Readers,
Enjoy this great Future Spank contest entry, written by a sweet girl who calls herself Randy Lee – I did.
– Dana
Bottom to the Future
On a sunny Tuesday, Kim sits at an outdoor table at a café in a suburb of Dallas. She taps the edge of her palmtop computer to turn the page of the newspaper she’s reading. The early afternoon sun glints off the windows of the silver monorail cars as the train rounds a curve on its approach to the stop in front of the café. When the train is still, Kim’s friend Monica emerges from a monorail car and waves as she walks toward her. Kim stands up and hugs her friend in greeting.
“Have you ordered yet?” Monica asks as the two women sit down.
“No, I was waiting for you,” Kim replies. “I’m not in any hurry today. Elroy is doing some psychology research at the library, and Jeremy is meeting a friend at the fitness center for some weight training and racquetball after work. I don’t need to have supper ready until 7 o’clock.”
“I have a leisurely day, too,” says Monica, touching some of the areas of the menu screen built into the table as she decides on a lunch selection. “Morgan and her friend Emery are going to have a cram session for an upcoming exam in their mental disorders class. They’re going for a swim workout at the natatorium and then stopping for Chinese takeout on the way to Emery’s house. Morgan’s spending the night there. They have a pretty good study system with their combination of exercise, nutrition, and mental activity. And sleep. They have instructions to be in bed with lights out at 11:00 p.m. Both of them get good grades. Emery’s parents are as proud of her as Keith and I are of Morgan. And I know Elroy ranks pretty high in his class at the university.”
“Yes, he does keep his grades up,” Kim agrees. “Sometimes I wonder how he does it, with chess, Space Cadets, and the other activities he’s been involved in. We’ve instilled in him for years that his course work is more important most of the time. We started teaching him in 6th grade that if he begins to have trouble with his grades or getting enough sleep, extra activities will be removed. His schooling is his “job,” and his grades are his paycheck. Activities outside of schoolwork are frills, and frills can easily fall by the wayside. He knows we’re not kidding. It was the rule in junior high, then high school, and now at the university.”
Monica peruses the menu and decides on her meal. She and Kim spend a few seconds ordering from the touch-screen menu.
Kim sighs, a faraway—but satisfied—expression on her face. “How did we wind up with such well-behaved, responsible children?” she asks rhetorically.
“You just said it,” Monica points out. “You’ve trained Elroy for years, disciplining him to focus on his schoolwork.” She pauses, a thoughtful look on her face. “But specifically, how did you and Jeremy accomplish
this discipline?”
Kim’s gaze darts rapidly, randomly, in several different directions. She looks ill at ease. “Well,” she begins, “I’m uncomfortable admitting this, but we used spanking. Just a smack or two on the backside. I would use my hand when he was a little fella, and Jeremy would use his belt starting when Elroy was about six. It was the event, not the severity, that was effective. Jeremy would tell Elroy he was going to give him a whipping, and explain why. Elroy would just say, ‘Yes, sir. I know I deserve it.’ Jeremy would take his belt off, make Elroy bend over and put his hands on the bed, and swat him twice with his belt. Then Elroy would thank his father for the punishment and for caring enough to shape his behavior. I don’t think Jeremy has whipped him since he was eight or nine. Now, there have been a few times some years back when we’ve taken away his communication device for three days, but Elroy says essentially the same thing, thanking me or his father for punishing him and for helping him develop responsibility and self-discipline. I imagine we’re the only parents in the Cosmoplex who have used such primitive methods of child-rearing.”
“Probably not the only ones,” Monica counters, “but you have to admit it’s way out of style. For children, at least.”
Kim chuckles. “Right: for children.” We know a lot more about the style for adults,” she says, grinning.
Monica laughs out loud. “That we do, Kim.”
Three electronic pings signal the emergence of two miniature helicopters from a rectangular opening near the top of a portion of the building that is shaped like a small silo. Each tiny aircraft homes in on the table, waits for the women to lean back to make room, and lands gracefully on the touch-screen menu that corresponds with the helicopter’s “cargo.”
Kim and Monica remove their respective food orders from the rigid baskets beneath the aircraft, the helicopters return to the delivery portal, and the women eat in silence for a couple of minutes.
Kim then asks, “What techniques have you and Keith used with Morgan?”
