By Mark Danelaw
“If you can’t find a way to make the font on this mock-up look less like a funeral invitation, you can start updating your resume tonight,” Caitlin drawled, her voice dripping with a curated, high-society boredom.
Caitlin de Lacey leaned back in her ergonomic throne, crossing one slender leg over the other, knowing exactly how the silk of her skirt clung to the curve of her hip. The office of Vanguard Creative was a glass-and-chrome sanctuary of 22nd-century ambition, and Caitlin was its undisputed apex predator.
She took a slow, theatrical sip of her espresso, winced, and then slammed the cup onto the mahogany desk with a sharp clack. “And this coffee is lukewarm swill. Who in the name of God is managing the breakroom? We should have them all fired.”
No one said a word, she would forget in a few minutes, unless she didn’t. Glances were exchanged as the subordinates huddled around Caitlin’s desk shifted uneasily, their faces masks of suppressed resentment.
Caitlin thrived on this, the thrill of knowing she was the most beautiful and most powerful person in the room, and that her beauty was a weapon she used to keep the world at a distance. She shifted her weight, feeling the familiar, pert firmness of her own backside against the chair, a secret pride she weaponized as a tease during board meetings, knowing the men in the room were too terrified of her father’s portfolio to look away, yet too intimidated by her cruelty to speak.
Then at 10:14 AM. A notification chimed on her holographic display, a crimson-bordered email from an encrypted source. Caitlin glanced at it dispassionately.
Subject: Contract Activated.
Caitlin scrolled through the text with a sneer, her eyes narrowing as she read the words “DeTermination Corrections” and “Borgan.” She had heard the rumours in the upper echelons of London society, whispers of relentless, masculine androids programmed for corrective discipline, but she had always dismissed them as archaic myths designed to keep spoiled heirs in line. A cold laugh escaped her lips; the idea of a machine delivering a spanking was absurdly quaint. She tossed the device aside; convinced that the mere threat of such a thing would crumble the moment she threatened to call her lawyers.
Even if Caitlin were capable of such introspection, she had no time to reconsider. A moment later the elevator doors slid open and a man-machine stepped into the office.
Borgan was an imposing silhouette of matte-black composite and reinforced steel, his presence absorbing the light of the room like a void. He didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. He moved with a terrifying, predatory efficiency, ignoring the gasps of the staff as he bypassed the security drones.
Caitlin stood her ground; her chin tilted upward, her voice regaining its sharp, commanding edge. “Who is your owner? I want a name so I can ensure they are bankrupt by noon,” she spat, her anger masking the sudden, instinctive tremor in her knees as the android’s optical sensors locked onto her.
Borgan did not respond to her threats. With a speed that defied his bulk, he bridged the gap between them, his large, metallic hand closing around her upper arm with a grip like a hydraulic vice. The office froze in a collective, breathless silence. Caitlin let out a shriek of indignation, attempting to claw at his forearm, but the android simply turned, sweeping her legs out from under her and hoisting her effortlessly over his massive, unyielding knee. The silk of her expensive skirt was gathered and shoved aside in one brutal motion, exposing her bare, pale bottom to the sterile fluorescent lights and the wide-eyed stares of her terrified subordinates.
The first strike was a thunderclap of sound and pain that shattered Caitlin’s world of privilege. The android’s palm was wide and heavy; striking with an uncompromising efficiency that ensured every inch of her curvaceous backside was ignited in a searing, rhythmic heat. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound that stripped away the façade of the apex predator, leaving only a terrified girl sobbing into the matte hardness of Borgan’s leg. Each blow was a lesson in submission, a relentless barrage that turned her skin a vivid, pulsing crimson.
As the spanking continued for several agonizing minutes, the power dynamic of Vanguard Creative shifted irrevocably; the woman who had spent her morning threatening people was now reduced to a shaking, weeping mess, pleading for a mercy that the machine was not programed to give.
Borgan did not let her up until her cries had evolved into breathless, pathetic whimpers. Until all her world knew was her bottom and the point where it met his hand. Until the heat and pain of the rise and fall of his hand was an eternity of unrelenting humiliation.
