A spanking story
Jasmine was currently top of the Leaderboard, which made her the school’s official Head Girl.
Being the Head Girl in a prestigious boarding school in the 2040s was a coveted position, and came with several luxurious privileges. A private bedroom, access to the staff gym and spa, a neuralinked recreational holovisor, and those most precious of commodities: peace and quiet.
Having spent so long in shared dorms, Jasmine found the privilege of privacy unimaginably decadent. She could wander around her room wearing as little as she wanted, dance around in her panties at three a.m and make as much noise as she wanted. She could do everything, except what she really, really wanted. What she craved more than anything. Dealing with the persistent throbbing, deep between her legs.
Climaxes were very strictly controlled in this boarding school. It was the belief of the Headmistress that students were much better behaved when kept in denial. Her intention was to substitute the fleeting pleasures received from masturbating with a more fulfilling sense of self-control and obedience, both of which she considered highly favorable attributes in a young lady. That, and it prevented the institution from degenerating into an orgy, which was always a risk wherever a group of entitled young women were gathered.
The Headmistress did not believe in devices that would physically prohibit her pupils from touching, however. There were no chastity belts in this school, no preventative medications to dull the libido, and no clitoral or labial piercings to block wandering fingers. Obedience had to be a choice. Students here could either obey the rules and rise up in the school’s hierarchy, winning privileges for their good behaviour on their way, or they could disobey and face the consequences, publicly wearing their shame on their lapel badges for all to see.
To enforce this rule, every student wore a sensor resembling a silver ear stud on their earlobe. It monitored their activity and pulse-rate, so if a girl was to masturbate, for example, or – heaven forbid – be fucked by one of her own classmates, her transgression would be immediately detected. And punished, of course.
The earlobe sensors were small and discreet enough that most soon forgot they were even wearing them. Technically, they were well-being sensors, continually reporting aspects like heart-rate, fitness, blood sugar and hormone levels to SWELL – the school’s centralised Student Wellbeing System. Those in Swell’s care referred to it as Big Sister, everyone was familiar with its admonitions, delivered in its prim authoritative voice.
The data collected by the ear studs provided more than enough information to distinguish between a furtive orgasm and a jog through the school grounds. Everyone knew that Big Sister was watching you. Ready to whisk your privileges away if you faltered, and lead you by the wrist to one of the spanking pods.
Yet that wasn’t to say that no one ever got to climax at this school, it was just that orgasming was a privilege just like every other. One that needed to be earned, that would be granted to those who obeyed the rules and behaved themselves. As one of the 10 highest ranked girls on The Leaderboard, Jasmine was permitted a short visit to the AR pods once every month to use the Fucking Machine. There she’d been able to indulge her own chosen fantasy, and for 30 glorious minutes, come as many times as she wanted, without sanction.
Jasmine had crafted an elaborate and highly satisfying fantasy for her fucking machine visits. But it had been two weeks since she’d last played it, and that meant another two weeks before she could be filled again.
Fortunately her new role had granted her access to some quite wonderful new distractions…
Jasmine reclined on her big soft bed and made herself comfortable. She slipped on her holovisor, and activated the neuralink, feeling her skin tingle as the device connected to her nervous system. These devices were new, expensive, and quite remarkable. Unlike Virtual Reality glasses, which merely provided ultra-high quality sight and sound, neuralinked visors added the other senses – simulating touches to the skin, as well as smells and tastes.
The additional senses made holonovels uncannily realistic and compellingly immersive. Food, for instance, was no longer just an incidental detail, a fragment of set dressing to walk past as the tale unfolded. Now you were so deeply embedded in the story you could smell your surroundings. Jasmine could remember the first time she’d experienced it for herself, she had been walking down a quaint old village street and passed a bakery. The aroma of freshly baked bread had been intoxicating. She’d tried one of buns, chewing an imaginary morsel as its spicy fruity flavours washed over her tongue. She’d spent a whole evening in that village, eagerly chasing every sensation as if she’d never eaten before.
Jasmine instructed the visor to take over, and her bedroom suddenly disappeared from view. Now she was looking out through very different eyes. Her holonovel had resumed from her last bookmark, transporting her back, to deep within a coniferous forest. Thick, fragrant pine branches had enveloped her immediately, like a flurry of welcoming arms, as she was pitched once again into the mind-sight of the story’s protagonist.
