Archive for zita and the doctor

The Parking Lot

The elevator doors opened and revealed Cheyenne standing in the hall outside Dr. F______ office.

“Ms. B______,” she said. “Welcome back. The doctor will see you now. Allow me.”

She stepped into the elevator, inserted a key and pressed one of the basement buttons. Once it lit up, she straightened herself and looked up at the progression of floors.

She was wearing a heather gray wool jacket and straight skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She did not look at me or address me beyond her initial instruction.

The elevator arrived at the specified floor after what felt like hours and when the doors opened, I turned to Cheyenne, who did not step forward. She motioned simply into the darkened parking lot with a hand.

I rolled my eyes and stepped out. As predicted, Cheyenne keyed the doors shut and disappeared in the silver tube, leaving me alone in the creepy basement place. I looked at my mobile phone. No reception. Of course not. I lit a cigarette and began to walk across.

There were few cars. Most of them were covered, but all of them were good looking cars. I know nothing about cars, but I do know about aesthetics and these cars were very visually appealing. I touched one with my fingers: dust. An old man’s abandoned toys–as depressing as a teddy bear lying on the side of the road.

I lifted one of the covers and looked at a gorgeous machine, the sort of thing in which a treacherous, villainous woman would have herself chauffeured, which I would later discover was a Bucciali TAV 12, of which only two are known to exist in the world, one in France and one in the United States. Right here. Somewhere under Los Angeles.

I took a long drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my heel and began to pull the cover off the car. Its body was black and square. I ran a hand over the red line that ran across its side and my eyes focused on the peculiar image of a silver bird with gold wings on the side near the grille.

A sudden burst of force suddenly knocked me into the car, the impact of which caused a series of alarms to go off around me. In a motion, my hands were behind my back and I was motionless, pressed against the long hood of the car, my face staring into the empty windshield of the Bucciali. My focus on the reflection of my assailant in the vague reflection of the dusty car prevented me from going into a panic.

I was so focused on it that I didn’t realize he’d tied my hands until I felt him working the rope around my fore-arms. I pressed my pelvis against the car, trying to manipulate myself out of his grasp.

Dr. F______ put one hand on my back and flattened me into the car again.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No.” I responded.

He put a hand under my belly and flipped me over so I was looking up at him. He pushed up my skirt a bit and began to bind my thighs with a rope with such dexterity, I was unable to react in a way to prevent it.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No!” I said, obstinately, though I could not move my limbs from the knees up.

He took me by the front of my coat and threw me to the ground.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked once again, the alarms still echoing around us.

“You can tie me up all you like, Doctor,” I said with a smile. “But you can’t keep me.”

He knelt beside me. His face came close to mine.

“I can’t keep you,” he repeated. “And why is that?”

“Someone would notice. Your office is the last place on my planner. They would know it was you.”

“And who is they?”

“The police.”

“What if I don’t mean to keep you?” he asked me.

What is he going to do? I wondered, feeling my impertinence shrink and fear begin to take hold. What good was the police after the first forty eight hours? If he doesn’t mean to keep me–would he dispose of me?

In the dim light, Dr. F______ looked like the perfect serial killer. Well-kept, in black lambswool sweater rolled up almost to the elbow, showing impressively shaped forearms. The stuff of Bret Easton Ellis’s twisted mind.

F_____ looked down at me and smiled, it was almost a kind smile. Except, well, you know, he’d tackled me, tied me up and thrown me on the ground. F_______ nodded and then he placed a blindfold over my eyes.

Darkness. I don’t know how long I lay there. With the sound of alarms fading fast, the cold pavement smelled like the silence of the forgotten.

A movement suddenly pulled at my shirt and I felt the cold harden my nipples. I tried to sit up, but was met with the force of his sole.

Oh, my god.

