The taxi-pod conveys me swiftly, just one of thousands of tiny metal corpuscles skimming across the city’s asphalt veins. I’m all alone in my little speeding bubble. I remember grandad telling me how taxis used to have drivers, and how we laughed at how preposterous that all seemed. That people used to control their road vehicles by treading on pedals and turning a wheel. What were they operating? Steamships?

I often wonder what dear old grandad would make of London now, whether he’d even recognise it. The skyline now resembles a giant apothecary shelf, countless rows of colourful glass towers, like a higgledy collection of antique medicine bottles. They said The Flood would drown this city, but we just dammed the Thames and kept building higher.

And what would my dear grandfather make of my destination, I wonder? If I told him what was about to happen, would he be shocked? Or would he just bellow with laughter, with that infectious mirth of his that soon moistened the eyes of all in earshot. Would he regard my future as ridiculous as we found his past?

Because I’m on my way to be spanked. Or fucked. Or licked. Or teased and pleasured and tormented. To be honest, I’ve no idea what’s in store. But that’s all part of the fun. It’s a very 22nd century way to spend an afternoon.

My destination is Sexcapade, Inc. The pioneers of recreational sexual adventures. The business sensation of the decade, the inspiration behind a thousand meagre low-rent copycats. But none of its competitors has come close to surpassing the variety, subtlety and outrageous ingenuity that Sexcapade experiences continue to provide.

The idea behind Sexcapade is astonishingly simple: using your sexual past to inspire your sexual future. But this simple idea had to wait until the cultural climate was right, until we lost our prudishness, and finally admitted to ourselves that sexual experiences were just activities like any other in life. That great sex could be scripted, crafted, and enacted. That great sex was too important to be left to fate…

For thousands of years, books and storytellers had taken our imaginations beyond where our bodies could go. The moving image provided even more vicarious escapism, spawning a global industry of actors, scriptwriters and production folk. But still the viewer could only stare in passively through their spyhole in the fourth wall. Ultimately virtual reality provided even more immersive experiences, but fundamentally, you were still looking into wonderland through a magic mirror.

But nowadays, if you had a dream or fantasy, there was almost certain to be a business ready to make it happen. Wanted to experience life in ancient Rome? A street-by-street replica of Rome in 100 B.C had recently been recreated in the hills of Basilicata. I understand it’s reasonably cheap to be a pleb, although living the good life as a patrician is more expensive. Ever wanted to spend a week as the Lord or Lady of a Regency manor? No problem; every stately home in England seemed to offer immersive experiences these days. And if you were really rich, and your body could survive the pummelling G-forces, you could even soar into the sky and stand on the moon.

I pass under the shadow of an gigantic cargoblimp tethered to the top of a nearby skyscraper, momentarily eclipsing the sun. Now I’m close enough to see the tall glinting pyramid of Sexcapade’s London premises. It’s clad with thousands of individually steerable mirrors that follow the sun, each at a slightly different angle, meaning if you approach it from the south on a sunny day, you’ll see it sparkle, like some monumental urban diamond.

I visit this place every other Tuesday afternoon. They send a taxipod to my office, and I simply slip away, seemingly on my way to just another meeting. My company knows where I’m going, of course, after all — they pay for it. Just one of the wonderful executive perks I’m lucky enough to enjoy. Membership is very expensive, and very exclusive.

My first experiences here were pleasurable but unremarkable, a gentle introduction, more prestigious spa than seedy sex parlour. The elevator took me to a private room occupied by an elegant young woman, who directed me to undress and lie down, before sending me to sleep with an intensely relaxing full body massage. The next time my massage was performed by an handsome young man, whose strong hands caressed my body reverentially. The last spot he touched was between my legs, cupping me sensually in his palm. He could not have failed to notice my wetness.

“Shall I pleasure you, Ma’am?” he’d asked, with impeccable politeness.

Speechless, I remember only being able to nod. His long nimble fingers proved astonishingly adept.

And visit by visit, the company began to learn what I liked.

There were no questionnaires and no interviews — because when it comes to our most intimate secrets, the company knows people can not be trusted to tell the truth. Instead, each visit here is like an intimate scientific experiment, they assess how the subject reacts, what arouses them and what they shy away from. Unbeknown to me, even during those early sessions, sensors in the room were already recording my heart-rate, my pheromones, the dilation of my eyes and the almost imperceptible swellings of my lips.