When he finally released her, he didn’t simply step away; he gripped her shoulder and forced her to stand, her legs wobbling like gelatine. “Apologise,” the android commanded, his voice a deep synthetic drone that resonated in the very marrow of her bones, “Tell them all you deserved it.”
Caitlin looked at her co-workers, the same people she had belittled only an hour ago, and saw a mixture of horror and a dark, shimmering amusement in their eyes. She tried to maintain her pride, spitting out a defiant “Never,” through her tears.
Borgan’s response was a swift, with renewed efficiency he picked her up and put back across his knee and reignited her bottom through fresh spanking.
It took less than a minute for Caitlin to reconsider and four minutes more before she was permitted to act upon her new found wisdom.
“You will apologise,” Borgan commanded, “And admit your culpability.”
Broken and sobbing, Caitlin collapsed into a heap, her voice a fragile whisper, “I’m sorry, so sorry…” she sobbed, “I… I deserved to be punished.”
The humiliation peaked when Borgan hoisted her up by the arm and marched her toward the centre of the office, positioning her face-first against the stark white wall. He ensured she was positioned precisely, her bare, throbbing bottom displayed prominently for the entire staff to see, a vivid mark of her failure.
“You will remain here,” Borgan announced, “until your superior deems your reflection upon the company’s morale has been corrected.” He then turned and began to exit the room with the same predatory silence with which he had arrived, leaving her pinned against the wall in a state of total exposure.
“You can’t be serious,” she wailed.
“You wish to continue with the spanking? One more hour if you insist,” Borgan said in a calm neutral voice. He spoke of certainty. If this does not happen, then this will.
“N-no, no please, I will be good,” Caitlin said quickly.
Borgan turned and walked away saying, “I’ll be back.”
After the longest time Caitlin asked meekly, “Has he gone, can I…?”
“I am not sure,” David Beswick said. He had come down from the top floor to find out what was happening and had caught the finale, “You had better stay where you are… as you are until we can be sure.”
“David I am not…”
“Caitlin, do be quiet and stay exactly as you are, or it will be you that is fired, do you hear me?”
“Yes David,” Caitlin gasped, this was a nightmare.
For the rest of the day, the office functioned around her, the usual hum of creativity replaced by a heavy, suffocating tension. Another boss from upstairs, a man who had long been the target of her tantrums, approached her with a look of profound pity mixed with a newfound sense of authority. He informed her that for the safety of the rest of the staff, and perhaps to ensure she truly contemplated whatever the hell she did to get this attention, she would remain in this “timeout” for the duration of the business day.
“Please, this is crazy, it is so unfair… I haven’t…” she began, but a few nasty things she had been involved with occurred to her now so her protest tailed off, “…done so much…” panic gripped her guts, that thing could still nearby.
Nonetheless periodically she would mournful protest, “But he has gone,” but she could not be sure.
“I don’t really care now, I have had enough of you and all this chaos, you will stand there or you will get out and stay out. Is that understood?”
Caitlin spent hours staring at the textured paint of the wall, feeling every draft of the air conditioning on her exposed skin, knowing that every person who walked to the printer or the water cooler was witnessing her absolute degradation. When she was finally dismissed, she was handed a pair of coarse, oversized worker’s coveralls to hide her nudity. An act she could not complete fast enough as she headed for the ladies cloakroom.
She returned 15 minutes later to a notification on her phone: Borgan would return in sixty minutes.
“Oh no, please no… this is not fair…”
Panic, cold and sharp, surged through her as she realized she couldn’t possibly return to her penthouse; it was a glass cage that Borgan could penetrate in seconds. She needed a sanctuary, somewhere the android’s programming might be delayed by a human variable. As she stumbled toward the nearest transit hub, her mind raced through a list of contacts she had spent years neglecting or belittling.
As she wracked her brains for someone, anyone, as she ran: ran from pain, ran from shame, ran from an implacable enemy for reasons she could not fathom. Whomever, or whatever was out to get her was not important now, she had obviously made one too many enemies.