In time, the weight of his foot disappeared, but I didn’t dare move and invite it back. I wondered whether rolling would give me enough time to get up. Just then, I felt something cold, I thought it was a hand but it rolled between my exposed tits and down my side and I realized it was water. No, not water, water doesn’t move up a breast and circle a nipple. Ice.

I hate cold. I wasn’t joking when I told him Russia’s winter sent me running. It’s one of my least favorite sensations. My teeth clattered from my shivering.

“Do you feel trapped?” F______ asked.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Yes, I’m trapped! I’m trapped.”

“Do you think saying that will compel me to untie you?”

“No, but can you at least cover me?”

“Why would you like to be covered?”

“Because I’m cold,” I said. “Please.”

“You need to be cold right now.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because that’s what I want,” he responded. “From now on, we’re going to do what I want.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What I want is for you to be cold and be still. Do not move until I give you express permission to do so.”

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps fading away and finally the ding of an elevator and the swoosh of doors opening and closing.

Silence. Cold. I lay still for a long time. My lower back, which was resting on my bound elbows, screamed with pain. I couldn’t feel my elbows or arms. Every once in a while, a fit of shivers would send pain shooting up and down my arms.

Finally, when the silence convinced me no one else was there, I rolled on my side. Immediately, all the pain in my arms that had been numbed by the lack of circulation made itself felt. I winced and bit my lip, afraid to make any sound.

I shimmied, my face to the ground, trying to loosen the fabric around my face. Finally, it began to slip until it was around my nose. I looked around for him. He wasn’t there. He’d literally left me in the middle of the parking garage. Still on my side, I pulled my knees up and began to gnaw on the knot F______ had made. If I could free my thighs, I would better able to move, perhaps find an object against which to loosen the ropes holding my arms.

It’s amazing. The instinct that propels flight in creatures shoots such incredible quantities of adrenaline into the body that suddenly, every physical concern fades. No pain, no fear, no system of analysis. All I could think about was escaping.

I was at that rope forever, finally, it began to loosen. I wasn’t able to fully untie it, but with it loose, I managed somehow to slip a leg out of it. Getting up, I shook the rope off the other leg. I looked around. Not a sign of him. Not a sign of anything to help me remove the rope holding my arms. And certainly not any kind of fire escape.

Is that even legal? Shouldn’t every building have one?

I knew it was pointless, but I still ran to the elevator and tried to call it down. At first I thought I wasn’t pushing hard enough–hard to do with my hands tied, and certainly when I can’t quite tell after having turned around where the button is. Then I noticed the card slot. Of course. You need an access key.

So I’m stuck in a basement, tied up, by myself either with a psycho or a brilliant therapist.

Is it naive that I want to believe this is some brilliant form of therapy, of illustrating what it means to have no control?

The elevator made a ding and I jumped, my heart pounding like a chariot without a charioteer against my ribs. I quickly turned around and flattened myself against the wall.

I felt the swoosh zip through my body as the elevator doors opened. F______ stepped out and took a couple of large steps forward before he paused to pan the room.

I quietly inched along the wall and began to back into the elevator.

One of my coat buttons hit the mirror when I pressed against the inside of the elevator. I held my breath, but after a couple of quick steps, a hand landed heavily on the doors, causing them to open completely.

F______ peered in. He had a look of mild amusement on his face.

“I was hoping you would be a good girl and do as you were told,” he said to me. “But I was also hoping you would misbehave so I could show you what happens when you don’t do what I tell you.”

The doctor reached into the elevator, took me by the hair and dragged me back to the parking lot, where he threw me face-down on the dusty hood of a Bentley.

Holding me in place with his own body, he pulled up my skirt until it was around my waist. When he pulled a way, a hand remained tangled in my hair, holding my face down. What was he going to do?

Slap! A palm landed evenly on my ass. I couldn’t believe it. Was he spanking me? Slap! came the answer. Yes. Slap! He hit me hard, each sting searing through my body. He hit one cheek, then the other, then alternated again. I began to feel raw.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked me.

I didn’t know what to say. If I said yes, would he stop?

