That’s nearly 40 years since the first moon landing, guys. There ought to be major cities on Mars, subterranean colonies on Uranus (oh hush), and working plutonium mines from Earth to the end of the spiral arm. Here at home, if you believed the Popular Mechanics cover stories from the 1950s, there should be his and hers atomic powered heli-cars in every garage, that run for a year on a thimbleful of deuterium. So what is actually the latest big thing in technology? Amazon’s ‘wireless reading device,’ that’s what. Yeah right – we used to call that a ‘book,’ and you never have to replace the freaking batteries. This so-called advance is almost as bad as the ‘cordless screwdriver,’ which you can pick up at K-Mart for about 20 dollars. I have eight or nine cordless screwdrivers in my toolbox, and I don’t think I paid over two bucks for any of them, flathead OR Phillips. Putting a cord on a screwdriver in the first place sounds completely ridiculous, unless you want to tie it around your neck so you don’t lose it. Technological advance, I don’t think so!
Not that I’m a complete Luddite, except for my disdain of cell phones, or rather of the insensitive jerks who like to share one side of their conversations with everyone in the restaurant, airport, or waiting room at the top of their lungs. And I just feel embarrassed for the twits with the hands-free ear bud models, whom at first glance I always assume should be institutionalized because they walk around talking to themselves. That aside, I’m very pro-technology. I only wish they’d get it right, or at least closer to the amazing visions we had in the more hopeful 50s.
For instance, imagine you just got done with your third and final grueling five-hour day of the week at your office in Philadelphia and are headed for home near Boston.
The helo-vanes have just folded back and you’re doing Mach 2 in your newish Chevrolet Thunderclap, and just then there’s a seven-robotaxi pileup at 2000 feet, so your nav-computer reroutes you to 6000 feet, which activates the oxygenator, and that always gives you a headache. Everyone else climbs to that altitude as well, of course, so your 30-minute commute to good old MA turns to a nightmarish sub-Mach hour-long ordeal.
When you do finally get to the house, you park the Chevy in the helo-drome, take a deep breath, smile and palm the door lock, fully expecting a welcome home hug and kiss from your adorable limited-duration-with-extension-option domestic-partner-of-the-opposite-sex Mishu-Amanda, and hoping to smell the hearty aroma of filet mignon with truffle reduction she said she would electro-zap for dinner, but instead the first thing you notice is that the cleaning robot stands idle in the corner,
and Mishu-Amanda’s negligee and robe still are draped over the back of the sofa where she left them that morning to give you a very pleasant naked send-off to work.
Yes, well, your headache throbs harder and your ears perk at the unmistakable whirr of the GE Exercisatron, so you sigh heavily and stride across the living room, up the ramp and into the gym. Sure enough, there’s Mishu-Amanda loping along the incline, her pert form wrapped neck to toe in a tight purple catsuit of Superwickium, a translucent fabric that cools even the hottest hard-body during a long workout.
But she also has the Viewmaxtronic virtual goggles on, and you know instantly that she’s tuned to the Sacs Fifth Avenue band wave, because as she runs her hands busily pluck items from unseen racks and shelves, then she smiles and nods, and drops something over her shoulder into the invisible delivery chute. Grudgingly you admire the smooth, machinelike motion of her taut, toned rear cheeks, then sigh again and reach over to switch off the Exercisatron. She gasps and yanks off the goggles, then her face turns from warm exertion-pink to bright knows-she’s-busted red, and she sticks a finger between full, pouty lips and backs away, mumbling excuses.
You know that in a couple of hours a Fed Ex transport helo will arrive with a metric ton or two of boxes and bags, and even if you return everything there will be shipping charges and restocking fees – what the hell is a restocking fee? – equal to your weekly mortgage payment or more, but you’re too exhausted from the long day to argue, to scold, or to do anything at all except take her hand and drag her into your den and activate the Black & Bluedecker Spankomatic, easily the best labor-saving investment you ever made. Yes, ordinarily you delight in swatting, paddling, strapping or switching and then soothing and caressing her sweet, firm bottom, but some days, like this one, all you want is to relax, sip something cool, and let the miracles of modern science do the work for you. And the Spankotronic truly is a marvel.
Artist Unknown
The apparatus unfolds from its niche in the wall when you thumb the activator node, and you push your most dearly beloved Mishu-Amanda into the machine’s soft grasp. Twenty flex-steel extensoribs covered in Senso-Plastifoam hold her firmly while she wriggles and pleads not to be punished. You tap your preferences into the control pad, and steel-and-foam Servofingers deftly strip the catsuit from her. (The Deluxe Spankomatic model comes preset to Detect And Remove All Garments, but your friendly Black & Bluedecker installation technician will be happy to show you how to change that configuration if you want your punishee to remain partially clothed.) You choose Light Wooden Paddle, Bended Upright Position, Timing Random Intervals 1-3 Seconds Stroke, Infinite Variation Soft To Medium Intensity, and Duration Indeterminate from the menu, and thumb the Begin contact.
A panel slides open to reveal an implement array – one leather and two wooden paddles, a two- and a three-tailed tawse, a wide, thin leather strap, a birch rod of six wands, a rather thick but limber mimosa switch, and a fairly short but nonetheless serious looking rattan school cane, all stocked by you. Then one of the Spankomatic’s two articulated, stainless steel robotic action arms, both with patented Wrist-Snap technology, snakes around to grasp the handle of the lighter ash wood paddle.
