I offer a discreet spanking and related services for women only. My service is best suited to older women, those at their peak (40s) and beyond. There is no upper age limit. You need to be in good health, and I offer the service to women with disabilities. I have wheelchair access to my workplace. For further details, contact Mr. Whittaker using my contact details below.

My name is Celia. I reread the advertisement. I had read it several times over two days, and I still cannot decide whether to proceed. I am 42, divorced, and feeling neglected. Perhaps I am at fault for my husband's search elsewhere for his carnal pleasures. My problem is what to do about it.

Would contacting Mr. Whittaker and confessing my shortcomings help provide an answer? That question has occupied my thinking since I saw the advert offering disciplinary services exclusively for women.

I checked for more details. There were three main areas: DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE. This didn't apply to me. I'm no longer married. I am not being sent to Mr. Whittaker because of a speeding offense, failure to pay a bill, being lazy, or overspending.

ROLEPLAY DISCIPLINE. I had not hearkened for living out a fantasy. Being spanked by the head teacher at school. Punished by a parent for arriving home late or dressed in schoolgirl attire, and being spanked by a man three houses further down the street where I live.

PUNISHMENT THERAPY. That felt more like a closer fit. I lack self-confidence and self-esteem. My self-worth is low. Maybe a bloody good hiding will do me good – a dose of humiliation. Standing in the corner, hands on my head, exposing my smacked arse to my master. Yes, of course I am submissive. I need a release. I sit down, and with my pen in hand, I write.

Dear Sir,

I am replying to your advertisement. I have thought long and hard, and finally decided to request a visit to receive punishment therapy. I feel my life is pointless, I am a failure as a woman, and I feel worthless. I need to be punished for my failings.

Yours sincerely,

Celia Beaumont

I kept it short, after all. What more was there to say?

I'm on my way to see Mr. Whittaker. He replied later that day. His home was a twenty-mile drive from mine. He said to allow at least six hours for the experience. I was nervous as I pulled up his drive and parked.

I did not get out immediately. Instead, composing myself meant yet more procrastination—another failing of mine. I finally got out and headed to his door.

'Good evening, Sir.' I announced to a tall man in his fifties who opened the door and invited me inside.

'Thank you for being punctual, Celia. Come this way.' I followed the man down a long, wood-paneled corridor. At the end, he stood back and directed me through a door into a warm lounge. I was invited to be seated. 'Can I offer you a drink?' He asked.

'Yes, sir, a glass of white wine would be nice.' He left me alone, returning soon after with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two glasses, which he filled. He got straight down to business.

'First visits are always tricky for women in your position. In my experience, I find that there is a need to create extreme emotion. No half measures. This will be full-on. It ends when I decide, not you. You will cry like you haven't in years, and possibly never have. There will be no stopping, no safe words. You will not be harmed. But you will suffer pain and humiliation. Do you understand?' My worst fears were to be realized, but this was what I was seeking. Wasn't it?

'Yes, sir.'

'How do you feel about being naked?' He asked.

'It will be difficult, Sir; I am extremely self-conscious.'

'This will be particularly difficult then.' Another question quickly followed. 'When did you last cry?'

'I can't remember, Sir.'

'You will cry, count on it!' I shivered. 'If I might, I would like to share my first impressions.' Was that a question?

'Thank you, sir, I need that.' I was unsure I did, but I suspected I would hear it anyway. He continued.

'Stand up,' It wasn't a request. I rose to my feet and took up station in front of him while he remained seated.

'I see in front of me an attractive woman who has given up on herself. Is that correct?'

'Yes, sir, after all, what is the point?' I left it there.

'Your hair is a mess; your clothes are dowdy, and I suspect when I ask you to undress, what I find right down to your naked self will be very similar to your outer appearance. But be assured, when you leave here, you will be transformed.' I shrugged, which summed up my level of optimism.

'That summary was my own conclusion, Sir.' He sipped wine and spoke the words I dreaded hearing.

'Take off your clothes.' I blanched.

'Everything, Sir?'

'Every stitch.' I shivered. I wasn't sure I could. 'Now!' I turned my back. 'Face me while you strip.'

'Please, Sir….'

'STRIP!' Louder, firmer. I wish I had made more effort now. I had been under the shower, and I was clean. I just wish I had spent more time choosing my clothes, especially underwear.

I wore a skirt and blouse, both of which even dated in the 1980s, when I was born. I undid the securing clip of my skirt and stepped out after it had slid to the floor. I wore tights! Who wears tights? I left those and moved to my blouse, which I slowly unbuttoned. I am now standing in my underwear, unsure which to remove first.

'Carry on.' He urged. I slid down my hated tights. Hot and itchy. They are a pain in the arse when I am bursting to pee. I step out of these too and then buy more time by collecting up my clothing and neatly folding them into a pile. I like tidiness. I undo my bra, which has been through the washer far too often. White had turned almost gray, and the elastic had perished.

I didn't need to wear a bra, but should a woman of 42 show her nipples through her top, especially at work? I add that to the pile. Just my knickers left now. I stand and stare briefly. He will signal their removal soon if I don't take them down. Having stepped out of these too, I stand naked before him, self-consciously holding my hands together over my large, unruly bush.

'Have you ever been spanked?' He asked me.

'No, Sir.'

'That is why you are here; get over my knee.' I walked nervously to where Mr. Whittaker was seated, and, kneeling, I placed myself over his lap, both hands on the carpeted floor. I felt a hand on my cheeks. 'You have a very nice bottom for a woman with no self-esteem. All we need to do is tidy you up, find attractive clothes to wear, and you will be transformed after correcting your outlook on life. Do you understand?'

'If you say so, Sir.' I replied, unconvinced. That hand was now between my cheeks, pulled open for inspection.