Three train changes later she was exhausted and felt no safer. Only one name surfaced: Martine McCloud. They had been close in college, before Caitlin’s ascent into the stratosphere of wealth had made her view old friends as mere accessories. Martine had once loved her with a desperate, all-consuming intensity, a love that Caitlin had systematically dismantled with a series of cruel betrayals and cold dismissals. So what, she sneered, the girl had been pathetic… she would come running even now if Caitlin called.
The journey to Martine’s district was a blur of neon lights and the rhythmic clatter of the mag-lev train. Caitlin felt small in the oversized coveralls, her backside still pulsing with a deep, radiating heat that made every movement an exercise in agony. When she finally reached the door of the flat and pressed the buzzer, her voice was stripped of its usual arrogance, sounding thin and desperate.
When the door finally opened, Martine didn’t offer a hug or a word of comfort. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed; her gaze sweeping over Caitlin’s dishevelled appearance with a clinical, detached scrutiny. “I heard about the DeTermination Corrections’ new contracts,” Martine said, her voice devoid of warmth. “I suppose someone finally worked out what you truly deserved.”
“I’m desperate Martine, can I come in… please?”
Martine nodded and gestured her in.
Caitlin stepped inside, the smell of sandalwood and old books filling her senses, but she could tell that sanctuary would not be granted for free. Martine didn’t invite her to sit; instead, she leaned against the doorframe, blocking the exit, her eyes narrowing. “If you want to hide in my home, Caitlin, you’re going to have to pay a price,” Martine whispered, a slow, predatory smile curling her lips. “I’ve spent years imagining the look on your face when you finally needed something from me.” Caitlin felt a shiver of apprehension that had nothing to do with the android.
“Now Cait darling, I want you completely naked,” Martine smiled casually as she grinned a grin that landed far from her stark cold eyes. Then she left the room.
Caitlin pouted and looked to the door. There was no way Borgan could know where to find her, but out there she was… she sighed and obeyed Martine. She would come around, it was just a matter of a charm offensive… the thought faded from her mind.
Martine was half naked, but carrying a tray of butt plugs and various sizes of dildo; some of them really quite large. “I am quite out of lubricant, but we can improvise… can’t we?”
Caitlin gaped.
“Well can’t we?” Martine menaced.
Caitlin swallowed hard and found the strength to nod, “Please Martine, I’m sorry, you know I am not really into girls… but we can be friends… we can even… I don’t know, cuddle or something…” she gulped her eyes not leaving the tray.
“Oh sweet,” Marine teased, “But I have a much, much better idea.”
The next few hours were an exhaustive exercise in retribution. Martine’s demands were both imaginative and unrelenting, as she stripped away the last vestiges of Caitlin’s dignity. She forced Caitlin into a series of intimate acts that were as much about power as they were about pleasure.
After an hour of being on her knees lingually exploring Martine where it counted, and with the biggest plug she had ever seen entrenched hard tight in her bum, the woman demanded that she return the favour.
“W-what?” Caitlin was feeling it behind.
“The toy in your arse, good yeah, I like the one in your mouth better. Let me see your tongue and place it somewhere complimentary… I am sure you get me,” Martine offered up a commanding smile.
“For sure, Martine darling,” Caitlin groaned.
Homage paid, Caitlin sagged face down onto the sofa, she had doubts about sitting before she arrived; now she was certain that was out for a while.
Martine returned, this time she was wearing a strap-on, the size of which Caitlin had never seen.
“This is a red letter day for your arse, isn’t it? Don’t you think? Although I bet you assumed your day would be different when you got up this morning.”
A minute later Caitlin was gasping and biting down on a pillow as Martine introduced her new friend to the smallest opening in town.
“You always were a tight arse,” Martine quipped,
“Ahhh-mmmm, fookingbeech,” Caitlin moaned as she was slowly and relentlessly opened between her very well spanked bottom cheeks.
