefly, bare already thanks to the brief backless gown. “I love you Celia. I love the woman you have become. You have my word that I will not hard you, either through action or inaction.” To emphasise his point, he brought his hand down sharply on her rear, leaving a blazing red print. The first true pain she felt today he thought to himself, but then wondered if that was indeed correct. Either way, they were now committed. She gasped, tightening her muscles briefly before relaxing more deeply over his lap. He spanked her again, a touch softer in recognition of her surrender, but increased the intensity as he continued. If this is what she needed, if this is what had driven them here, he would be sure their suffering was not in vain.
As the spanking continued, Celia began to cry with each stroke. Shrill pain-filled wails emanated from her, but left the rest of her body more quiet, no longer giving even token struggle in response to the glowing burn. When even the cries dimmed to muted sobs, he stopped, rubbed her gently and helped her up.
“Thank you for letting me do this,” she purred, “for allowing me to change.”
“Oh Celia,” he murmured back, “you have nothing to thank me for. I love you just the way you were, and just the way you are.”