'That Celia is the wrong answer, the wrong attitude. I plan to change that.' The first smack took my breath away. It stung. 'OUCH!' I called out. Another followed, then more. I was moved around on his lap, and the smacks got harder. I was calling out my protests now loud and clear. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK…!

'That hurts!' I yelled.

'I've barely warmed my hand up and I've got a nice big leather paddle for the serious part of your spanking.' I am screaming now.

I lost count of time; I wasn't counting either. The spanking continued. His knee was jammed between my legs, and my right cheek and upper thigh were smacked exclusively. Then he positioned me and concentrated on my left cheek only.

He stopped but only repositioned me over the end of the sofa. I felt something cold pat against my burning cheeks, and when that landed with a loud WHACK, the pain level went up several notches. I was above screaming now. I let out a continuous screech, which only seemed to urge him on.

It is over now. I am standing in a corner; my hands are on my head. I am threatened with a caning if I rub my bum, which must glow in the now darkened room. I'm tempted, but resist the temptation. The light goes back on, and I am led to the kitchen, where I am introduced to a woman. Mr. Whittaker leaves me with her.

'Hello, Celia, my name is Susan. I am here to tidy you up. To transform you.' I was still sobbing. At least she wasn't there to hurt me, although the waxing kit on display made me nervous. 'Let's have you up on the table, shall we?' I suspected she had done whatever lay ahead many times before.

Her first task was to soothe my blazing cheeks with arnica cream. Its cooling effect was almost instant as I knelt, legs apart as instructed. Then I was waxed between my cheeks, then further down, my plump vaginal lips included. My unruly hair was ripped out by its roots, which hurt, but nothing compared to the spanking.

After declaring I was hair-free, I was turned over and my prominent bush removed. I was then seated, and my hair was trimmed in a style Susan said would suit me better. My hair was then washed.

With this complete, I was taken to another room where a vast array of women's clothing was displayed. Underwear, panties only were selected, which I put on. A slinky purple dress followed this. I was then seated for makeup to be applied. I was done. Ready for the ultimate test, an inspection by Mr. Whittaker. Susan kissed me and wished me good luck. Then, as quickly as she had arrived, she was gone.

'So, Ms. Beaumont, how does that feel?' He asked.

'Sore!' I pouted.

'Yes, you will feel that every time you sit down for a while. But you had to be shaken out of the mindset in which you arrived. Did Susan introduce you to the full-length mirror upstairs? She had.

'Yes, Sir.'

'Ah, at this stage in proceedings, you may call me Oliver. When you return for your progress inspection and maintenance spanking in a month, you will revert to Sir.' I showed surprise.

'I go through this again?' I asked.

'Of course, but next time it will be role-playing discipline. We have not finished. When was the last time you were fucked?'

'I can't remember Oliver.'

'Would you like me to fuck you?' I shivered at his words.

'I would rather like that; I didn't imagine you would wish to.' I replied softly

'I didn't wish to fuck the woman who walked in earlier, but I certainly would like to take the woman standing in front of me now to my bed. With your consent, of course.'

'I have needed a dominant man to take me in hand, address my shortcomings.'

'You lost respect for yourself. You forgot you are a beautiful and desirable woman. I just needed to strip away your disguise and expose her. I had to punish you for hiding away.' Oliver reminded me.

'My husband abused and humiliated me. I lost my confidence. I blamed myself, and with that comes a lack of self-esteem. I gave up on myself. I didn't care about my appearance simply because I was made to feel undesirable, a reject from society. I applied to see you because I thought I needed to be punished to reinforce that sense of rejection.'

'With your permission, of course, I'd like to prove quite the opposite?'

'I'd like that. It would mean the earth would feel wanted.' So, I was to be fucked? I had a question. 'How does role-play discipline differ from what you have done today?'

'Next time, you come as who you wish to be. A naughty schoolgirl is very popular. Overspending wife is another. Unpaid bills and speeding convictions too.' He explained.

'How does this differ from domestic discipline?'

'Role-play discipline is more consensual. The woman herself generally initiates it. Domestic discipline is effectively corporal punishment. Here, the main driver, and the person in charge, is the woman's husband or partner. They are often present.'

I was glad my husband hadn't found Mr. Whittaker. 'I still need the woman's consent. In fact, I insist she signs a consent form.' I shivered.

'It's harsh then?' I asked with some trepidation.

'Yes, caning, a thick strap. Birching too.' I closed my eyes.

'Why, what do these women do?' I asked.

'Mostly sexual indiscretion. There is often a cultural element too.' I struggled with the power men exerted over women, and I was thankful I wasn't married. Oliver's voice broke the morbid spell, allowing matters to move on. 'Shall we go upstairs, and I can rub your sore bottom?'

I'm kneeling astride his chest now. The clothing Susan had chosen and helped me put on was now removed and folded neatly on a nearby chair. I am naked again, but in a mood I had not enjoyed in many years. Oliver was rubbing more cream into my parted cheeks, and I cared little about the view he had from his lustful vantage point.

Five hours earlier, I struggled to shed the worn, dowdy clothes I had arrived in. My attire matched my hair, which I'd kept trimmed myself with kitchen scissors. One huge difference was the lack of hair between my legs, and my pubic mound was smooth.

I had just been anally penetrated by a finger lubricated by my own natural secretion, smeared and transferred from a vagina that was wet and slippery and soon to receive an erect cock awaiting use.

Oliver pulled me back onto an eager mouth, and I climaxed for the first time, other than that produced by my efforts. I then found myself on my back with my knees back by my ears before I was drilled deep. Another noisy climax followed. Oh, how I loved this man.

I'm back home now. A new confident spring in my step. I'd been well fucked, and more would follow in the weeks to come. All I had to do was decide who would turn up on Mr. Whittaker's doorstep then, and what role I'd play.

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