Over the Lap of Luxury Pt. 01

Note: The following story contains F/m and F/f content. This is a sci-fi world set in the near-future and contains unrealistic elements, such as more folks than usual enjoying BDSM. Unlike the proper way to practice BDSM in real life, this story will not use safe words and the consent is somewhat dubious. Read no further if that would upset you. Otherwise, enjoy!

In the first widely shared servant video, a young woman was shown already bent over a lap. The spanker's face was kept off-camera, so her most distinguishing feature was her white evening gown and painted pink nails. The victim's face was also obscured by her position, bent almost doubled over. Her long hair puddled on the floor, her lower arms braced flat against the hardwood planks.

"Are you embarrassed, girl?"

She gave no answer, but of course she had to be. Her pleated skirt was flipped and pushed up to the small of her back, fully exposing her pert, bare bottom. Her panties were on the ground between her legs, which were spread about a foot apart.

"Wider," she said, patting her bottom hard enough for a few smacks to sound. "All the way apart. The shame will teach you a better lesson than my hand ever could."

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Her voice trembled.

The video was viewed over a million times in just a week. Exclusive: Real female servant gets humiliating punishment during a dinner party. It was taken surreptitiously by a guest for his own viewing pleasure. But somehow, perhaps through the work of his wife's servant, the video surfaced and made its way to the most popular porn sites. People suspected some casual sadism since the first batch of servants took their jobs six months earlier. Now everyone knew for sure.

Servants became a trend among rich and bored housewives shortly after the technological advances that kickstarted the Robotics Revolution. They were hired in this world of bots and AI precisely because they were so adorably human. The correction of all their human errors with mortifying punishments became synonymous with their role. They were human accessories, sex toys, and displays of status.

Not all moneyed housewives participated, but this particular demographic happened to be much more keen on dominating and disciplining than the general population. It was often about power, especially when straight women took on a female servant. Their husbands had enjoyed their own sexual proclivities for years now, so the wives finally found their own outlet.

As a common theme, servants were all very attractive and well-educated twenty-somethings, often from previously well-to-do families, before the Robotics Revolution changed things. That was part of the fun, degrading someone who could have been rich in an alternate timeline.

The servant girl in the widely shared video spread her legs until her naked privates were on full display, upturned as she was over her mistress' leg. All servants, male and female, were kept completely hairless down below, it was later known. It added to their shame and vulnerability; a constant reminder of their new lot in life. The unfortunate girl whimpered from that alone, being spread so wide in front of a crowded dinner party that every fold was opened to the hungry eyes around her.

The nameless mistress rubbed the servant's creamy cheeks under her palm. The girl had apparently drunk half a flute of champagne in the kitchen earlier that evening, though the chilled bottle was strictly reserved for the guests. The chef and sous chef both witnessed it. For a little while she was scolded right in this position, on display in front of everyone and waiting to be spanked. "I'm going to have to teach you a very hard and humiliating lesson about stealing," she said.

The hand-spanking began in full right after that. No more words. Just fast-paced, loud smacks, and constant cries of pain from the servant. She tried hard to stay still, taking her spanking as best she could. It was obvious, her legs sometimes going tense and stiff, shaking. Her hands sometimes fruitlessly clutching at the ground.

Her bare cheeks quickly went from creamy white to a uniform pink blush, reddening further and further as the spanks rained down. Eventually she cried. Real tears, from the sounds of it. Her back shook hard as that manicured hand kept turning her rosy red.

There were some hushed whispers from the guests. They all heartily approved of the punishment. A servant has to really pay for something like that, sneaking expensive champagne, trying to act above her status.

Another couple minutes of the spanking went on while the servant sobbed throughout. She'd been trained well, it seemed. Her legs stayed fully spread open the entire time, her hands never reached back to hide her smarting skin from further spanks. And once the spanking was over, she lay limp and still, right there over the knee. Still on shameful display. Just crying.

Someone else, perhaps a regular employee of the estate, handed the well-dressed woman a small silver plug and a jar of a lubricant on a little tray.

"You're wearing your punishment plug for corner time," she told the hapless servant.