The genre was supposed to be fantastical, a saga of swords and sorcery, of long-forgotten runes and arcane powers. Settings in tales like these always felt so foreign, it was a shock to even just look down at the antiquated clothes the characters wore. Here in this dank forbidding forest, she could feel cool clammy mud ooze between the toes of her sandals. She could smell the straw and dung of nearby horses. The world she’d entered felt real, grimy and almost hazardously dirty, a jarring contrast from the sanitised reality she’d just arrived from.
Her holovisor had a rudimentary connection to her nervous system, enough to induce simple sensations as if they were occurring on her skin. Enough for her to physically feel the chill in the air as she followed the trail through the woods, the path spongy under her feet, half-hidden by decades of fallen red pine needles.
Just imagining the sensation of walking was enough to move her story-situated limbs. She wiggled her hips to dodge the low-hanging branches, looking nervously to each side, where her view vanished with alarming abruptness, smothered into utter blackness amid the dense rows of gnarly trees.
Entering a story, even a familiar story, was always an initially unsettling experience. She could feel her breath quickening and a pulse racing, as her primal reflexes prepared her body for imminent perils. Her character was unarmed, but had been taught some protective spells by a wise mage a few chapters ago. But in truth, she wasn’t looking forward to having to use them.
A strong cold wind pushed her forward, as if lingering here wasn’t really part of the plot. There was a rutted path of trodden needles to follow, and after a few minutes walking she found herself standing before a weather-beaten castle. Although the structure was obviously old, its huge granite blocks emanated a sense of quiet pride and power.
She felt compelled to knock on the sturdy, oak door. The rap numbed her knuckles, but achieved no answer. So she knocked again, her patience wavering but her curiosity building. Finally, heart thumping, she impetuously turned the heavy door knob and cautiously stepped into the dim light within. The trigger word of her most powerful protective spell buzzing through her mind like a mantra, ready to be spat through her lips at the slightest sign of danger. But the interior was unexpectedly serene, her nostrils even filling with the scent of cedarwood. There was something oddly familiar about that aroma, although she couldn’t quite place it.
The entrance hall of the castle was grand, and seemingly untouched by the ravages of age that had eroded the exterior. She looked around at the beautiful artwork on the walls, where shimmering tapestries of colourful flowers hung beside moody oil paintings of armoured knights. She noticed candles but they were unlit, as was the pile of wood and turf in the fireplace. The evidence suggested someone did live here, but might not be present right now.
She eagerly stepped forward, wondering if this chapter of the holonovel would be some kind of mystery treasure hunt. The more sophisticated stories weren’t all narrative, which could make the reader feel like they were moving along rails, just watching a story unfold around them, like a ghost train, or some high-fidelity rollercoaster. The better tales with mini-worlds, which encouraged and rewarded exploration.
What else was unusual? Ooo, was that a trapdoor hidden among the flagstones?
Jasmine flexed her simulated muscles, straining as she pulled the trapdoor up from the floor, and stared at the winding staircase the trap door had been covering, which spiralled away into a flickering gloom. She could smell the distinctive tarry smoke of burning torches. That was a good sign, she dreaded the prospect of having to walk into the dark shielding a precious candle, as her single lifeline of light.
The very best books change their readers for the better, and Jasmine had certainly felt a greater sense of adventure since she’d begun this holonovel. For the first few chapters, she’d lacked the courage to explore the intimidating ruins and darker passages. Now she felt she was growing with her character, unlocking a boldness that she never knew she possessed.
Nevertheless, going into the unknown was still scary. But, as she was learning, it could also be quite exhilarating. She took a deep breath, and tentatively began walking down the spiral stone staircase. It felt as if she was descending deep into the castle’s secrets.
When she finally reached the bottom of the stairs, she poked her head around the corner, surveying her surroundings cautiously. What in the world is this place? She wondered to herself. The passageway at the bottom of stairs opened up into what seemed to be a row of monastic cells. Outside the pools of flickering light cast by the torches on the walls, it was grimly dark. She could feel her heart beating out of her chest as she edged nervously down the hallway, passing the grimy cell doorways set into one wall.