Little did I know my every gasp and smile were being analysed by immense artificial minds, far away in the glowing vaults of the company’s databanks. Inferences and deductions about my most intimate preferences were being formed, what kind of men aroused me the most, how situations of erotic power and submission made me tingle, even where I most liked to be touched. Because if you listen carefully, one’s body never lies.

As the company got to know me, my subsequent experiences began to feel more natural. There was still a lingering feeling of weirdness, knowing that the men who were pleasuring me were just doing their jobs. But each session took me places I never thought I’d go, introducing new pleasures I never thought I’d feel.

When you arrive at Sexcapade, a dedicated elevator transports you to your private room, it’s like a hotel suite, a comfortable bed, a couch, a bathroom, even a table if you fancy sitting down for something to eat. But your room isn’t where your designated adventure takes place, it’s merely a private space to relax and unwind beforehand. Your adventure has already been decided for you, well before you arrive, but you’re never told what it is — there’s just a envelope on your bed with a cryptic clue, and perhaps a costume too. Everything else is a surprise.

When you’re ready, you step out of your room and back into the elevator.
And it takes you through the rabbit hole.

At first my sexual adventures seemed rather random, bondage in a bare white room one week, followed by fantasy roleplaying in a sumptuously decorated fin de siècle brothel the next. The settings crafted by Sexcapade are legendary, meticulous in their detail, eschewing virtual reality to recapture the essence of the magnificent movie sets of old.

Some locations are vast, cavernous spaces, giving their visitor complete freedom to explore. Once I found myself locked overnight in a museum full of fucking machines. At first, I wandered the echoing halls, hopelessly lost, waiting for someone to appear, for something — anything — to happen. But eventually I realised I’d have to take the initiative, it was only then that I scrutinised the map on the wall, and noticed the ongoing Exhibition of Sexual History on the third floor. It turned out they had quite an extraordinary collection of erotic contraptions. Each one was fully functional too. What a night that was.

The company’s strategy of continual experimentation and refinement meant it didn’t take long for them to learn my secret penchant for spanking. I’d never put someone over my knee before, but the experience they contrived for me was unbelievably thrilling.

That day I’d arrived to find my costume waiting in my private changing room. I had no idea how to wear it, but they think of everything here, and there was someone to help me get into the lace-up corset, and the full-length black pin-stripe gown. She even re-styled my hair into an austere old-fashioned bun, so when I eventually saw my transformation in the mirror, I was shocked to see an Edwardian headmistress staring back.

When I stepped out of the elevator it was into a different world, one of wooden floors, glazed tile walls and draughty rattly windows. This space was abuzz with activity, uniformed schoolgirls careened through the corridors, halting conspicuously when they spotted me, then passing me with a respectful nod. I was greeted by a lady identifying herself as my secretary, who welcomed me to St Botolph’s School for Girls, before leading me to my office.

I’d only just sat down at my new desk, and was still in the process of struggling to get comfortable inside my ridiculously restrictive period costume when there was a knock on my door. My secretary explained I had a visitor, and ushered in a nervous looking young lady, before closing the door and leaving the two of us alone. The girl held an unmarked envelope in her trembling hand, which she passed to me without saying a word. I opened it sceptically.

‘Dear Headmistress,’ the message began in a handwriting so elaborate I thought at first I was reading at an archaic banknote. ‘Sophie has been continually disruptive in class today, I would be most obliged if you would spank her bare bottom. Kind regards, Mrs B.’

I gawped dumbly at the note, whilst its messenger stared at her feet, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Have you been a naughty girl?” I managed to ask eventually. It seemed rather incongruous to address a young woman in such childish terms. Yet strangely exciting too.

“Yes Miss. Sorry Miss.”

I felt a shiver run through my body. Secretly, I’d always wanted to spank a girl for being naughty. When I was appointed Head Girl of my school, the headmistress had casually mentioned that traditionally my responsibilities would have involved spanking the bottoms of wayward girls, before adding with a laugh, “… but we don’t do THAT anymore!”.