Thereafter every moan was a payment, every act of submission a small instalment on a debt of betrayal that Caitlin had accrued years ago. For the first time in her life, the “apex predator” was the one being consumed, her body pushed to its limits as she performed a desperate, exhaustive dance of pleasure and pain to ensure the door remained locked against the world.
Just as Caitlin began to drift into a state of exhausted collapse, the rhythmic, heavy thud of composite footsteps echoed from the hallway. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly; the air seemed to thicken with the android’s oppressive presence. Borgan didn’t knock; he simply processed the lock and stepped into the living room, his red optical sensors scanning the space with terrifying efficiency.
Caitlin let out a strangled sob, trying to scramble behind the sofa, but Borgan’s gaze locked onto her. However, he paused, his sensors flickering as he looked from Caitlin to Martine, who looked strikingly like a more mature, refined version of the panicked woman on the floor.
The android’s logic processed the visual similarity, and in a sudden, jarring move, he bypassed Caitlin entirely. He lunged for Martine, his massive hand gripping her waist and hauling her over his knee with a mechanical snap. Caitlin watched in a mixture of horror and perverse relief as Borgan began to deliver a relentless, thunderous spanking to Martine, who screamed in shock.
“Not me fool, her, please, no please… ah… aaaah,” Martine wailed.
The android’s strikes were rhythmic and devastating, a brutal symphony of leather-on-skin that echoed through the flat. He didn’t stop until Martine was a sobbing, incoherent wreck, and even then, he didn’t let her up; he forced her into the corner of the room, ordering her to stand in a state of total, bare-bottomed humiliation while the commotion drew the attention of the shouting neighbours and the distant wail of police sirens.
“She has been spanked, oh my god,” someone said. There were pictures of course, lots of them taken.
Using the chaos of Martine’s sudden agony as a shield, Caitlin scrambled toward the door, her coveralls rustling as she bolted into the hallway. She didn’t look back, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Diving into the subterranean labyrinth of the underground, she spent the entire night drifting between the neon-lit platforms and the crowded carriages of the midnight trains.
Caitlin tried to blend into the sea of commuters, huddling in the corners of the cars, her eyes darting frantically toward every heavy footfall. But the android’s tracking was absolute; no matter how many transfers she made or how many crowds she hid within, she could feel the invisible tether of his programming tightening around her.
Piccadilly Circus was rammed with tourists and commuters alike; but Caitlin did not feel very safe in a crowd. Her adversary was oblivious to the compromise of human discretion. Surely though she was safe, for the moment, for even a few minutes.
Amidst the swirling holographic advertisements and the throng of late-night tourists, the matte-black silhouette of Borgan emerged from the crowd like a shark through water.
Caitlin tried to sprint, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but the android’s stride was effortless. He intercepted her with a terrifyingly precise tackle, sweeping her off her feet and hoisting her high into the air before slamming her down across his lap. In the centre of the bustling square, beneath the gaze of a thousand strangers and the flashing lights of the city, Borgan stripped away her coveralls with a rip of fabric.
“No please,” she groaned.
Then in front of everyone, her bottom completely bare, he turned her over his knee and began to give her the spanking of her life. An unleashed public spanking that stripped her of every remaining shred of dignity. She wailed into the cold night air, her screams drowned out by the indifferent roar of the city, until she was left trembling and exposed on the pavement.
Abandoned and sobbing, Caitlin lay on the cold concrete for long minutes, the searing heat of her backside a constant reminder of her helplessness. As the adrenaline faded, a desperate, calculating began to take hold of her shattered pride. She realised that Borgan’s programing had a flaw, a glitch in his target acquisition that could be exploited through biological proxies. If she could find women who shared her likeness, she could create a series of diversions, a trail of sacrificial decoys to buy herself time and space.
She didn’t need a sanctuary; she needed a shield of others. As she gingerly stood up and pulled her ruined clothes back on, the humiliation was acute, people had watched, but they didn’t care. She ran, her half bare bottom, spanked very red peeking out here and there as she made good her escape.
