The Sanders Center

Chapter One

By Nattie
Copyright 2007

Note: This is not a complete story. For the entire story, please join our website here.

Mr. Bloch leaned back in his chair and peered at me.  “So you’ve come to our center to learn a little self-discipline.”

I blushed and swallowed.  I took a deep breath and tried to speak with confidence, but inside I was quaking with embarrassment.  “Well, I just need a little—”

He rose.  “A little?  A little what?”  He picked up my file and began strutting around the office.  “I see here that you need a whole lot of help with your finances, I’m looking at you, and you’re fifty pounds overweight, and there’s no medical reason to justify it except that you lack self-discipline.  I see that you were let go for repeatedly showing up to work late, although when I called your old boss to interview—”

“You called my old boss?!”

“Of course I did.  I told him that you had applied to our center.  He’d never heard of us, but when I explained how we worked and what we did, he felt that you could benefit greatly from the program.”

Ohmigod.  My old boss knew that I had signed up to learn self-discipline—basically admitting that I had none—and also knew that I was going to be spanked as part of the program.  And spanked regularly.

He sat back down and eyed me.  "Your boss said that you were an exceptional employee, and that in all his time he'd never given more warnings, and he'd never been more reluctant to let an employee go."

I didn't know whether to be mortified or pleased.  From the look on Mr. Bloch's face, I could tell that he expected me to be ashamed.

“As you know, spankings are routinely given every morning during the inpatient phase.  It’s your reminder to behave.”

I shifted in my seat while he flipped through my papers.  His office had one green plant and a whole lot of white, softened by baby blue carpeting and soft green walls.  The whole complex was zen-like.  Everything in its place, nothing extraneous anywhere, like clutter was a four letter word.

I'd discovered the Sanders Center online over three years ago.  I kept going back to it, following a feeling that it was something that could help me.  But there'd always been something stopping me.  For awhile I was in a relationship, then it was a new job, and then a promotion.  It wasn't until I lost both my boyfriend and my job that I felt it was time to take a risk and try something new.

On the website, they advertised that they taught self-acceptance to their clients, all while guiding "you to be the best you."  The discipline was mentioned, but their rhetoric was all warm and fuzzy.

"We work just like a rehab clinic.  Once you sign yourself in, you are not allowed to leave until we decide you are ready."

It was the only part of the package that I was having trouble swallowing.  "Look, Mr. Bloch, I have trouble with that clause.  I've seen your center and read testimonials from past clients, but I have yet to meet a past client.  I have yet to take a tour or meet the instructors.  You've given me nothing to go on."

"You contacted the Better Business Bureau?"

I couldn't tell whether he would be offended or not, so I chose to answer the truth.  "Yes, of course.  You're putting me in a vulnerable position.  I needed to know that I would be safe."

"And?"

"There have been no complaints filed against your center."

He smiled and nodded.  "Of course.  That was a smart thing to do, Sarah."  He put down my file and leaned back in his chair.  "I understand your hesitation, but you have to look at things from our point of view.  Spankings hurt, and they are not something you'll enjoy.  If we allow you to walk out at any point you choose, you're likely to choose to leave and avoid a punishment in the heat of a moment."

A strange feeling rippled through me when he said the word, "punishment."  I cleared my throat.  "I want to try your program, but I'm not going to sign myself in.  I want to be free to leave at any point."

Up until this point, I'd jumped through hoops, taken test after test, filled out pages and pages of application and information forms.  Up until now, I'd been begging for the privilege of acceptance into the program. 

Mr. Bloch removed his glasses and polished them, buying time.  When he put them back on, he focused on me.  "We don't do that.  We do think you're an excellent candidate for our center, and we do believe that you'll flourish here.  But we also believe that without this condition, you'll leave when the going gets tough, just before you experience a breakthrough."

I just shrugged and sat in silence.  I wasn't without people skills.  I let the silence make the room uncomfortable.  Unfortunately, he was not unaware of the technique.  We sat in a silent stand-off. 