That throwaway quip seemed to plant the seed of curiosity in my imagination. Spanking began to be a secret fascination of mine. Every time I looked it up online, I’d find thousands of images of young ladies, their bottoms bared and being given a good seeing-to. And some images were over 150 years old! Spanking seemed to be particularly prevalent during the 1970s and 80s, I’m not sure if that period witnessed some breakdown in social order or an outbreak of youthful delinquency.

Even more incredibly, there was a considerable amount of surviving video footage too, especially from the early 21st century. Some of it was quite extraordinary! I’ve no idea how it came to be filmed, whether they were re-enactments or actual punishments captured during fly-on-the-wall documentaries. And I’m sure I recognised the same girls receiving dozens of different spankings, they must have been very naughty indeed.

Drawing upon what I’d seen in the old footage, I strode out from behind my desk, and pulled a straight-backed chair away into the middle of the room, and sat as imperiously as I could manage in my cumbersome costume.

“Skirt up! Panties down!” I announced, mimicking something I think I’d once heard in some documentary I’d stumbled across.

The girl complied as quickly as her own absurdly restrictive clothes allowed, reaching underneath to pull down her baggy white french knickers to her ankles and then lifting the hem of her skirt from her shins to her waist.

“Bend over” I commanded. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest.

The girl did as she was told without complaint, leaning over my lap until she was perched on her tiptoes, the palms of her hands resting on the varnished wooden floor. I took a moment to lift her hem a bit higher until the whole of her bottom was completely exposed, then rubbed my palm across her beautiful soft cheeks, feeling the delicious thrill of her vulnerability.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl,” I told her in my most authoritative voice, “and you deserve a good spanking on your bare bottom.”

It was a speech I’d waited so long to give. I wonder if girl could sense my hand trembling as I lined up my aim, gently patting where my first spank was due to land. I raised my palm high, and when when I could hold it up no longer, brought it slapping down on one of the girl’s cheeks.

That first smack reverberated around the room and through my mind. I looked down, stunned to see a pink blotch blemishing her pale white skin, one I had just inflicted. My palm was still tingling, it felt warm, stinging slightly, and I found myself hoping that the girl on my lap was at least experiencing more discomfort than me. I still remember my first spank vividly.

I raised my hand again, suddenly conscious I had a duty to perform. I brought it down again and again, entranced by the bright pink smudges that began to cover the squirming girl’s bottom. At last, I was administering punishment, and what a thrill it was. I forgot all about the throbbing pain in my hand and spanked until I could hear her little sniffs.

When I eventually stopped spanking I paused to examine my handiwork. Two large pink splotches covered most of each of her bottom cheeks, and they were surprisingly hot to the touch. Eager to see if she’d become as excited as some of the girls I’d watched being spanked, I teased her buttocks apart to peek between her legs. Goodness me.

I suddenly found myself wondering: was she a performer, or a fellow client. Was I here to fulfil my fantasy, or was I fulfilling hers?

“Now let that be a lesson to you, young lady!” I announced, before helping the sniffling girl rise from my lap.

To my surprise, after she had pulled up her knickers and rearranged her dishevelled uniform, she thanked me for her spanking, and promised she’d behave impeccably in class from now on. As she left the room I found myself beaming so widely with satisfaction that my jaw began to ache. What an extraordinary experience it was to take control like that, to have another so completely under your whim, to wield the ability to shape their future behaviour.

I slumped against my desk, breathing heavily, my corset feeling like an anaconda around my chest. Searching for some refreshment, I opened the cabinet at the side of the room, and was shocked to discover it was full of every conceivable spanking implement, a mind-boggling variety of straps, rulers, paddles, slippers, whips and canes.

Over the next couple of hours, a relentless procession of naughty girls knocked on my office door with notes requiring my attention. Some might have been company employees, playing their part in this elaborate diorama, some might have been patrons like me, here to play out their own fantasy. There was no way of telling. I gave them all sore bottoms regardless.

I spanked them with every kind of implement I could find in the cabinet. I put my second visitor over my knee and gave her a pink bum with the slipper. The third bent over my desk and danced under the ruler. I made the fourth touch her toes as I caned her, sending her back to class to sit on her stripes.