He slapped me again.

“When I speak to you, you will respond. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I said.

He paused.

“You want me to keep going?”


“Spread your legs.”


“Do it.”

I spread my legs slowly.

SLAP! His hand landed square on my pussy.

“OW!” I screamed, closing my legs.

F______ pressed down on me again, crushing my arms into my back. I could feel his hot breath against my neck as his free hand battled with my legs to push them apart. I fought him. I fought him with my hips. I fought him with the strength of my ass cheeks and thighs. But he got through.

And when he did, he found I was soaking wet.

There was a pause in his movements. Finally, a breath escaped his lips and rushed against my neck.

“Do you like this?” he asked me, in a different tone.

“I–I don’t know,” I confessed.

He said nothing, then rose. My arms were pulled this way and that as he untied the rope. When he was done, he turned me around so I was on my back. We looked at each other in uncomfortable silence.

I’m not really embarrassed by anything but this, somehow, was a bit mortifying. The man had been abusing me, teaching me what it was like to have no control and instead of understanding my situation and giving in to terror and impending death, I’d become aroused.

I’d ruined my therapy. Again. Fine. Whatever. It had its benefits.

“Fuck me,” I said looking directly into Dr. F______’s green eyes.

He simply stared.

Taking his sweater with a hand and pulling myself up so my face was inches from his, I looked at his lips before looking into his eyes and repeated, “Fuck. Me.”

He brought a hand to mine and I released my hold on his sweater. I could smell myself on his fingers. I brought his hand to my mouth.

I sucked his fingers, one by one and he watched, with no expression. Finally, when I had finished, I released his hand and he bent to pick up my purse from where it had slid during the first struggle and handed it to me.

“Cheyenne will contact you in regard to a next appointment once I review the conclusions reached today,” he said simply.

I dropped my purse on the ground and looked at him.

“What, that’s it?” I asked. “You assault me, you tie me up, you spank me, you feel my cunt and then you send me home?”

“It is enough for today.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It is not enough. It is not even close to enough.”

I pulled him to me by his belt. He took both of my hands in one of his and looking at me with a small smile, asked, “do I need to tie you up to take you out of here?”

I sighed and pushed my skirt down. Three of my buttons were missing, so it was impossible to button up my blouse. I removed the blindfold, which was now around my neck, and buttoned my coat over my torn blouse. I pulled a clip from my purse and pinned my hair up.

If I had been a little mortified before, now, I wanted to die. As I followed him into the elevator, I began to freak out. Who the hell asks her therapist to fuck her? What’s wrong with me?

He said he’s going to “review the conclusions reached today”–what does that even mean? Is he going to have me committed? I hope at least he medicates me something decent.

We don’t exchange a word on the way up. In the lobby, he gives me a nod as I exit and that’s that.

When I look at my phone, I realize I’ve been “in therapy” for four and a half hours.

Position 9

Kneel on the floor, folding each leg gracefully underneath the thighs, knees together and back straight, with the feet flat on the floor and the buttocks resting over them.

Position 9 is commonly known as seiza, which means “correct sitting” in Japanese. Traditionally, when in seiza posture, it is preferable to move on the feet and knees rather than standing up to walk. This is to be observed if beckoned by Elias while sitting seiza-style.

It isn’t uncommon for the uninitiated to experience pain, loss of circulation and numbness the first few times they try to sit in seiza posture. Physical discomfort lessens with experience.

The Walk

“Dr. F______ will arrive at 5:00AM to pick you up,” Cheyenne commented when she phoned earlier. “You might want to wear pants.”

It was a weird thing to say. Sure, I had never had an appointment with my therapist before sunrise and I had never had him at my house, but what was really weird was that Cheyenne has never given me specific instructions before like this before. I wondered what the reason was.

That evening, when Elias appeared at the door of my apartment, he didn’t look displeased to see me in a dress. A dress and the too-small trainers he had gotten me.