Mishu-Amanda gasps and struggles to break free to no avail, and her pleas turn to indignant squeals as a steel strut, thickly padded to resemble a bed bolster, emerges from the wall, and the automatic ribs bend her body over it at the waist, her knees slightly bent and her firm, round bottom presented for mechanical chastisement. A red laser dot appears on her left bottom cheek for a millisecond as the machine’s electronic eye gauges target distance, then the robotic paddle arm swings and the paddle cracks hot sting into her rear. She screeches in pain and glares in your direction as you smile and amble toward the sideboard and the Cuisinart Robo-Bar that sits on its top.
You say, “The usual” to the Robo-Bar’s audio intake, and machinery merrily whirrs and clicks. Grey Goose vodka instantly pours from a spout into a small beaker, followed by a splash of Noilly-Pratt vermouth from a different spout.
A cold, stemmed glass emerges from the refrigeration unit of the Robo-Bar as tiny vents situated above the beaker emit high-pressure puffs of super-cooled nitrogen gas that both mix and chill the liquid concoction to exactly 4 degrees Celsius. Servos whirr again, and the beaker rises and tilts to pour the martini into the glass. You take up the drink by the stem and inhale the fiery cool aroma while you watch Mishu-Amanda’s bottom writhe and squirm, and listen to her plaintive cries along with the crisp, hot paddle claps that are quickly turning her tight bottom a rosy pink.
With a satisfied nod in the direction of the Spankomatic, you hold your glass beneath a small portal in the Robo-Bar’s frame and tap a red button twice. Two queen-sized Spanish olives splash into your drink, and you close your eyes to sip the delicate elixir as you walk toward your favorite chair, a Barcalounger/LaZboy 3000 with Shiatsu massage and retractable armrests.
Crisp, serious pops of wood on flesh and sincere yelps fill the air as you sit and stretch back, then you thumb a contact and lovely Barcalounger/LaZboy mechanical fingers caress the cares of the planet from your neck and lumbar region. The Spankomatic’s restraining ribs are tough but pliable, and as the heat and sting increase in Mishu-Amanda’s naughty bottom her body shudders as she writhes, clenches and thrusts with all her might. Ash wood claps repeatedly and accurately, and shoots sting into her taut rear end, and the robotic arm’s variable speed and random severity keeps her off balance, unable to prepare for the next spank, unable to shriek a consistent plea, promise, or epithet at you for putting her in such a dire and unnecessary situation.
You smile and sip alcoholic abandon as her adorable fanny reddens, admiring the machine’s technique as the arm adjusts to smack fire into every millimeter of flesh in her well-bended spank spot. She glares at you and protests heartily, tears in her wide eyes, but you wait – wait until the tears are real, because you know her, know her ways. Her promises to be good, her pleas for clemency, her absolute assurance that she will never, ever do it again make you smile, sip, and visually estimate the redness of the paddle rash on her exquisite cheeks. When the skin of her bottom attains a near-liquid sheen, a shiny-hot glow you can almost feel from the other side of the room, only then do you relent, pick up the remote control and thumb Pause.
The paddle stops smoothly in mid-spank, and you ask if she will be a good girl forever and ever, and of course she screams YES. Will you have my dinner ready on time from now on and not spend all my money on clothes you wear once if that, young lady? And of course she screams YES. But still you aren’t convinced, nor should you be, and you thumb the RESUME and AUGMENT buttons on the remote, and the paddle once more descends on her hot, hurting heinie, a bit more strictly but not so much as if you had raised to the next level – just to let her know you won’t be fooled. This IS punishment, after all.
Now her tears are genuine, you can see that, and you thumb off the Augment switch. A few dozen more at the previous setting and her little bare bottom is SO sore she can scarcely bear it, and neither can you, so you thumb the STOP button and take one more major slurp of your martini as you rise to deactivate the mechanism. Ribs retract, the robotic arm puts the paddle back in its place and the panel slides shut, and the Spankomatic hums quietly in stasis as you lift your tiny love off the bolster, pick her up and cradle her in your arms. Her genuine tears wet your neck as you sit in the chair and press the contact that retracts the chair arms so you can cuddle her in your lap, her naughty, paddle-scorched bottom rubbing your thighs. Amidst her sobs and sniffles you hear true repentance, so you grab tissue from a box and wipe her nose and eyes while she wriggles her hot little fundament and holds you tightly.
She was a bad girl but now she is forgiven – so long as she goes and makes your dinner immediately. With furious nods she accedes to your demand, and doesn’t grumble at all when you say she must wear nothing but a t-shirt while she labors in the kitchen for that long, tough five minutes, turning a block of ice into two filet mignons with truffle reduction, braised new potatoes and asparagus Hollandaise, and opening a vintage bottle of merlot from the Martian Lowlands. You sit at the dining room table and wait, sipping your drink and admiring through the adjoining doorway the warm, slick redness of your beloved’s bare tushy. And if she requests lotion be applied to her strictly paddled bottom as she sits on the cushioned chair to eat, tell her it will come later – after you send back all that Sacs Fifth Avenue crap – when she will return the favor and lotion YOU as well, where it will do the most good.
I very much doubt she will object.
(The forgoing was sponsored in part by Black & Bluedecker Industries, manufacturing mankind’s home disciplinary needs since 1999. Also sponsored by Powdermilk Biscuits, in the big blue box, or in the brown bags with the stains that guarantee freshness.)
That is most assuredly all.
Ok I’m confused. Did you fantasise about one robot spanking another robot?
Surely the girl robot would turn off her pain recepters, and hello titanium is the material that most robots are made from.
Only kidding Professor. Loved this little tale.