As the afternoon wore on I found myself becoming more adventurous, instructing the girls to adopt different positions, sometimes using combinations of implements, sometimes getting them to undress and wait for their punishment. All this I found extraordinarily exciting, I longed to relieve myself, but my ridiculous costume meant my fingers could not address my frustration, so I spent the afternoon slowly soaking my fine silk knickers instead.

The last visitor my office had been caught playing with herself in the showers, so I got her to undress and re-enact her misdemeanour. I sat behind my desk, trying not to squirm as she rubbed her clitoris in slow lazy circles, occasionally letting her finger slip down her slit and slip inside her. All the things I wanted so much to do myself.

It was torment to watch. It wasn’t long before I could stand it no longer, and made her bend over my desk. I stood beside her and reached between her legs, one hand massaging her wet places as I spanked her with my other. In between every smack, I growled into her ear: “What a naughty girl you are”. Her bottom was hot and pink and my palm throbbing by the time she eventually climaxed.

I was just about to cane the minx when a thunderous clanging noise echoed throughout the building. My cane had hovered over her quivering buttocks as I looked around, uncertain of what had just happened. Moments later, my secretary entered, explaining that jarring din was the school bell, which signified the end of the school day. Worse, it also meant it was time for me to go home. At that point I heard the girl over my desk sigh with relief, so I gave her stripe on her bum for her cheekiness before I told her to get dressed.

My secretary helpfully escorted me back to the entrance hall, where my incongruously modern elevator pod was waiting behind one of the period doors. I was grateful for her assistance, the corset and my disciplinary exertions had left me with trembling limbs and feeling quite light-headed.

The elevator returned me to my room, whereupon I hurriedly threw off my bulky costume. There are no time limits here, patrons can stay as long as they like, so after a shower and something to eat, I sprawled naked on the couch with an edgeglobe inside me. My time as a headmistress had been recorded, of course, and for the next three hours I watched a real-time replay of the events in my office, the succession of visitors to my office, and every detail of the spankings I administered. I watched, spellbound, as the globe inside me kept me in a state of delirious bliss.

Between the spanks and the moans, I could hear my own voice in my ears.
“What a naughty girl you are…”

On a visit a couple of months later, I had arrived in my room to find a schoolgirl uniform on my bed. I took the elevator as I had before, and it wasn’t long before I was the girl knocking on the Headmistress’s door with a note in my trembling hand. Miss was intimidatingly stern, and I loved it.

She put me over her knee and spanked me hard, I never knew it could be so exciting. Afterwards I stood in the corner of her office for half an hour with my skirt rolled up, my pink cheeks smarting. It was an excruciating wait. When I was eventually dismissed I almost ran from her office to the nearest toilets, rapidly tugging down my archaic underwear, feeling the coldness of the wooden toilet seat on my hot cheeks as I urgently rubbed my aching parts. I came not caring if there was anyone outside my cubicle to hear my moans.

Afterwards, in my Trigonometry class, I squirmed awkwardly on the hard wooden bench, the glow of my sore bum radiating underneath me, as the consequences of my illicit masturbation seeped between my thighs. Around me, a dozen pencils scribbled and wooden rulers skittered. Even just touching my ruler gave me a visceral thrill, in my mind it was no longer an implement for drawing straight lines, it had become an instrument for smacking bottoms.

But that’s what Sexcapade promises, a different experience every time, completely new ways of seeing, an infinite variety of sexual adventures, each tailored to be more compelling than the last. Your past inspiring your erotic future. I’ve been coming here for years; they never cease to astound me.

My taxipod suddenly veers off the main expressway and down an incline towards the jewel-like edifice of the Sexcapade tower. Newcomers are often surprised to discover this building doesn’t have a foyer or a lobby, instead visitors are dropped off beside a private elevator that will convey them directly to their rooms. It is an arrangement intended to prevent awkward encounters with fellow patrons, many of whom are very famous indeed.

I step out of the taxipod and into the elevator, its door already open waiting for me. There’s a dim flash, the soft blue courtesy light of an iris scanner, then door closes and I feel the faintest sensation of movement. When the door opens again it’s to reveal my private suite.

Habitually, the first thing I look for is what they’ve left on my bed. The costume is the often the best clue of what’s in store for me. This time there’s a luxuriously soft white gown waiting for me, with the customary gold-rimmed envelope lying on top. Envelopes! Can you believe it? This is probably the only place I know that still uses envelopes.