“Zita,” he said, coming in and looking at my feet with a half smile. “Nice to see you.”

He had never been at my apartment before. I let him in the door and motioned for him to take a seat in my living room. He took in the place, either psychoanalyzing me or looking for somewhere to hang me from the ceiling. Preferably the latter.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” I asked him.

“Offer yourself.”

“Yes, Elias,” I responded and, putting my hair up in a single silver pin, I dropped into Position 2 and pulled the top of my dress down to expose my tits and the hem up to show my ass and pussy.

“You are not wearing pants.”

“No, Elias.”

He smiled.

“Very well,” he said. “That was only a suggestion for your sake.”

“My sake?” I asked.

He ignored me, inspecting me. he ran a hand over my tits, which were healing nicely.

“My little canvas,” he said.

It stung when he touched me. I clung to the pain greedily. He pinched my nipple. Hard, then harder.

“Thank you, Elias.”

He circled me so he could inspect the marks on my ass. I still carried light imprints of his hands: one on my right ass cheek, one on my inner thigh and one on my back, under my left shoulder blade.

In this dress, he could admire two of them with ease.

“I have a trifle for you,” he said, circling back to face me.

He lifted my chin with a hand and ran a hand down my cheek.

“May I look at you?” I asked.

“Yes,” he responded.

He slapped me as soon as I opened my eyes and smiled at the pain he saw in them.

“My little painslut,” he said.

“Yes, Elias.”

“You think you can serve me, do you?”

“Yes, Elias.”

“You will show me.”

Elias pulled a box from his coat pocket. I watched motionless. He opened it and pulled out a thick, white band. A collar, with a large metal ring in the center. He placed around my neck.

“Do you know what this is, Zita?”

“A collar, Elias.”

“A symbol,” he said, his voice soft. “That you are being trained to be my slave. I am making a commitment to your education and I expect the same from you.”

He tightened it.

“You will wear it whenever we go out and whenever else I indicate.”

“Yes, Elias.”

“Arrange your dress, Zita.”

I did as instructed and began to rise.

“Did I tell you to get up?”

I returned to position: “no, Elias.”

He pulled the collar so the ring was at the back of my neck. I heard a small click and then felt a tug.

“We’re going for a little walk.”

Crawling is one of the first things the human animal learns to do. Studies show babies that crawl develop better cognitive skills. I didn’t crawl.

A proper Catholic upbringing requires one spend a significant amount of time on her knees, but I hardly managed that either. I have extremely sensitive knees. The idea of crawling on them now was particularly unpleasant.

But I wanted to show him I wasn’t posturing. I wanted to show him how hungry I was to serve someone, to give myself entirely to a cause and reason greater than myself.

I spread out my fingers and press my shins and feet into the ground to manage my weight properly and began: right hand forward, left knee forward. Left hand forward, right knee forward. Face forward, ass out.

My skirt rode up my ass. When Elias opened the door, I felt the night air move between my legs and press against my wet pussy.

It’s not always like this. I’m not always like this. Elias does something to me. I don’t know what.

And so he strolled and I followed, on already aching knees. I imagined him with his own dog, did he walk it like this, when he’s at home, doing more mundane things? Does he even have a dog?

A bitch, I thought to myself, with a smile.

I crawled. Jokes aside, I began to think about how little I knew of Elias. We’d been doing this for a few months and I still didn’t know anything about him. Who was this man? Where did he live? Was he in a relationship? Did he have children?

We continued around the block. The sun was starting to rise. A jogger ran by, probably lost in some self-help audiobook or a podcast. She didn’t give us a second look.

I kept crawling. Elias increased his pace and my knees screamed. The pain was unbearable.

I had to piss.

I crawled. The sun began to lighten the sky. Electric blue. There were more cars now. I imagined people’s faces as they looked at us, as they looked at me, like this, being walked on hands and knees.

“Elias?” I asked, tentatively.

“Yes, Zita,” he responded.