He finally stood.  "Excuse me for a moment, please."

He left the room, flipping his cell phone open.  I blew out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, and steeled myself for another round of negotiation. 

When he returned, he smiled.  "You may have one week.  We’ll introduce you to a couple of clients who are willing to come forward, and we’ll get you started in the program.  At the end of the week, you may either sign yourself in, or leave."  He paused.  "You will, however, be held accountable for the full month of expenses."

I nodded.  It was a fair offer, even though a month in the center was a whole lot of money.  "How long do you estimate that I'll need to be in the inpatient program?"

"Anywhere from two months to eight months.  The outpatient program is in three stages, as you know, and may take quite a bit longer.  The quickest graduation from the entire program is six months, although that was an exceptional case."

"The longest?" I asked.  The outpatient program, especially in the later stages, was much less expensive.

"Two years."

I vowed to move up to the outpatient program within four months—it's the most my finances could handle.  I was determined to graduate from the program completely within a year.  After that, it was just too expensive.

He shut my file.  "We'll go over the rest of these papers when you sign in."  He gave me the warmest smile he'd given me so far and stood up.  "Sarah, we have a tough program with painful consequences for misbehavior, but we care a great deal for our clients.  Our handlers work twelve-hour days, and they remain on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.  Your growth is our number one priority." 

He stuck his hand out, and I stood to shake it.

"You are bright, intelligent, and a lovely young lady.  We’re going to help you remove any and all obstacles to your full potential."

The promises the Sanders Center made were so enticing that it was hard not to believe in them.  That was probably the single thing that made me skeptical and worried: I hoped so much that it would be everything that it promised, that I was afraid I couldn't judge clearly.

"Thank you," I said. 

A smiley grandmother-looking lady bustled in with a stack of fresh towels and linens in her hand.  "Your room is ready, dear." 

We exchanged polite pleasantries as Mr. Bloch cleared off his desk.  She introduced herself as Margie, but Mr. Bloch came up beside me and gave me a light swat to my bottom that didn't hurt.

It made me blush, and I couldn't meet Margie's eyes.

"You'll address her and all center staff as 'sir' or 'ma'am.'" 

I couldn't find my voice, which was fine, because I didn't know what to say, anyway.  But then he smacked my bottom loud and hard in front of Margie.  I was so embarrassed that tears sprang to my eyes. 

"The correct answer here is 'Yes, sir.'" 

I nodded and sucked in a breath.  The next thing I knew, he turned and pushed me over the back of the chair.  My bottom faced Margie.  He pushed up my skirt, tugged my underwear down to the bottom of my butt, and then slapped it ten times.

"Again, the correct answer here is an audible ‘Yes, sir,’ not a nod."

I was more startled than anything.  He tugged my underwear back up, lowered my skirt, and ran his hand over my bottom to smooth it into place.  "Stand back up.  Now might be a good time to say, 'Nice to meet you, ma'am.'" 

"Yes, sir," I whispered, my voice cracking.  I was too embarrassed not to do as he ordered.  My voice sounded uncertain and weak as I addressed Margie.  She looked apologetic as she smiled at me.

As she showed me to my room, she clearly wanted me to feel at home and welcome in this place.  She babbled on about the center, and how I only needed to press this button or that button on my phone if I needed anything.  I couldn't call out without permission from my handler, though.

By the time we entered the room, I had worked up a good mad to cover my embarrassment.  "Where are my things?" I heard myself snap.

She looked momentarily uncomfortable.  "I'm sorry, your things have been put into storage until you leave."

"What about my clothes?  My toiletries?"  I shook my head.  "What about my books?  What am I going to do without my cell phone?"

She gave me an uncertain smile.  "Everything will be provided.  You just need to focus on yourself.  We want you to feel provided for and cared for, here at the center."

Or they just wanted a reason to charge me for clothes and toiletries.  I muttered under my breath, "Sounds like an excuse to charge me more money."