Something made her come to a halt in front of one particular cell. She ran her fingers over the old musty woodwork, emitting a shriek of shock when she saw what was painted crudely over one doorway. It was her own name. These weren’t monastic cells, she realised, they were dungeon cells! That was it! She’d had quite enough of this creepy place, and quickly spun on her heels to leave.
Except… now her pathway was blocked. There was a man in a dark cloak blocking her pathway, close enough that she could sniff the musky scent of cedarwood. The man looked so familiar, the spitting image of her English teacher, who’d been a subject of her lusty – but mostly frustratedly unconsummated – daydreams for months. And now, it was just the two of them, in this dark inescapable dungeon. The possibilities were both terrifying and hugely exciting.
The stranger, who looked just like her English teacher, advanced – forcing her to step backwards into the cell that bore her name. He even smelt like him, now she recognised that musky cedarwood scent he wore. His piercing blue eyes stood out in the dim light of the dungeon, and as he looked her over, they danced with appreciation. In her panic, Jasmine was too distracted to notice the nail that jutted out of the doorframe, which caught on her loose robes as she gingerly retreated. Not until it was too late, until it began to tug as she struggled to preserve her distance between them.
That was when she started to hear a ripping noise, which made her jerk backwards with even greater force, which only served to tear the fabric of her robes completely. Suddenly she could feel a cold chill wafting around her knees, and looked down with shock to see she was now completely exposed beneath the waist. The Stranger Who Couldn’t Possibly Be Her English Teacher (but who looked just like him) gazed approvingly at her bare mound, and the little groove that disappeared between her legs.
Jasmine was stunned – this holonovel shouldn’t have been anywhere near as racy as this. She couldn’t remember any mention of sexual content in its rating, otherwise she wouldn’t have dared to have started it – not whilst being subject to The No-Touching Rule.
In the real world, as she laid on her own bed, her hands had fled instinctively to her crotch, irrationally attempting to protect her modesty from a pair of imaginary eyes. It was warm between her legs, and her fingers lingered, coyly shielding herself from the intruder she actually rather hoped was going to overpower and ravish her.
Her shielding fingers began to move, until she was absent-mindedly stroking herself. Her remaining self-control seeped away as the holonovel continued the story, as her mysterious captor advanced, seizing her wrist and bending her over the crude wooden bench that was the cell’s only furniture. She could feel him spreading her legs wide, his strong fingers finding her dripping wet.
She knew she had to stop.
She had to stop before…
WARNING, a voice said in her ear, ILLICIT SEXUAL ACTIVITY DETECTED.
It wasn’t her own voice, or any character from her holonovel. It was from her biomonitor, the silver ear-stud that kept watch on her bodily functions, the one that policed her pleasure, every hour of every day.
She knew that warning message might already mean a demerit or two, but nothing catastrophic to her school ranking – IF she stopped right now. So she carefully slowed the rhythm of her fingers, until only the faintest touches were brushing the hood of her clitoris. Then she stopped. Only for a yearning ache to fill the space where her fingertips had just vacated.
Desperate to distract herself, she continued stroking the sensitive triangle of her shaved mound, earnestly trying to make her subsequent strokes as light as a feather’s touch, in the hope that if they were light enough, she’d be able to withdraw her fingers and no longer notice their absence.
But the novel that continued to play in front of her eyes was not cooperating. She felt a sudden fiery pain in her scalp as her fictional captor grabbed her hair in his fist, using his other strong hand to cup her slit, his thumb pressing against her bottom hole.
He growled a single sentence into her ear, he didn’t need to say any more.
“What a very naughty girl you are.”
She was shocked by a hot smarting sting as he delivered several hard slaps with his open palm across her bare buttocks. She squirmed on her bed, impulsively trying to rub away the soreness she was suddenly feeling. She had no idea a neuralink device could induce such sensations, it felt indistinguishable from a real-world spanking.
The sheer detail of what she was experiencing, Jasmine had to admit, made the fantasy she’d programmed for her visits to the fucking machine seem laughably crude and unimaginative in comparison.
In the fantasy she’d created, she had (of course) surreptitiously used the face of her English teacher, hackily combining it with the open source body model of a famous VR porn star. In her creation, her fantasy figure had simply walked into her room, they didn’t say much, and they were both already naked, But in her defence, her fantasy was limited to half an hour in length, and Jasmine didn’t want to waste precious time undressing. He began to get hard when he saw her, and she made him stiff by kneeling and taking him in her mouth.