Finally well away from the scene of her recent humiliation she stopped and scanned the crowd for a face that looked enough like hers to be a believable mistake. For someone, anyone she could connect with…
Emma Parkinson, a shy, soft-spoken school teacher she spotted clutching a leather briefcase on the late-night tube. Emma possessed the same delicate jawline and golden-brown hair that Caitlin had always used to enchant the world, though Emma wore hers in a modest, tight bun. Caitlin approached her not with her usual cruelty, but with a manufactured, heart-breaking vulnerability, weaving a tale of a dangerous stalker and a desperate need for a few hours of safety.
She played upon the woman’s innate kindness, leading her back to Emma’s modest, book-filled flat under the guise of needing a place to wash and recover.
“Do you like girls?” Caitlin cooed, she handled Martine, more or less; Emma was going to be easy.
“Ummm,” Emma nodded shyly, “How did you know?”
“Oh just a hunch,” Caitlin smiled.
“Look I didn’t think… maybe…” Emma blushed furiously.
“Now young lady if you don’t get over this shyness I am going to have spank you,” Caitlin told her.
“Oh, oh… you wouldn’t, not really, would you?”
“Do you have a hairbrush at all?”
For three days, Caitlin turned Emma’s bedroom into a sanctuary of sensory overload, employing a rotating array of anal plugs and deep-cleansing enemas that left the teacher in a state of floating, breathless submission. She pushed Emma into acts of rimming and surrender that the woman had only ever read about in forbidden texts, effectively erasing Emma’s inhibitions through a whirlwind of pleasure.
Caitlin knelt up on the bed head down and bottom up as Emma eagerly clamped her mouth to Caitlin’s still very tender small bud and eagerly and shamelessly pressed tongue and lips to that place.
Emma’s own bottom was entertaining a large anal plug that she had bought to contemplate but never ever use… it was far too big, or so she had thought.
“This is so degrading for you,” Caitlin sneered, “You bad girl, perhaps you need another good spanking?” Caitlin had no idea where that came from but it felt good to be the one handing it out for a change.
“Yes, oh yes,” Emma panted.
Caitlin was careful to keep Emma focused entirely on her, ensuring the teacher was too intoxicated by the sudden, violent influx of passion to question the strangeness of the arrangement.
The three days up, Caitlin slipped away in the early morning, stealing some of Emma’s clothes, leaving Emma waiting in a state of blissful, expectant openness.
Borgan arrived with the precision of a clockwork nightmare, his sensors locking onto the biological signature of the woman in the bed. He did not hesitate, hauling the confused and aroused Emma from the sheets and delivering a spanking so extensive and methodical that it bordered on the surgical.
The android’s palm struck with a frequency that turned Emma’s skin a deep, semi-permanent violet, each blow echoing through the quiet flat. While the teacher wept from the sudden shock of the pain, there was a hidden, secret thrill in her heart, a dark, dormant desire for the discipline that Borgan provided. When the machine finally stood her in the corner, her bare bottom glowing like a beacon in the dim light, Borgan turned and departed, leaving Emma in a state of shivering, paradoxical ecstasy.
Caitlin watched from a distance, her eyes cold as she processed the efficiency of the diversion. She spent the following weeks operating like a phantom, drifting through the city and recruiting a string of women who mirrored her silhouette.
She became a connoisseur of vulnerability, identifying the lonely and the longing, seducing them into brief, intense flings of sensory excess before vanishing into the night. Each woman was a calculated gamble, a fleshy barricade designed to absorb Borgan’s wrath. Each one too, bought her more and more time.
At times she doubled back, reacquainting herself first with Emma who gorged herself on the abuse and then one or two others. Perhaps Borgan would go forever around and round spanking the same dozen women, the thought made her grin.
The more she worked her spell the more she felt a perverse sense of superiority as she imagined the cycle: the seduction, the abandonment, and the inevitable, thunderous spanking that would follow her departure. For a moment, she believed she had finally outsmarted the DeTermination Corrections, turning the android into a tool for her own twisted game of hide-and-seek.
This illusion of control shattered when she met Hazel Mendoza. Unlike the others, Hazel possessed a level of psychological intuition that bypassed Caitlin’s practiced masks.