She pivoted and faced me, looking hurt.  "The Sanders Center isn't like that," she said, offended.

She looked like she would cry.  Geez, for crying out loud.  "I'm sorry, I know.  It's just this is all so… overwhelming." 

She bit her lip.  "I have to report that you're not addressing me as 'ma'am.'"  She touched my arm but pulled her hand away quickly.  "I'm sorry.  I hope you'll find your room comfortable.  Please let us know if—"

"—Thank you, ma'am, I can take it from here."  I regretted my sarcastic tone almost instantly.  The hurt in her eyes provided all the reproach I needed.

She left muttering soothingly, "it's okay; it's to be expected." 

I slammed the door shut—more mad at myself than at the center—and plopped on the bed, wrapping my arms around myself. 

The room was economical.  A single twin bed, a nightstand, a desk with one drawer and a straight-backed chair, a dresser, and a contraption that looked like one of those kneeling desk chairs that were so in vogue in the nineties.  My imagination immediately decided it was a spanking bench—not a tough conclusion since there was a paddle, a strap, a cane, and a crop hanging on the wall above it.

I swallowed.  I went to the door and tested the knob. It was locked.  I went to the single window and noted that on each side of the flat picture window, there was a skinny window that swung out. 

And I wasn't skinny enough to fit through, not even if I lost fifty pounds. 

I wandered into the bathroom.  I was upset enough for a good bubble bath, but the bathroom provided was austere.  Shampoo, conditioner, soap, lotion, toothbrush and toothpaste, and deodorant.  A whole lot less than I had packed in my toiletries bag.

The only good thing about the bathroom was the bathtub.  It was so deep that I could submerge my entire body from chin to toe. 

I filled it with steamy water and got in.  For the first time, I felt like I had left the world and its problems behind, and I relaxed.  Maybe this Sanders Center would be a nice getaway, like a spa vacation.  At least, that's what I tried to convince myself as I dozed off.

“Sarah Lynn Ray.” 

I climbed out of fuzzy, dissatisfying sleep.  Blinking my eyes, I realized the water had grown cold and my skin had wrinkled.  I pushed up and crossed my arms over my chest.

“How did you get in here?”

He ignored my question.  “I am Rick Sanders, your handler.”  He stuck out his hand as if we were in a business meeting.  In fact, he looked dressed for business: shimmering gray suit, shiny black shoes, and a dark red tie that reminded me of mussed satin sheets.

I gave him my dripping hand, and he shook it.  He was so muscular, strong and self-assured that I felt small and timid.  I wondered if he was the owner of the Sanders Center, or if he was a relation.  Either way, everything about him made me nervous.

He sat on the toilet lid, his knees sprawling and his elbows on his knees.  Between his hands he held my file.  “So you want to wait a week before committing to the program?"

“Erm,” I squeaked.  I eyed the towel on the other side of him.  “Would you mind handing me that towel, please?”

He studied me long enough to make me blush.  “Sir,” he said.

“Sir?” I asked.  And I blushed again when I realized that he was reminding me to call him ‘sir.’  “Will you please hand me the towel, sir?”

“No.”  He returned his attention to my file.  “So you have tested in the fortieth percentile for self-discipline, the thirtieth percentile for confidence, and the ninetieth percentile for perfectionism.”  He smiled at me wryly.  “So I’m guessing you lack the confidence that the things you do are perfect enough, and so you often don’t bother at all.”

I opened my mouth.  I made a weird sound and closed it.

“You’re not lazy, but it sure appears you are.  Seems to me you just need to learn to fear the paddle more than you fear failure.”

I gulped as he shuffled the papers.

"Now that's something new," he said.  He looked up at me, as if I were suddenly interesting.  "Some people are motivated by reasonable goals.  If they set themselves a lofty, impossible goal, they end up so overwhelmed that they get nothing done.  Other people respond to those high-reaching goals, and are so bored by reasonable goals that they don't bother."