“I’m sorry—can we—I have to relieve myself.”

He stopped and looked down at me.

“Do you want to piss, Zita?” He asked, a smile playing on his face.

“Yes, Elias,” I responded.

He said nothing.

I bit my lip.

He turned back toward my apartment.

Almost to my building, Elias paused at the elm outside on the lawn. I stopped and looked up at Him.

“Well?” He asked.


He slapped my ass, “need I explain myself?”

“Thank you, Elias,” I stammered.

I looked at the tree.

“Thank you.”

I knew better than to squat. I lifted up a leg and tried not to piss all over myself.

Position 2

Slight step back with the left leg, transferring the weight to the right leg before folding the left leg to settle on the left knee and bringing the right knee down beside it, ensuring there is the proper amount of space between the legs so as to offer the proper exposure. It is unsightly for a slave to fix the space between her legs after she has taken a position.

With hands folded behind the neck, elbows spread wide and her back perfectly straight, she offers her tits, nipples and eyes to her Master.

Slave Material

I waited for Cheyenne’s call all week. There was always a degree of apprehension–would she call me to the office or some other place? It was impossible to tell what would happen with F______, but as a general rule, places other than the office were more exciting.

Today, I didn’t get a chance to stare psychotically at my mobile because Cheyenne called me at exactly 7:00, just as I was getting out of the shower.

“Your appointment is at 3:00PM. Dr. F______ will be waiting for you in his consulting room.”

I ended the call and threw the phone on the bed.


When the elevator doors opened, I didn’t go through the waiting room. I turned left and headed straight for the door that led to F______’s consulting room. I slid my patient key on an unobtrusive panel beside a nondescript landscape painting and the door opened with a small screak of wood.

Inside, F______ was standing at one of his bookcases.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, distractedly.

I took a seat on an ottoman.

F______ pulled out a book, flipped through it, then placed it back. He went over to his desk, looked over a paper and brought a hand to his face.

I observed curiously. I had never seen him working before. He had that look that academics get when they have finally reconciled some impossible fact with reality.

“You might be ready, Zita,” he said. “You might be ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked him, crossing my legs.

“Something else.”

“Something else?”

Had he decided there was too much risk in what we were doing? Was I becoming a liability to him despite the fact that I only saw him when requested and knew nothing about him? Or was he bored with it and ready to get me off his hands?

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked, getting up and walking to his desk.

He walked around his desk and pulled on the steep v-cut of my jersey dress to expose my tits.

My heart jumped in my chest, I was sure he must have heard it beating insanely inside me as he inspected me.

“You still have considerable bruising from our session two weeks ago,” he said. “Even some scabbing on the underside where you bled.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He pressed down on a bruise.

I gasped.

“You have done much talking about submission and discipline, Zita,” he said. “Is it a metaphor for a selflessness and humanity you otherwise fear you do not possess or a real desire?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You throw around the word ‘Master’ as though it’s a game, a though that is something you grant a man. For all your academic musings on Natural Order and the flaws in modern pornographic works depicting BDSM, you seem to have entirely missed the point.”

He had my nipple tightly between his fingers.

“Do you really think that you could be a slave?”


He walked around me, touched my hair, my hands, my shoulders, my waist. His are hands that please and hands that break, hands that conquer and hands that caress.

“Get into position,” he whispered in my ear.

I dropped on the ground in the position he taught me.

He examined me in place.

“I do like this position,” he said.

He pressed down on my back, felt my pelvic bones, my ribs, my vertebrae.

“There is so little of you,” he lamented. “You will always bruise. Up.”

I sat up.

He knelt before me and took me by the neck. He looked at me. I closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

“Yes, Master,” I responded opening my eyes.

“Don’t call me Master. I have not decided whether you are fit to serve me. Call me Elias.”

Slap! He slapped my face.

“Thank you!” I said before the pain registers.

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

“What is my name?”


He slapped the other side of my face. Then the other side. I thanked him. My cheeks stung.