I place my order for dinner before I undress and visit the shower, my meal is on my table waiting for me by the time I’ve dried myself. I eat watching the sun set over the sprawling London metropolis, the cityscape slowly vanishing, dissipating into a million points of light.

And then I fetch the little gilded envelope, tentatively sliding my finger under the flap at the back. A stiff plain white card slips out, its sharp corners pricking my fingertips.

On it is just a single word:

INEVITABLE

So this is my destiny tonight, The Algorithm’s choice, the result of meticulously analysing my sexual peccadilloes. The Algorithm learns what its patrons like, it is capable of unlocking our deepest secrets, not by deception, or by mind probes or truth drugs, but simply by experimenting — and watching.

What is inevitable? I wonder, as I put on the gown they’ve left for me. An orgasm? I’d be extremely disappointed if I didn’t experience lots of those this evening. But Sexcapade is more subtle than that, the names they gave their sessions are often obtuse, cryptic puzzles you often only work out near the end.

I’m dressed in the gown now, and completely naked underneath, it is opulently soft and warm, like something an Empress would wear. Time to enter the elevator again, it’s the only way in or out of this room, its ability to move horizontally means this building contains no corridors, and no awkward interactions. The door slides closed silently, and there’s another slight sensation of motion, I feel the tingling thrill of expectation.

Six deep breaths later, and the door slides open. I peer out through the elevator doorway into my destination. It’s a bare minimally furnished room, reminiscent of a clinic or a spa. A single word glows on the far wall: Inevitable. This must be it.

I step forward tentatively, examining my new surroundings, immediately trying to work out what I should be doing next. Somewhat surprisingly, there’s no furniture, nowhere to sit and wait. Apart from the glowing word, there’s really just one other feature of significance, a waist high hole in the same wall, a dark circular gap just wider than a dinner plate.

I look back and realise the elevator door has closed behind me, blending perfectly into the room. This room now has no obvious exits.

“Hello?” I say loudly. But there’s no response.

Inevitable? What’s inevitable? That I’ll end up talking to myself? That I’ll get bored and fall asleep on the floor?

My attention is drawn back to the round hole, perhaps there’s some kind of key or button inside. I bend over and hesitantly reach inside with one hand, there does indeed seem to be something in there… a small round object, floating in mid-air. Frustratingly, I feel it evade my fumbling hand, so I instinctively reach in with both hands, cupping my palms in an effort to catch it.

Suddenly I feel my hands tingle, I try to pull them out, but realise my hands are held fast by some invisible force. I curse my impetuousness. Now I’m trapped.

All I can do now is alter my stance to spread my weight more comfortably on my feet — and wait. Plenty of time to wonder if what I’ve just done was supposed to happen, or if I’ve somehow messed the whole thing up.

Eventually I hear footsteps behind me. In my current position, bent over with my hands stuck inside this alcove, I have to look over my shoulder to see who or what is approaching. It turns out to be a man in an elegantly tailored black suit.

“Hello!” I say with a light-hearted giggle, “I think I’ve become a bit stuck!”

“That is inevitable” he replies coolly, without even adding a greeting of his own.

“Sorry?” I reply dumbly.

“Your current position was quite inevitable. From the moment you picked up the envelope. Everyone who’s ever been issued that card has had an identical experience.”

“And what experience is that?” I ask.

He seems momentarily distracted, staring into space, a gaze that typically means he’s reading something on his retina display.

“You are the 821st visitor to this room. It seems only 6 have ever failed to put their hands in the alcove. Those individuals sat against the wall and waited for me to arrive, but even they put their hands into the slot when I asked them to.”

“Sorry to be so predictable” I mutter dryly, but that seems to kill the conversation a bit. There is now an awkward silence.

“Ah… 64 seconds” he says cryptically, at last.

I wait for him to clarify, but he maintains his silence.

“10 seconds…” he says at last.

I begin a countdown inside my head, mentally bracing myself. Ten seconds later, I feel my gown suddenly disintegrate and drop to the floor, leaving me completely and unexpectedly naked. I look down at panels of white downy fabric scattered beneath me, feeling like a flower that had lost its petals.

“What?!” I shriek.