Monica considers the question as she chews and swallows her current bite of sandwich. “Keith and I have relied on the practice of using time-outs with Morgan ever since she was a toddler. At first, I would sit with her and make sure she stayed seated in her chair. I would set the timer for two minutes, and she wasn’t allowed out of the chair until the timer sounded and I said she could get up. I would talk with her about what she did, why she was being punished, and how she could behave better. When she was a little older, we used a clock, and that’s how she learned to tell time. I won’t say she enjoyed time-outs, but we made it a learning experience in addition to being a discipline technique. Morgan was never spanked until she was 18. No, wait: She was 19. She told us she was going one place and we learned she actually went with a friend to a concert Keith and I had said she could not attend. Keith put her in the Hidetanner for ten minutes, set at 30. She tried to be stoic, but it got the best of her, and she was crying before six minutes had passed. Her behind was bright pink. Afterwards, she apologized to us for disobeying our instructions and for lying about it. Then she told us that several things the musicians did during the concert were in poor taste and that she knew we had been correct in not allowing her to go. She assured us that she had learned not only that disobedience and lying would not be tolerated, but also that she realized our judgment and decisions were wise and were in her best interests. That was two years ago, and she hasn’t given us any reason to repeat that punishment.”
“I should say not,” Kim agreed. “Ten minutes at the 30 level for a newbie would be pretty rough.” Of course, you and I do 50 and 60 routinely, and for way more than ten minutes.”
“Well, of course we do, but both of us are used to it. Besides, we like it, but Morgan does not. She definitely isn’t ‘one of us.’ I’ll tell you, though, I wasn’t used to what Keith did last week.” Monica paused, her brow knit as she recalled the event. “I had been at the regular Tuesday meeting of the Hydroponic Society and stayed to talk to a couple of other members. I lost track of time, supper was late, and Keith was quite angry. As usual, he didn’t raise his voice, but what it lacked in volume it more than made up for in intensity. He told me I was going to be punished in the Hidetanner, and he really let me have it. He set it high and timed it long. He wasn’t joking, and it wasn’t funny. He stood there the whole time and talked to me, lecturing me. I wish he had just left me alone and let me cry in peace. It still hurts, and that was eight days ago. Sometimes he can be so demanding and domineering. I don’t like being treated like a slave. He and I need to have a talk about that.”
Kim looks concerned. “Do you think that will make him angry?”
“Oh, no,” Monica asserts. “He isn’t thin-skinned. Conversation doesn’t make him angry. We can have a good conversation about subjects we disagree on. Most of the time, we come to some kind of agreement, at least in principle. But Keith doesn’t like rules broken and he doesn’t like the routine disrupted for no good reason. Now, if there’s a good reason, that’s never a problem. We all know things can happen. You know, monorail delays, traffic jams, those kinds of unforeseen circumstances. However, thoughtlessness is always a problem, even when he’s guilty of it. He’s been known to put himself in the Hidetanner.”
“Speaking of which,” Kim interjects, “how do you think the Hidetanner compares with the Spankocert you and Keith used to have?”
“It’s more rigorous than our Spankocert GX2 was,” Monica replies. “Well, that machine was four years old, so you can understand it didn’t have the kick it had when it was new. The Hidetanner can do a really good job of covering a large area, but it can also be set to concentrate on the same spot over and over. And it can deliver the side wrap I’m sometimes in the mood for. Yours is a Spankocert GX4, right?”
“Yes,” Kim confirms. “I like it, but I’m interested in trying yours, just to see what it might do differently. Maybe it does some things better.”
“I’d be glad to let you try it out. How about at our party on Friday of next week. You and Jeremy are planning to come, aren’t you?” Monica asks.
“You bet. We wouldn’t miss it. We always have a great time at the parties. Are a lot of people going to be there?”
“About 20, if everyone comes who E-plied. Several people are going to bring their frames, benches, and even some machines,” Monica notes. “And, of course, the toys their machines use.”
Kim registered surprise. “There are machines light enough to be portable?”
“Oh, yes,” Monica confirms. “Dawn and Josh have one. I’m eager to see it in action.”