It was funny, Jasmine often thought, but when you were in an immersive simulation like that, it really did feel like the firm swollen object in your mouth was a lover’s cock. Even though it was actually one of the fucking machine’s anatomically perfect indistinguishable-from-skin prosthetics.
Fucking machines, like all other artificial intelligences, learned by example. The most sophisticated models had been trained by ‘watching’ pretty much every pornographic performance that had ever been filmed. That allowed them to mimic every conceivable aspect of human sexual behaviour. They knew how to lick, and stroke, and fondle. How to intrude, how to slap, how to tug and pinch and pull.
They knew how to fuck, perfectly. Every variation, slow and fast, shallow and deep. They knew the ideal tempos for hair-tugging thrustings and low slow screws. They could perform angry fuckings, romantic fuckings, passionate fuckings and sensual fuckings.
Their capability for extrapolation meant that creating a scene was as simple as writing a few sentences. To build her own fantasy, Jasmine had merely stated:
“He enters the room, and admires me. I suck his cock, as he caresses me. He cups my vulva, stroking me until I am soaked. He lays me on the bed, and fucks me vigorously for about 5 minutes until I come. He caresses me as I recover, complimenting my body, telling me I am irresistible. Then he grabs my wrists as if overpowering me, and fucks me in several positions until we are both exhausted.”
From those instructions, the machine was able to improvise an entire scene, the dialogue and events a little different every time. It would observe what she enjoyed, what aroused her, what made her heart race and her breath quicken, and then it would subtly tweak its performance, so her very next visit would be even more memorable. Ever closer to the sexual ideal that, try as she might, she’d never quite be able to put into words.
That was what this holonovel scene reminded her of – those times in the fucking machine when he overpowered her, when he pushed open her legs and his big thick cock slid deep into her eager cunt.
And with that recollection, she tumbled, her hand reflexively cupping her crotch, her middle fingers pushing deep into her slit, desperate to recreate the missing sensation her imagination had remembered.
In her ear, she thought she heard a voice telling her to stop. But why would he say that to her? Surely he was the one violating her? It didn’t make any sense, but if truth be told her mind wasn’t really working any more.
She felt herself stretch, just as she did when he took her each month. She pushed deeper and deeper, pumping in and out urgently until she reached a state of orgasmic bliss. She could feel herself shaking as the rush flooded through her whole body.
It took a while for Jasmine to finally regain control of her senses. Her trembling hands moved to her sweat-drenched face to take off the holovisor, allowing her to see her bedroom again. She woozily looked across at her school badge, still resting on her bedside table. It had displayed a two-digit number, but now only a single flashing red digit remained. It indicated the number of days since her last orgasm; and now it was a large, accusing zero.
She stared at the number with a sinking feeling of embarrassment and bewilderment. What exactly had just happened? How on earth did she end up getting so aroused by a vanilla swords and sorcery holonovel?
There was also a audio message from Swell, one of its characteristically deadpan admonishments:
Attention, Jasmine. You have broken the School’s No Masturbation policy. In accordance with School disciplinary directives, you have been scheduled an appointment for your punishment at 1400, in spanking pod Vermillion. Tardiness is not acceptable.
Her tummy lurched, what had she done?
And more importantly, what damage had she done to her precious ranking?
* * *
Everyone in the school checked The Leaderboard compulsively. It was the first thing they checked on their glasses when they woke, and often the last thing before they took it off for the night. Following the fortunes of their classmates was itself a thrill. In the absence of being able to masturbate, there were few pleasures as enjoyable as being notified that a classmate had taken a tumble, dropping them down the Leaderboard, making their own position in the hierarchy, and more crucially – the privileges it brought, that little bit more secure.
Likewise, each rise in the Leaderboard was felt with a twinge of jealous trepidation, as it brought a competitor just that little bit closer to usurping their precious position.
The founding principle of this school had been one of intense competitiveness. That life itself was a zero-sum game, a simple contest where there were Winners and there were Losers. The students who were enrolled here tended to have ruthlessly ambitious parents, eager to ensure their offspring reflected their own sense of urgency and purpose.
Schools such as these had flourished since the examinations system had been deregulated, and decentralised. Graduation grades were no longer calibrated by central exam boards, now each student left their school with a single number, their rank.