They met at an all-night café, where Hazel had stopped out of the way why she waited for a night bus. Caitlin had had no luck for hours and was contemplating return to Emma for the night. Then she saw Hazel, cute and with more than a passing resemblance to her. There was something else too, something Caitlin could not quite identify.
“You are the biggest self-serving brat I have ever met,” Hazel sighed after listening to Caitlin’s bullshit speil.
“Very probably, but can I come back to your house… please,” Caitlin sounded desperate again; she had a bad feeling this time.
“If I take you home, the first thing I am going to do is put you across my knee,” Hazel told her, “And give you the longest hardest spanking I can manage.”
“No fucking way,” Caitlin gasped.
“Oh, way…” Hazel told her, “So get used to the idea.”
They began a strange, domestic arrangement in a secluded apartment, playing house in a way that felt disturbingly real. However, Hazel did not offer unconditional sanctuary; she recognized the rot of spoiled entitlement in Caitlin’s spirit and decided to implement her own brand of corrective discipline.
Shortly after moving in Caitlin, who had already suffered one spanking in the name of a wider seduction had another confrontation.
“I asked you to do the dishes,” Hazel said as Caitlin came into the room. There was a hairbrush on the arm of the chair.
“I forgot… what is that?”
“You know perfectly well what it is and what it is for,” Hazel said, “You were warned.”
“Look… I don’t think this… this… no, no, you don’t understand…” Caitlin protested as Hazel took her by the arm and put her across her knee. “Please I came here because…”
“You came here for one reason I am sure, here is another,” Hazel spanked her once hard across Caitlin’s bare bottom, “Now you will take a bare bottom spanking or you will leave. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” Caitlin wailed.
The brush impacted sharply and Caitlin gasped, her bottom blazing at the point of contact. Was this worse than Borgan? Not quite, she decided, but maybe she should cut her… she yelled all thought interrupted. The spanking that followed was Borgan adjacent by the end and Caitlin was a broken sobbing mess.
“I only forgot the dishes, that was too much,” Caitlin sobbed, she felt like a little girl.
“That was for trying to play me and you know it you brat,” Hazel scolded; “Now I want your nose touching the seam in the corner and I you had better not move. Understood?”
“Yes, alright,” Caitlin sniffed. She should go, she should… she was tired of running and maybe if she was less of a bitch Hazel would lighten up. At least she was easily fooled like Emma and the others.
Hazel began to spank Caitlin frequently for the smallest infractions, a misplaced dish, a sharp tone, or an arrogant look. These sessions were not the mechanical brutality of Borgan, but a slow, deliberate moulding of Caitlin’s character through corner-time and rigorous timeout. To her own shock, Caitlin found herself responding to Hazel’s firmness, her heart softening under the weight of a discipline that actually cared for her soul.
“Have you ever done any housework?” Hazel scolded her one day, “That is the third time you have put washing machine liquid in the dishwasher and where the hell is the laundry?”
“If you don’t like it then do it yourself,” Caitlin rounded on her new friend.
“What was that?”
“I mean… look… no Hazel, no…”
Hazel had taken the clothes brush off the hall stand and advanced on the brat.
“Hazel,” Caitlin squealed as she was thrown across Hazel’s lap.
Bottom bared the brush bit down hard, at first slow to get Caitlin’s attention and then fast to make her howl, “I’ll be good, I’ll be good,” she wailed.
“Five minutes of this and then 30 minutes of that,” Hazel scolded, that being the corner where she was pointing with the brush.
“Oh come on… I said I was sorry,” Caitlin pouted.
“Okay, 10 minutes of this and then 40 minutes of that,” Hazel countered.
“Please, oooh, bitch, you win, five and then 30 then,” Caitlin said sullenly.
“Really, how about 15 minutes of spanking and 45 minutes in the corner… the next thing out of your mouth better be… yes thank you Hazel.”
Caitlin groaned and then said, “Yes thank you Hazel.”