“The stitches in your gown were made to deteriorate under the wavelength of light in this room. On average it takes 7 minutes, 35 seconds. Your nakedness was certain as soon as you entered. Basic photochemistry. A very predictable reaction. Entirely inevitable.”

I struggle against my invisible bonds. I’m a powerful person, used to being in control, so I find my sudden entrapment and exposure both frustrating and highly humiliating. This is my time, my extremely precious time, in which I expect to spend enjoying myself. No one treats me like this.

“Don’t you know who I am?” I ask tetchily.

He seems surprised by my statement, tilting his head to look down at me.

“Why on earth should I care? Don’t you know who I am?” he replies.

His retort throws me, and I’m suddenly consumed by a very disturbing thought.

Am I here to fulfil my fantasy, or here to fulfil his?

I’m just about to complain, but he reaches down and sprays something into my open mouth. Almost instantaneously, I feel myself lose sensations in my tongue, turning my nascent protest into an unintelligible babble. Then my vocal chords stop responding, so the only sound I can utter is a plaintive gasp.

“Well, Madam. It appears you’re at my mercy now. It’s best if you don’t struggle. Just try to relax.”

“The silence spray will mean this conversation is rather one-sided. But it’s better this way. Nothing you could have said would have changed what’s about to happen.”

“I know you think you have free will, some say in what happens to you, but here that’s an illusion. Everything that’s happened here has been inevitable from the moment you stepped into your taxipod.”

“Now this is clever! You see this wand? It allows me to control your muscles. Look, I can alter your stance. Hips down, legs wide apart. Oh, that’s better.”

“Oh yes. What a delightful bottom you have.”

“I have another surprise for you. Do you recognise this?”

“You do, don’t you? It’s a replica of smooth-soled bedroom slipper, circa 1980. I know you’ve seen pictures of slippers like this being applied to the bare bottoms of naughty girls. It is an excellent disciplinary implement, a flexible fabric shoe with foam base and a smooth rubber sole. Let me demonstrate.”

“You see? What a wonderful sound it makes. It imparts a stinging whack without damaging the subject’s skin. Perfect for long hard after-school spankings, and creating sore bottoms that will still be hot and pink at bedtime.”

“I have something else for you. For your pretty little cunt…”

“Ah… there we go.”

“This probe is now monitoring your pudendal nerve. Every sensation you receive will be sent to our databanks and processed at the speed of light. Isn’t that incredible? Orders of magnitude faster than your own primitive nerves. We’ll know the effect of each spank long before the sensation eventually tingles its way to the top of your spine.”

“Your body will betray you, revealing just how much you enjoy every stroke, every touch. We’ll know exactly how close you are to climaxing.”

“Now, now. You’re struggling again.”

“Didn’t I tell you that was pointless? Your future has already been written, the events of this session have already been decided. Everything that happens next is inevitable. You’re just catching up with it.”

“I’ve found a good hard slippering reminds wilful young ladies of their place…”

“Such a naughty girl, you deserve this, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, a good hard whacking. This is just what you need.”

“I hope this is teaching you some humility, young lady.”

“Naughty girls get sore bottoms.”

“Not so haughty now, are we? A pink bum and tear-stained cheeks.”

“Slippered like a naughty little girl before bedtime.”

“A bit more I think.”

“Now I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, young lady. You are not in control here, I am — and your future has already been planned. There is nothing you can do to change it.”

“Speaking of which, it’s time for me to get undressed.”

“You like to watch men undressing, I see. The sensor tells me your heart flutters each time I unbutton my shirt.”

“I see you enjoyed watching me slip off my trousers even more. Is this ladylike behaviour? I see you staring at the bulge in my briefs. Naughty girl.”

“Six more whacks with the slipper for your lewdness.”

“Face forward girl. Can you hear my briefs slipping down my thighs?”

“Here, smell them. Can you discern excitement? Can you tell if I found whacking your naughty little bottom arousing?”

“Now you feel my cock slipping up your inner thigh? Can you feel its weight, how I’m slowly swelling?”

“You’re in the perfect position, all spread open for me, a puffy wet slit between two bright pink globes. Now I’m teasing your labia apart. Feel my hot breath caress your crotch as I inhale your essence.”

“Mmmm. You smell delicious.”