How each school determined this rank was completely up to each institution. Some remained academically focused, with coursework and exams that were evaluated by the teaching staff. Some schools ranked their students by athletic achievements, musical performance or artistic creativity. Other schools valued altruism, awarding their rankings based on how well students behaved towards each other. There a top student would be one that helped their peers not just to learn academically, but to overcome the challenges of adolescence.
But this school was the very antithesis of altruism. Its graduates would go on to run companies, large public bodies, even governments. Here they were taught the art of leadership, the need to master themselves before they could begin to lead others. So this school chose to rank its students by their mental resilience, and their ability to delay their own gratification in the pursuit of long-term goals.
Those at the top of the Leaderboard were those who were the most rigorously self-disciplined. They were the elite, the prefects of today and the leaders of tomorrow. The few at the top of the pyramid had enviable privileges, they were the only ones permitted to visit the fucking machine. Those further down would have to be content with spending their earned entertainment allowance on VR films, or they could save up to borrow a neuralinked visor to enjoy an immersive holonovel.
Beneath the elite few were dozens with high aspirations, perhaps just a few right moves away from unlocking some of the coveted privileges. This cadre of students was also the most precarious, looking down anxiously at those just below, insecure in their position, feeling like imposters ripe for a fall.
The base of the pyramid consisted of those who’d exhibited low self-control. Ironically, with little left to lose, these students were much happier than those above them, which in turn, permitted a reckless kind of adventurousness that could often lead to rapid raises, as long as they kept to the rules next time, of course. The penalty for masturbation was still a smacked bottom, no matter where you were on the Leaderboard. Many grew to quite like it. The school’s spanking pods were rarely idle.
Which is why Jasmine’s heart sank when she hurriedly checked the latest Leaderboard. Her name was no longer listed first, the consequences of her lack of self-control would be more than just a sore bottom. She had just forfeited her position as Head Girl. Tomorrow she would not just have to move back to the shared dorms, she would also be getting a good hard spanking, and someone new would assume her place.
* * 2 * *
The next day, Jasmine found herself relating the cringingly embarrassing story of how she lost her Head Girl’s badge to her friends, as they hovered amongst the verdant steamy canopy of tropical rainforest.
The girls were wearing virtual reality glasses, less sophisticated devices than the Holovisor that had led to Jasmine’s downfall last night. VR glasses only presented sights and sounds to their wearers, without the fancy neuralink that stimulated the other senses. But the ultra-high resolution display still had enough veracity to make each girl feel like she really was high in the treetops, in a remote corner of the Brazilian Amazon.
Their stereoscopic view was being transmitted from a ducted-fan drone, its blades covered by a sleek cowl to avoid shredding the very wildlife they were here to study. The drone was operated by the outreach department of an ecological foundation that made rainforest field trips possible without leaving the classroom. These things were important, there wasn’t much of it left.
From each pupil’s viewpoint, their classmates were floating in mid-air around them, in this steamy sea of lush vegetation. They were supposed to be performing a field survey, finding and counting whatever frogs, bugs, birds and lizards came into view of the hovering drone. Seeing other members of the group gave you something static to focus on, and helped avoid motion-sickness. It also made it much easier to point at things when you could see your classmates’ fingers.
Given they weren’t actually 60 metres above the rainforest, in 100% humidity, each student was rather incongruously dressed in their everyday uniform. Each girl had a small display badge on her lapel, some had high numbers, some much lower, and a few – like Jasmine – had the number 0. The number of days since their last orgasm.
Agatha was intrigued to hear the details of Jasmine’s misadventure. It sounded almost comically inept, getting carried away in a Swords & Sorcery holonovel. Such an immature lack of control. But she’d always harboured doubts about Jasmine’s suitability to be Head Girl, she was genial yes, but she was much too impulsive, too undisciplined.
Maybe she’d update her own fucking machine simulation, Agatha thought. She liked to watch girls being spanked, and it would be so very easy to insert Jasmine’s image into her next simulated discipline session. She smiled at the thought. Oh, that would be wonderful.
Usually her simulation featured the avatars of girls who’d somehow offended or antagonised her during the previous month. Agatha would sit on her specially programmed double-dildo chair, and put the simulated classmates over her knee one by one. It was extraordinary how the prosthetic buttocks that the machine placed on her lap to spank felt so life-like, how they jiggled and blushed as she smacked them with her ruler or slipper. Whilst beneath her lap, two ribbed dildos pumped through the seat of her chair, like slow factory pistons, alternately thrusting deep within both her holes.