There were many days like these and the irony was not lost on Caitlin that she might be getting spanked just as often by Hazel as she would have been by Borgan. Not that she thought of the machine much. If he was coming he would have come by now. Either she had lost him with her clever decoys or the contract had expired.
It occurred to her that she might go home, but it was too risky just yet, wasn’t it? She thought better to put up with Hazel… she pondered her empty apartment and her equally empty life before Borgan. At least she was no longer bored.
“You’re a bitch,” Caitlin said with a pout one day as she was sent to the corner for the third time that week while Hazel read a book.
“I love you too,” Hazel responded.
There was an awkward silence. “Do you?” Caitlin whispered.
Hazel put down her book for a moment and said, “Yes,” she shrugged, “God knows why.”
Caitlin knew then that she did not want to leave, bare bottom spankings, corner time chores and all. “I have something to tell,” she said.
“It can wait until I let you out of the corner,” Caitlin was uncompromising.
“Yes Hazel,” Caitlin agreed, “But then will you listen… I am not a very nice person and…”
“Tell me later, in bed,” Hazel interrupted.
Caitlin smiled and hugged herself. “Yes, Hazel,” she gushed.
The peace was finally shattered by the heavy, metallic thud of Borgan’s arrival, his sensors having finally filtered through the noise of the proxies. He crashed through the entrance with a singular focus, but Hazel, seeing the terror in Caitlin’s eyes, stepped forward in a final, selfless act of diversion. She threw herself into the android’s path, effectively triggering his target-acquisition glitch.
Borgan didn’t question the sacrifice; he simply seized the woman and unleashed an appalling, comprehensive spanking upon Hazel: the sound of the impacts filling the apartment with a violent, rhythmic intensity. As Hazel took the brunt of the punishment to secure Caitlin’s escape, the android’s relentlessness showed no signs of slowing. It had been too long since he had last spanked his quarry and he had to make amends. Hazel howled almost broken and sobbing on the while Caitlin stood frozen, caught between the instinct to run and a sudden, crushing surge of guilt.
“Borgan please, you want me, you want me, not her,” Caitlin pleaded.
Borgan dropped Hazel from his lap and recalibrated.
As Hazel knelt on the floor gripping her bottom in pain and exhaustion, Borgan now put Caitlin across his knee and began the hardest spanking yet and delivering a spanking that far exceeded any previous encounter. This was not merely a correction; it was a total systemic overload of pain and humiliation, a brutal reminder that no amount of emotional growth could bargain with a contract.
Caitlin’s cries echoed through the apartment, mingling with Hazel’s whimpers, until the same vivid, pulsing crimson dominated her bare bottom returned to her skin in a devastatingly thorough fashion.
When the storm of the spanking finally subsided, Borgan did not leave them in peace. He commanded both women to face the wall in the apartment’s narrow stairwell, forcing them to stand side-by-side with their sore, punished bottoms fully exposed to the draft of the corridor.
Several neighbours came out to see and amid laughter and some sympathy the two women cringed in embarrassment. The humiliation was absolute, a shared state of vulnerability that stripped away the hierarchy of their relationship.
“I love you,” Caitlin sniffed, “And I am so sorry… I deserve this so much, all of it, but you’ll never be safe…”
“Hazel Mendoza is safe,” Borgan countered, “New protocol initiated… Mendoza co-opted as delegate discipline agent, Caitlin de Lacey has been downgraded to remote supervision and quarterly visits by Borgan.”
As they trembled in the same state of exposure, Borgan’s synthetic voice droned a new set of parameters: he would reduce the frequency of his visits, but only if Hazel continued to act as the primary disciplinarian. The android’s decree was clear, Hazel was now the appointed warden of Caitlin’s behaviour, and any failure in Caitlin’s submission would result in Borgan’s immediate and uncompromising return.
“Thank god it’s over,” Hazel groaned, “Or will be when we are let out of this damn corner… everyone can see us… a fucking age old question answered, can one actually die of embarrassment, apparently not, but I will never live this down.”
“It’s not quite over, is it?” Caitlin sighed.