He cocked his head at me.  "You respond to high-reaching goals," he smiled as if he liked that.  "And, at the same time, you are easily overwhelmed."

I tried a grin, but my voice still squeaked.  "So my goal of getting out of this cold water and drying off with a towel is impossible enough to keep me motivated, but the thought of getting through you and walking over to the towel overwhelms me into inaction."  I sparkled my eyes at him, trying to get him to laugh.

He just leveled his gaze at me for a moment, and then returned his attention to my file.  "That sounds about right." 

The water swished in the tub as I shifted my weight, and I wished I had thrown the shampoo in the tub to try and make some bubbles.  At least then, I would have been partially covered. 

"Look, I need a towel.  I'm cold and naked, and I'm uncomfortable."

Very calmly, he replied, "Not right now."

"That's unacceptable.  Either you get me a towel, or I'm pressing charges against you for sexual harassment." 

He tucked his tie back towards his chest.  "Pardon me?"  His question sounded more like a threat than a polite question.

I repeated myself, growing angrier by the minute.

He frowned at me and flipped through my file again.  Pulling a pen from his pocket, he made a scribble on one of the pages.  Then he focused his complete attention on me.  "Passive-aggressive tendencies."  His frown deepened.  "I dislike those."

No towel, then.  Standing up and getting it myself would just leave me more exposed.  I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.  "Does your stupid file say anything good about me?"

"If you want an answer, ask again."  He reached out and touched me for the first time, a single finger under my chin.  "Minus the 'stupid.'"

I looked away and shut my eyes.  Tears pressed against my lids.  "Does your file say anything good about me?"

"Look at me," he said softly.

A humiliated sob burst from my throat.  I clapped a hand to my mouth.  From the corner of my vision, I could see him leaning back and getting comfortable. 

"Okay, have a good cry first, if you need one."

Against my will, I did.  The day had been too overwhelming and the change in my life too scary.  It took me a few minutes, but I finally composed myself and looked him in the eye. 

"I'm fine.  What were you going to say?"  I asked.

He frowned. 

I quickly added, "sir," and he relaxed.  

"We're on the same team here, Sarah.  We both want what's best for you.  The discipline program will involve some nakedness and embarrassment.  We find that clients don't hide as much from themselves or their handlers when they're naked." 

I had to admit, he handled my nakedness in the same way a doctor did.  He didn't leer or make me feel like an object; it was clinical.  But I still felt exposed and embarrassed. 

And completely off balance.

“So here’s the deal," he continued.  "As your handler, there are no secrets from me.  I can spank you whenever I please, for any or no reason at all.  You will obey me instantly and respectfully, or the consequences will be immediate and painful.  Any questions so far?”

I gulped and shook my head.

He dropped my file on the marble counter and pulled at my hand, helping me stand.  Then he whirled me around and smacked my bottom over and over until I cried again. 

I didn’t fight because I was afraid that I would slip and fall, and because I was so overwhelmed by him that I didn’t know what to do. 

When he finally stopped, I clutched my bottom and turned into the corner of the shower for both comfort and to hide my tears.  He grabbed my upper arm and forced me to face him. 

“It's 'yes, sir,' Sarah, not a nod.  That’s the lightest punishment you’ll ever get from me.  Next time expect it to last longer and feel unbearable." 

I whispered, "Yes, sir."

"Thank you for addressing me with respect, Sarah," he said with sincerity.  "Please look at me."

I finally did, but I had to blink back my tears.  His presence and confidence were overwhelming. 

"Contrary to what you may think, we are highly selective at the Sanders Center.  We only take young ladies who have proven to be talented and demonstrate great potential.  To address your question about your file, there is nothing here that is not positive.  Yes, you have some mental obstacles right now, but those are easily addressed with some discipline."

I interrupted when he took a breath between sentences.  "Mental obstacles?"  My voice came out shrill.  "What, you're saying I'm crazy?"