Kim looks at her wrist phone. “Will you look at the time! I need to be getting home.” She touches an icon at the top of the menu screen to display the cost of her meal, and Monica follows suit. Near the center of the table at each woman’s place, a block 8 centimeters square rises from the surface of the table disclosing an opening in the block resembling a mouth ready to eat money. As each woman inserts her money, the block calculates the change, deposits it on the table, and lowers back into the surface of the table.
Kim and Monica gather their belongings, stand up, and hug. “There’s my ride,” Kim says, spying a monorail train moving closer toward the restaurant station.
Monica walks with her to the platform, saying, “Mine should be the next one, in about five minutes.
Kim boards one of the cars. Monica awaits her train, smiling in anticipation of the party.
Ten Days Later
“Keith!” Monica calls. “Did you get the tables and chairs set up on the patio?”
“Yes,” he answers. Everything’s ready for the guests. Do you want me to put out the trays that are on the kitchen table?”
“Yes, please. That much is done, and all that’s left is the beverage and ice dispensers.”
Got ’em, Keith says. He retrieves the drink dispenser and an ice dispenser from a closet off the patio, where they had been waiting, primed.
The doorbell rings. Monica goes to the door and opens it to usher in six guests, all talking at once. With everyone being in a “Friday mood,” smiles and cheerfulness abound.
“Come on in, y’all,” Monica invites. “Make yourselves at home in the living room, out on the patio, or wherever you’re comfortable.”
The guests move to different areas, talking among themselves or going to the patio to greet Keith.
Another ring of the doorbell is heard, and one of the new arrivals definitely makes himself at home by yelling, “I’ll get it.” He opens the door to admit another party of guests. “Come in this house,” he tells them, smiling. “How ya doin’, Jim?” He shakes hands with the man in the group.
“Can’t complain,” the man returns the handshake. “I saw Josh and Dawn coming down the street in their van.”
Both men look out the door and see the vehicle pull up behind a car and park in front of the house. The occupants get out and close their doors. The man opens the cargo door and begins to pull a covered piece of equipment from the van and position it on the sidewalk. The woman closes the cargo door and locks the van. The man tilts the apparatus onto its wheels and guides it toward the house. A couple of other men help lift the machine over the threshold and assist in shielding the door jambs. With the shrouded mystery apparatus finally in the middle of the living room, its owner, Josh, announces, “Ta DA!” Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on the very latest in portable, automated spanking pleasure. I give you . . . the ‘Angel Maker.’ ” He whisks away the cover to reveal the stainless steel machine. Everyone begins to applaud, voicing comments like, “It’s beautiful,” “I can hardly wait to try it out,” and “Oooh, it looks scary.”
“Okay, folks,” Monica says, getting their attention, “why don’t we all gravitate out onto the patio so people who are bringing frames can have some room to set them up. We can chat out here while that’s going on. Of course, the ones who specialize in putting things together can hang out in the living room and help. Some people are still on the way.” The majority of the group follow Monica out to the patio.
In response to subsequent rings of the doorbell, those who are closest admit the partygoers and welcome them. Frames are assembled and made ready for use.
After meeting and greeting is done, Keith says, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” The woman in each twosome who own a machine or frame moves to take her place as her top helps her into or onto it, removing whatever clothing is an impediment and fastening whatever is necessary to prevent the woman’s escape. After securing the women into the devices, the tops’ primary activity is wielding cameras and video recorders to immortalize the scenes of the torment their victims are enduring. Soon, the room is filled with the whirr of electric motors and the sounds of wood and leather striking flesh and the windy swish of canes stirring the air. After a short while, there begin to be reaction sounds, the usual “ow,” “uhnnh,” and “that hurts,” until—everything goes dark. And still. And silent.
“Not to worry, everyone,” Keith reassures the group. “Light is on the way. I have the situation under control.” His voice fades somewhat as he moves away from the living room toward the kitchen.
One of the men moves carefully toward the window and peeks around the drapery to observe a pitch dark neighborhood. “Hey, y’all? This whole area is dark, all the way to the statue on the square. There are lights on the bridge, but none this side of it.
From the kitchen, the sound of a drawer being opened is heard, and the glow of a flashlight can be seen. Its beam plays around the kitchen, and a cupboard is opened. A larger and stronger beam of light enhances the original one, and Keith comes back into the living room with the stronger light source, placing it on the coffee table and aiming it at the ceiling. It reflects off the white surface and gives a faint glow to the entire room.