“When do you get spanked?” asked Agatha, matter of factly, as she directed their drone to peer into the leaves of a nearby epiphyte.
Half a world away, several brightly coloured birds squawked and flapped off to a neighbouring tree, and a small emerald green snake slithered away from the downdraft of the drone’s rotors.
Jasmine felt herself cringe in embarrassment at her friend’s candid question, wishing she too could slither into the canopy and hide as easily.
“What a shame. You’ll be sitting on a sore bottom for the afternoon lessons. I wonder which setting you’ll get…”
Jasmine winced again. Agatha could be rather blunt at times, she was one of those people who was super-organised, who lived by her diary, and always had one eye on life’s practicalities. Jasmine’s blunder had demoted her to fifth place in the school standings, and Agatha had risen one place to second. Now just one step away from the Crown, should the new head girl falter – tragic though that would be – but Agatha was a practical girl, and one had to plan for such eventualities.
Agatha glanced towards Mandy, another member of their class who’d immediately benefited from Jasmine’s unfortunate accident. She regarded Mandy as a bit of a dork, who was, as usual, currently in a world of her own, tapping busily on her touchpad, obsessively cataloguing every little plant and bug she could find. Agatha was surprised Mandy was so high up the Leaderboard, she was certainly clever, but in that nerdy, bookish kind of way, surely not really leadership material at all.
Yet maybe Mandy had risen so highly because she loved data far more than stroking between her own legs. Admittedly, getting assignments done on time and ignoring distractions could get you a long way in this school. Perhaps Agatha had more in common with Mandy than she’d thought.
Agatha looked down at the tree branch, covered in tangled braids of thick vines and moist stringy moss. She noticed a waxy leaf trembling, just before a large iridescent bulbous spider scuttled out, ambushing a hapless passing cricket. She smiled grimly. This was her kind of place, competitive, ruthless, and precariously exciting. It was a jungle out there.
* * *
All the Spanking Pods were named after colours, subtle shades of pink and red, for obvious reasons. The Pod called Vermillion was located at the end of a short drab corridor, just off the busy thoroughfare that joined the school’s eastern wing to the central hall. As protocol demanded, Jasmine stood facing the matte white sliding door, awaiting her turn, listening to the footsteps of passing students pattering behind her back.
Though passers-by wouldn’t be able to see her blushing face, the display screen above the doorway shattered any chance of preserving her anonymity. Large glowing letters announced her name, and her misdemeanour to anyone who happened to peer down this passageway of shame. To be spanked for masturbating. Jasmine’s cheeks burned hot as the words floated accusingly in front of her eyes. She was sure that she could hear sniggering behind her too, she could hear the pace of approaching footsteps slow, as pairs of curious eyes peered down the corridor, lingering on her back, tittering when they noticed her old-fashioned clothes.
When she’d arrived at the pod, one of the lockers that flanked the little corridor had opened, revealing the uniform that she was required to change into. The prevailing wisdom here was, to be truly effective, spankings also needed to be truly memorable. The VR glasses the spankee would be wearing for her punishment were capable of displaying any scene, and wearing the right costume had the potential to make it truly immersive, would not just look and sound authentic, it would feel indistinguishable from reality too.
The locker had contained an Edwardian school uniform, carefully sized to match Jasmine’s proportions. On one hanger was a long-sleeved white linen shirt. Its defining feature was its preposterously high banded collar, starched so stiff that when Jasmine finally did up all the buttons, she could no longer look down to see the floor beneath her feet.
The underwear supplied was equally ridiculous, a pair of white satin bloomers, which resembled a pair of silky knee-length shorts. It was pointlessly embellished with several layers of lacy ruffles, both around the waist and where it ended just above the knees. Heightening Jasmine’s embarrassment was she had to get changed in the corridor itself, stripping out of her contemporary uniform and stepping out of her own panties as passing girls giggled at her nakedness.
Her black leather shoes felt absurdly clumpy, with thick heels that stretched her calves and made her feel as if she was teetering on top of a small box. There were long white socks too, which felt like they extended all the way to her knees.
