Free The Right Treatment by Tara Finnegan Page A

backwards, upside down, or what the spelling is like. What matters is the attitude with which it was undertaken and we both know you’ve bashed this out from anger. A new line should get a new line; if you don’t like what you’ve written, you don’t need to scribble it out until the page tears. I’m not asking for perfection. I just want a real effort.”
    She wanted to choke him. Bastard. But she wouldn’t. Nor would she even whisper a word of discontent. She was way too exposed, sitting across the table from him in nothing but a short tee shirt. She was dying for a glass of water but there was no way she was standing up in her state of undress. Absolutely everything below the waist was on display. She wondered when he had developed his cruel sadistic streak—it was certainly new to her. Her hand ached as she neatly penned the remaining eighty lines and handed them over page by page, terrified he might reject them. Just as she was on the last page, he told her she had some more lines. She wanted to cry as she handed over the last page of the first lot.
    “This time you will write: Rectal temperature is not affected by gulping hot tea.”
    “That’s not fair, I wasn’t trying to…”
    “Don’t take me for a fool, Aoife. I saw you gulping your tea.”
    “Miserable, uptight, control-freak bastard,” Aoife muttered under her breath. But unfortunately not quite quietly enough. He rose and crossed to her side of the table. Aoife rose to run, but he was way ahead of her and grabbed her as she kicked the chair back.
    “What did you say?” he asked. Aoife denied all. He pushed her across his dining chair and spanked her already throbbing behind five times more, repeating each word of the insult with each swat, ignoring her screams and begging.
    “You haven’t learned a lot about respect after all; you can repeat those lines another two hundred times tomorrow night. Now get on with the next ones.” His face was red with fury as she sat on her even more scorched ass. Hatred didn’t even touch how she was feeling right now; murderous was closer to it. He sat down next to her this time, watching over her shoulder as she wrote out the new, humiliating line. Each time she wrote rectal, she relived the horror of him inserting that thermometer in her bottom, squirming with shame and degradation. She was damn sure he knew that too, as he had her repeat each line as soon as she finished writing it out. She wondered if he planned on living a long healthy life, because right now, the odds were not in his favour.
    Even after the lines were finished, she couldn’t leave—as long as Matt stayed sitting, Aoife did too. She had to. The exhibitionist in her got a bit of a weird kick being half naked and watched and in spite of the humiliation of calling out that line over and over, her pussy had started to weep—lightly, but weep nonetheless. She knew if she got up off the chair, there would be a little pool of creaminess underneath her bottom. And no way was she going to let Matt see her wash it clean. Finally, he left the table, clearing the way for her to get a drink of water and go to bed.
     
    * * *
     
    Aoife gingerly extricated herself from her nice warm bed. Examining her bottom in the full-length mirror, she was amazed to see there were absolutely no aftereffects of the spanking, save for a slight pink hue on the underside of each bottom cheek, the tender spots where he seemed to favour as he spanked. She was almost disappointed. She had wanted to be able to throw it in his face, how he had battered her until she was black and blue. Now she was denied that ammunition.
    Sluggishly, she dragged herself to the bathroom and dragged on her running clothes. It felt like the bloody army. Who the hell got up at six-thirty to go for a goddamn run? But his lordship, bringer of all evil, had insisted. She was starting her voluntary work and he who called the shots said she had to exercise before work. Annoying, pushy bully. She