He sighed.  "Sarah, I've already explained.  No, you're not crazy.  You just have some conflicting core beliefs and behavior patterns that leave you immobilized.  By mental obstacle, I mean something akin to a mental block."

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away. 

"May I please have a towel, sir?" I asked as nicely as I could.  "I'm cold."

Without a word, he pulled the towel from the rack and held it open.  I reached out for it, but he motioned for me to come to him.  Once I did, he wrapped the towel—which was one of those great big, fluffy bath sheets—around me.   He smiled down at me gently, which surprised me.

Rick put a hand to my back and guided me into the room.  He pulled the top drawer open and laid out a nightgown on the bed.  He pulled out a few other drawers and arranged white undergarments, white socks, and a plain blue cotton dress on top of the dresser.  "Every night after this, I'll expect you to lay out your clothes for tomorrow.  Understood?"

"Yes, sir," I said. 

He beamed at me.  "Excellent, Sarah." 

I didn't share my thoughts about him taking his 'sir' and shoving it where the sun don't shine.  He gestured towards the spanking contraption. 

"The phone will wake you at seven tomorrow morning. By seven-thirty, you will be showered, dressed, and ready to start the day.  You will pull your panties down to mid-thigh, put your knees here—" he pointed to the lower pad "—and you will bend over here, so that your butt is perfectly positioned for your morning spanking.  Any questions?"

My mouth went dry.  I stared at the spanking bench and swallowed. 

"No questions, sir."

He rested a hand on my shoulder.  "I know you're probably nervous about your daily spanking.  Don't worry.  It's nothing more than the hand slaps I gave you in the shower."

I snapped my head up when I realized that I was staring at his knees. 

"They're just to make certain that you start the day off on the right foot," he said gently, as if to reassure me.

I didn't know what to say, so I went back to staring at his knees. 

He gave my shoulder a squeeze.  "Welcome to the Sanders Center, Sarah.  I'm looking forward to working with you.  Remember, if you need anything, just press zero on the phone.  Margie or Lissa can send someone to help you, or they can even contact me if you need me.  Please don't be afraid to pick up a phone, okay?"

I nodded.

He frowned.  The next thing I knew, I was bent over the edge of the bed and my towel had been removed.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pick up a hairbrush from the dresser. 

Then I learned that the spanking in the bathroom had been nothing in comparison to how a hairbrush feels.  My legs trembled as the brush thwapped me over and over, in little spots of pain.  I could tell he intended to cover my whole bottom, with the way he worked methodically in circles, pulling the skin this way and that to expose unspanked skin. 

I panted to control the pain until I felt him slide a hand on the inside of my legs, a few inches above my knee.  I held my breath. 

"Step your legs apart."

Once I did, he trailed a finger along the inside of my thighs.  "This skin is sensitive and full of nerve endings.  You'll feel it good, here."

He said that as if it were a good thing, and not a thing that would make me cry and want to run.  He whipped the brush up and down the inside of my legs, and then finally stopped. 

"Ten more hard ones.  When I'm done, I expect a pretty apology."

The last ten came slow.  One horrible smack at a time.  The brush hit my butt so hard that I cried out with each one, fisting my hands into the comforter. 

When the tenth stroke hit, I stood up and clutched my bottom, turning it away from him.

"Let's replay that, shall we?"  He held the brush as he repeated his earlier question.  "Please don't be afraid to pick up a phone, okay?"

"Yes, sir," I said.  I swallowed.  "I mean … no, sir."  I gave a little smile and swiped away a tear.  "I mean, I won't be afraid, sir."

He set down the brush and mussed my hair.  "Thank you, Sarah.  Goodnight."  He walked to the door and said, "I want you in bed with the lights out within five minutes.  You have a big day ahead of you, and you'll need your rest."  He paused and waited, then lifted his eyebrow.  "Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

I smoothed the hair he'd mussed as I heard the door lock behind him. 

To Be Continued...