The skirt that completed her new outfit was a long pleated navy garment, which reached all the way down to her ankles. The fabric was heavy, and the hem was tapered, so it hung lifelessly just above her feet. No chance of billowing, no risk of scandalously revealing the bare skin of her lower legs.
These were, Jasmine realised, clothes of subjugation, fabric shaped and sewn to restrict her liberty. It was a denial of her freedom to move, to look around freely, even to breathe freely. These were clothes that restricted her body language, a muzzle on her own self-expression, as effective as any gag.
Jasmine shivered as she stared at her reflection in the locker’s mirror. Aside from her curved translucent VR glasses, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a time machine. It wasn’t difficult to imagine herself in a vintage classroom, amid rows of primly dressed, obedient automatons. Chins up, backs straight. With a cane hanging intimidatingly on a hook beside the blackboard. And perhaps a heavy wooden ruler displayed prominently on her teachers’ desk too.
She’d closed the locker, and walked with mincing mini-steps to stand on the waiting line a couple of metres in front of the Pod’s sliding door. The digital clock beside her name counted down the seconds before the door would open, and it would be her turn.
She wondered if anyone was in the pod right now. These rooms were quite sound-proof, and she knew from experience she wouldn’t be able to hear the whacks and cries and moans, even if a spanking was taking place just metres beyond her nose. But that just made her imagination even more eager to fill in the blanks. Perhaps there was a girl in a uniform just like hers, bending over right now, touching her toes, grimacing as the headmistress applied a heavy leather strap to her poor bare cheeks.
Except, it wouldn’t really be the school’s Headmistress. That would be much too uncouth, she was far too busy to waste her time smacking the bottoms of silly young ladies who couldn’t keep their fingers from between their legs.
You might think the Headmistress was in the spanking pod with you, but that would be an illusion projected by your VR glasses. You might think she was putting you over her knee or bending you over her desk, but that too was an illusion. That would be a movable beam of adaptive material, which could simulate every surface from a firm stocking-clad thigh to a hard oakwood table.
Virtual Reality – or VR – glasses alone only provided high-fidelity visuals and sound. But the spanking pods paired the projections with robotically controlled real physical objects, blending what was seen and felt seamlessly to create an augmented reality – or AR – environment.
Inside the pod, the spanking implement would be wielded by a mechanism resembling a robotic arm. Those being spanked would never actually see the spanking machine, only what the simulation had projected on top of it, such was the magic of augmented reality.
There was nothing virtual about the spanking implements used either. Each pod had a full repertoire to choose from, from paddles to slippers, from thin whippy crops to thick leather belts. The robotic arm was dextrous enough to apply the chosen implement immaculately, so every stroke landed with perfect precision, falling just where it would be felt most effectively.
The illusionary magic of AR could transport its visitor anywhere in history, providing endless possibilities of entertainment, education – and discipline. It meant rather than occurring in a drab empty room, spankings could be set during any era, from the very dawn of civilization to the glorious present. A miscreant might find themselves being whipped under the dazzling sun in an ancient Greek agora, or in the dank mossy cell in a medieval turret. She might find herself walking through the door, and into a lavish French ecole in the Ancien Regime, or into a claustrophobically strict boarding school in Victorian England.
The VR glasses could recreate any image in three vivid dimensions, interpolating any missing details from any sketch or painting. The Headmistress liked to write the scripts herself, the sequence of actions that would be performed for each spanking. Her collection of meticulously accurate disciplinary scenarios now spanned six millennia of human history, it seemed the spanking of bottoms was a sanction as old as civilization itself.
The Headmistress had personally selected the scene that Jasmine would soon be experiencing, customising it to provide appropriate correction for her most disappointing misbehaviour. It was rare that a former Head Girl was ever sent to the spanking pods, and she would be receiving a sore bottom commensurate with her disgrace. The Headmistress would, naturally, be watching a recording of what happened later, just to make sure the discipline had been properly doled out.
Jasmine squirmed, her arms folded behind her back, feeling the cool satin of her new old-fashioned bloomers brush and tickle the sensitive skin of her bare mound. As the clock ticked over to 13:59:56, she held her breath, and suddenly realised she could feel a damp patch, right between her lips.
The door slid open, silently and ominously.
To be continued…
Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.
With heartfelt thanks to a partner in crime.