“Can you feel what you’re doing to me? My stiff cock slapping against your bottom.”

“Even my erection was inevitable, a biological certainty once I inhaled the scent from your vulva.”

“One moment, and I’ll apply some lube spray to your bottom hole. I’ll rub it in, that feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already applied a nano-barrier gel to my penis. We take sexual hygiene very seriously here.”

“Mmmm. Smelling you made me so hard. Can you feel the tip of my stiff cock rubbing against your bottom?”

“Perhaps you don’t realise how many other men and women have been just where you are now. My cock between their sore spanked cheeks.”

“We collect a lot of data here. I’m looking at the data being sent by the sensor inside you now. I can see you’re resisting, trying to clench your anal muscles. Your stubbornness is natural, but ultimately futile.”

“You can sense your bottom slowly opening, can’t you? Despite all your best efforts. The sensations that follow a thorough spanking are stronger than your willpower. In 3 minutes 52 seconds, your anal passage will be dilated sufficiently, and I will slowly slide my stiff penis all the way into your bottom. It is inevitable.”

“Whilst we wait, a few more statistics that might intrigue you. My erect penis is 18.6 centimetres long, and in the upper percentiles for both length and girth. On average, it takes me 36 seconds to slide in to my maximum extent, and 28 seconds to withdraw. I have inhibited my own ejaculatory reflex, so I shall continue sliding in and out until you climax. Your own orgasm is inevitable.”

“Ah. I can feel your bottom opening for me. And the sensor is detecting the ripples of sexual excitement quivering through your vagina. Another few spanks I think. Oh yes… you like that.”

“I can see nerve impulses travelling down to your legs. Quite pointless really. I control your limbs. You can’t run away. Haven’t you accepted what is going to happen yet? Your future is already written. It is time to submit to the inevitable.”

“Ah, the sensor inside you has enough data now. It predicts when I enter your bottom, you’ll climax on my fourteenth thrust.”

“How interesting. The sensor also predicts if I were to enter your vagina, only nine thrusts would be necessary. It was predicting forty-two before I spanked you.”

“If only your friends and colleagues could see you now. Spanked like a naughty girl and soaking wet at the thought of being fucked in the arse by a complete stranger.”

“Oh good! Time’s up. It seems you’re ready for me.”

“Feel me enter you. How easily I slip into you. How completely I fill you.”

“Ah… all the way in. I love feeling the heat of a spanked bottom against my thighs.”

“It must make you feel so slutty, having a cock that’s been in over a thousand arses deep inside you. You don’t even know my name.”

“I see that when I pull out, the sensor tells me you’re missing me already. How you’re aching to be filled.”

“In the world outside you’re undoubtedly very important. But in here, you’re just another…

I wanted to shout, to reassert my identity, to challenge him. But with every thrust I felt my resistance ebbing away, my mind floating into a soft, numbing, enveloping haze.

On his tenth thrust he reached underneath me, cupping my wet crotch possessively in his palm.

As he slid into me for the fourteenth time, I did everything I could to prevent myself letting go. Tremors of pleasure were quivering deep within me. But I was determined to defy this man, and his algorithmic predictions of how my own body would respond.

It had become a thrilling battle of wills. I think my stubbornness surprised him, because as he buried himself deep inside me for the fourteenth time, I just about managed to keep my orgasm at bay.

I think I would have beaten him too, but for the moment my stinging bottom glanced against his thighs.

It was only a feather-light touch against my skin, but it seemed to summon a distant memory, a ghost from my own past. It felt like when I used to stand in front of my bedroom mirror, looking over my shoulder to trace my fingertip over the hot pink patches of my well-spanked bottom — the results of the self-administered slipperings I used to give myself, because I was so curious about what they felt like.

In that moment, the pretence that had sustained me seemed to disintegrate. That behind my high status facade was still a filthy little girl who was excited by punishment, who got off imagining naughty girls being spanked.

Unable to move, I found myself wanting him to push into me, to grind my sore spanked bottom against his firm, unforgiving body.

The computer thought my future would be determined by my past.

It was right.

I felt my resistance crumbling, overwhelmed by a more primal need.

I did come on his fourteenth thrust.

Intensely, wantonly and deliriously.

It was inevitable.

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Originally posted at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.

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Writing for the theatre between your ears