“Give it time, now what were you saying, something about love?”
Now, the dynamic of their household shifted into a permanent state of supervised correction. Caitlin’s days are no longer spent in the pursuit of power, but in the cautious navigation of Hazel’s rules.
The threat of the android looms in the background like a dark god, making every ability to endure a spanking from Hazel a victory of survival. She has learned to crave the structure of the corner-time and the sting of the hand, knowing that the only thing worse than Hazel’s discipline is the cold, mathematical brutality of the machine.
She spends her evenings staring at the wall, her mind drifting toward the terrifying certainty that the DeTermination Corrections never truly closes a file.
Hazel has embraced her role as warden with a clinical, almost maternal intensity. She maintains a strict log of Caitlin’s lapses in etiquette and temper, treating the young woman’s rehabilitation as a sacred project.
Every time Caitlin allows a flash of her old arrogance to surface, a roll of the eyes or a sharp remark about the quality of the tea, Hazel quietly leads her to the bedroom. There, the process is methodical: the stripping of her clothes, the positioning over the lap, and the rhythmic, stinging application of a heavy hairbrush or a wide palm. Caitlin finds herself sobbing not just from the pain, but from a strange, desperate gratitude that it is Hazel’s hand and not Borgan’s steel.
The psychological toll of this existence has created a fragile, dependent bond between the two women. Caitlin has become a creature of habit, her nervous system now wired to respond to the specific sound of Hazel’s footsteps. She finds herself subconsciously seeking out the punishment, viewing the soreness of her bottom as a protective shield, a physical proof that she is being “managed” and is therefore safe from the android’s sensors.
When she is in timeout, standing bare and trembling in the very public stairwell or the corner of the living room, she feels a distorted sense of peace, knowing that as long as she is humiliated by Hazel, she is invisible to the world.
Despite the relative peace, the fear remains a living thing. Every time a heavy object falls in the hallway or a distant engine hums too loudly, Caitlin’s heart hammers against her ribs, and she instinctively reaches back to touch the sensitive skin of her backside. She is haunted by the memory of the Piccadilly Circus exposure and the same knowledge that her contract is still active.
One afternoon, while assisting Hazel with the laundry, Caitlin notices a small, crimson-bordered envelope slid under the front door, not a letter, but a digital countdown timer, ticking backward from seven days.
The timer transforms the apartment into a pressure cooker of anxiety. For the next week, Caitlin’s behaviour becomes hyper-vigilant, almost obsessive. She anticipates Hazel’s needs before they are voiced, scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees and speaking in a soft, deferential whisper that would have been unthinkable a year ago.
Yet, the stress manifests as a frantic, jittery energy; she finds herself unable to sit still, her mind spiralling into a panic that no amount of domesticity can soothe.
On the fifth day, the tension snaps when Caitlin accidentally breaks a ceramic vase while dusting. For a fleeting second, the old brat returns, and she lets out a sharp, indignant scream of frustration, blaming the placement of the table for her clumsiness. The silence that follows is deafening.
Hazel doesn’t scream back; she simply points toward the bedroom with a cold, steady finger. The subsequent spanking is the longest and most rigorous since Borgan’s last visit, a calculated effort by Hazel to “clear the slate” of Caitlin’s arrogance before the android arrives to assess her progress. Caitlin weeps into the duvet, her body shaking with the intensity of the strikes, but as she is eventually marched back to her designated corner for an hour of reflection, she feels a perverse sense of relief.
As the countdown timer reaches its final hour, a heavy, oppressive stillness settles over the flat. Caitlin is dressed in a simple, thin slip, her bottom still tingling from Hazel’s corrective session, and she stands trembling by the window, watching the street below. She sees a matte-black silhouette turn the corner, moving with that terrifying, predatory efficiency.
Borgan is not coming to take her away this time, but to verify her submission. As the hydraulic hiss of the elevator echoes from the hallway, Caitlin closes her eyes and leans her forehead against the cold glass, wondering if her efforts at humility have been enough to satisfy the machine’s cold, mathematical requirements.
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