“Well, now. Where were we?” Keith asks the group.
“I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, that’s where,” replies Dawn, the occupant of the Angel Maker. “Get me out of this thing.”
“Coming, Dear,” says her husband Josh. Other men begin undoing latches and straps and bindings to free their bottoms from the other machines.
“What a bummer,” exclaims Kim. “I was looking forward to trying out Monica and Keith’s Hidetanner. Now what are we going to do? Go home?”
Monica responds, “I don’t see why. We could all sit and talk, share stories about our favorite spanking times.” She pauses, looking around the room with a mischievous
twinkle in her eye. “Or there is another option.”
All eyes are on Monica as she continues. “We could do it the old-fashioned way.”
Dawn asks, “Do you mean OTK? That kind of old-fashioned?”
“What’s ‘OTK’?” a woman named Emily asks.
Kim answers, “It means ‘Over the knee.’ An old-fashioned hand spanking while lying across someone’s lap. Or it could be with a paddle or strap of some kind. That’s what spankos used years ago, before all this technology.”
“Hmmm,” Emily muses. “That sounds a little creepy. I don’t think I’d like that. It sounds too—I’m not sure what. Close? Intimate?
“Well, it is intimate,” agrees Monica, “but I think you should try it before you dismiss it altogether. Keith, why don’t you and I demonstrate?”
“Ah, My Sweet. You have made me an offer I cannot refuse,” her husband says, smiling. After seating himself on the sofa, he beckons Monica to stand in front of him. He puts his thumbs in the waistband of her slacks and gently pulls them down to her knees. The he pats his right thigh as a signal for her to lie across his lap. She drapes herself across his legs, with her upper body and her legs supported by the sofa. He begins to rub her bottom gently, over her satin panties. Then he smacks her right cheek with the smallest amount of force. Then the left. Then both, in the middle. He develops a rhythm, increasing the force a little, but not enough to elicit more than a contented “mmm” from Monica. After a couple of minutes, he stops and hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulls them down. She lifts herself off his thighs a few inches to help him get the undergarment down to her knees. Then she settles back down on his lap so he can resume the spanking. He increases the force of the spanks, bringing a deeper pink color to her bottom. One smack leaves the prints of his fingers on her right upper thigh. “Did that hurt?” he asks her.
“Mmmm. Yes,” she replies. “It feels good. Why did we ever stop doing this?”
Keith pauses in his delivery of the smacks and rubs her bottom again. “I don’t know. This is much better than taking all those silly pictures and videos that just sit in the computer, never being looked at. There’s just something about feeling the hot skin of your bottom under my hand.”
“Yes,” Monica agrees. “And there’s something about feeling your warm, powerful, loving hand raining down on my bottom with such force. I’d like to feel your belt, too. Would you mind?”
“No, of course not,” Keith replies. He stops spanking her and, being careful not to jostle her off his lap, unbuckles his belt and pulls it through the belt loops.
“I love that sound, Keith,” Monica tells him.
“Let’s see what else you love, My Love,” he answers. He doubles the belt and brings it down on her pink-skinned bottom.
“Oww! I think you mean business,” Monica exclaims.
“Well, you asked for it, right?” he teases.
“Yes, I asked for it,” she concurs.
“In so many words, right,” he prods, smiling.
“Yes, in so many words.”
“So, if it hurts, whose fault is that?” Keith asks.
“Hey, I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I just said it hurts. I like it very much, and you do a magnificent job,” she praises. To the others watching, she says, “Hey, what’re the rest of you waiting for?
The spectators began pairing up, and the various bottoms lay across their tops’ laps. In due course, the sound of palms and belts slapping skin overrode all other noises, each couple appearing isolated in their own little world.
Minutes passed, and then hours. Later, after nearly all the guests had left, Monica found Jeremy sitting on the sofa in the half-light, with Kim seated on his lap, her arms around his neck as he held her close. Monica sat down on the sofa near Jeremy. “So, Kim, did you have a chance to try out our Hidetanner?”
Kim murmurs into Jeremy’s neck, “No, I didn’t get around to it.”
Monica observes, “You don’t look too disappointed about it.”
Kim lazily turns her gaze in Monica’s direction, a contented smile on her face. “No, Monica,” she muses. “I’m not disappointed at all.”