“Stand up,” Elias said, rising, still holding me by the neck.

I stood. Elias reached under my dress and took hold of my cunt. I gasped, pressing my hips against his arm.

Elias removed his hand and, still holding me by the neck, pulled me into him. I felt his large chest against the left side of my body, rising and falling as he breathed. We stood pressed together like that for a moment before he took my hair with his free hand, pulled my head back and kissed me.

I gasped into his mouth. For some reason being kissed by him felt like a bigger deal than being fingered and slapped.

He didn’t notice or if he did, he didn’t care. He kissed me, first just lips, opening mine like peeling a rosebud. Then I felt his tongue, rough and cold. The kiss was soft but somehow, incredibly violent at once. I moaned and struggled and he held me and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me.

Kisses are for lovers. Dr. F______ is not my lover. How could he kiss me? I felt confused, I felt high, I felt lost, I felt so good, so good, so good. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

When he pulled away, I was shaking. I was breathing so hard, I could’t think. I was almost crying. My lips were swollen and bleeding.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Elias slapped me.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me again.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me and slapped me and with each slap I felt less lost. With each slap, I found my way back.

Yes, yes, yes, punish me, I thought. Punish me. I shouldn’t want you this much. Punish me. Punish me. Punish me.

“Sit down,” Elias said.

I sat in the chair before his desk. He knelt before me. And, taking one of my feet in his hand, pulled it up and removed my shoe.

“Are you ticklish?” he asked.


He tickled me. Nothing.

“You have strong feet,” he remarked.

He slapped my right sole.

“Thank you!”

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

Elias put my foot down. I lifted the other.

“You little pain slut,” he said, betraying a smile. “You want more, don’t you?”

I sat silent, wide-eyed, feeling betrayed by my body.

“I will take only what you see fit to give me,” I said, too late.

Elias reached between my legs.

“You’re so wet,” he said. He could feel it through my pants.

“Ask me,” he said. “Ask me to give you more so I can punish you.”

“Give me more, Elias,” I begged.

He punishes me and it feels so good.

“That’s enough for today,” Elias says, finally, rising.

The Cane

When He struck her with the cane, He brought it down on her then slid it sideways, which had the peculiar effect of making the sting of impact feel as though her flesh had been ripped open.

General Information:
Canes are long sticks used for the purpose of support or corporal punishment. In terms of the latter, rattan, a palm native to Africa and Oceania is generally preferred, as it provides more flexibility than wood or bamboo.

Canes are a severe instrument on the whole, likely to leave marks and inflict a great deal of pain. It should be noted that longer canes hit harder than shorter ones, though they’re more difficult to control.

Thicker canes land more heavily and cause more bruising while thinner ones have the capacity to cut through the flesh.

On this note, those interested in caning must be cautioned about the absorbent properties of a cane. Rattan in particular is like a sponge; even varnished, it will pick up any fluid released from the body during punishment. This makes rattan canes particularly unsafe for sharing.

Purchasing information:
The previously mentioned store Adam and Gillian’s Sensual Whips and Toys offers plain canes from $15 (for a 27-inch cane) to $25 (38-inch), depending on length. They have a year warranty for their canes. Extreme Restraints offer plain 30-inch canes for $11.50, with no warranty mentioned.

Position 3

Among one of my books, I found a small volume titled, “Positions of Servitude.” I opened the tome at random and come to Position 3. There were images of a woman in a lace corset on her knees from various angles. I got up from where I’m kneeling and reading the directions, tried to get into the position described.

I was not gifted with grace. I was going to have to practice to execute the motions well. But that didn’t stop me from getting into it.

Taking a slight step back with the left leg, I transferred my weight to my right leg before folding the left leg underneath me and bringing the right down beside it, leaving the proper amount of space between them “so as to offer the proper exposure,” as the book said.

“Settle into your feet,” I read out loud. “Back perfectly straight, tits out, nipples and eyes facing Master.”