"Oh, please, no!" begged the servant. The outburst earned her a good series of new spanks to her sit spot. Some of those smacks surely grazed her between her legs. It looked a little red there, too.

The woman lubricated the metal plug as the bare-bottomed servant nervously awaited this further humiliation. Two fingers spread her cheeks further apart as the tip of the plug circled around her opening. She gave a plaintive cry, knowing her fate was sealed.

It was hard to tell if this method of plugging her made it easier or harder on her. The woman kept pushing in a little more and more at a time, opening her up carefully, but at the same time fucking her with that silver plug maybe much more than she needed to fully succumb. She squirmed over her mistress' knees the entire time. Someone to the side of the cameraman moaned just barely loud enough to be heard, unable to muffle their excitement over the unfortunate one's shame.

Finally, after a good whole minute of punishing her with this humiliating anal penetration, the woman sunk the entire girth of the silver plug into her at once. A squeal of pained surprise turned to a final low moan of shame. Her legs bent and straightened behind her as she adjusted to the invader in her rectum.

"Did we learn a good lesson, young lady?" She pat the plug, painted fingernails tapping the flared base.

"Y-yes, ma'am," said the servant.

The servant was pulled up and sent straight to the corner. The video only had to tilt up slightly to capture the moment. She stood with her nose to the corner, skirt tucked up, legs spread wide to display her shameful plug, bent slightly forward. Her crying continued, at this point it seemed from the humiliation alone.

The video ended there, and it was unknown what happened next, though it became a great sport in some online communities to wonder very vividly together. Some thought the servant would later be shared among the interested guests. Some thought there was no way the billionaire's wife would ever share her most prized possession.

This footage eventually made its way to the news cycle. The content was so explicit, however, they couldn't even show blurred images. News anchors simply spoke of it, very carefully. They used proper words. Corporal punishment, and the like. No one on screen called it abuse. All the major news outlets were owned by people who already had a servant at their estate, or were considering getting one soon.

"Let's not pretend we didn't know what was happening to the servants," said one of the talking heads on screen. "But there are benefits, you know. The wages aren't too bad, and they get room and board in some of the nicest parts of the world. And anyway, they signed the employment contracts. A deal is a deal."

Asher was too soft for the world, the way it became. When he was born and raised it was a whole other kind of place. Even up until his final year of university. Now, he could barely walk from the bus to his job, from the bus to his shoebox apartment, or from his apartment to the grocery store. Those were just about the only places he went, considering how dangerous it was out there for the past couple of years.

The bus thanked Asher for scanning his bank card at his stop in a voice that tried hard to sound human. He used to say 'you're welcome' when it was novel and cute some years back. Now, not so much.

There were usually armed security guards protecting his office building, but today they were nowhere in sight. So Asher found himself swarmed by three beggars while not having the kind of temperament it takes to tell them to shove off. So he used his usual excuse, "I haven't got a lot." True, but surely more than they had.

"You know it will happen to all of us, right?" said the pushiest of the beggars, a woman caked head to toe in grime. She'd been sleeping rough for sure. Not all of them did. Some couch surfed.

"What will?" asked Asher.

"The way they treat the servants. They're the canaries in the coal mines, you know. They're not the only ones going to get legally punished like that. They're just the first. You'll be next."

What did she even mean by this? Was using corporal punishment on servants fully legal now? Asher didn't really get involved in politics and current events. Too much of a bummer, especially these days.

"We gotta stick together. Employed and unemployed, all of us. It's us against the fat cats. You wouldn't let someone on your side starve, would you?"

Asher found a five dollar bill that she snatched up before he technically offered it. He may have been more naive than most men, but it didn't take long to learn never to carry more than he could afford to have stolen. He did feel bad for them, the unemployed, but this morning's philanthropy had more to do with the strength of the guys she consorted with.

This was part of the problem with Asher; he was kind of small. Average height, but no muscles or meat on his bones. Yet another reason he was ill-equipped for this sort of dystopia, the kind with wall to wall desperate people. The two guys probably would have started pushing him around if one didn't nearly trip over a mail-bot, rolling down the sidewalk. Only four feet tall but built like a tank. Like the retail-bots and delivery-bots, they had the entire police force at their beck and call, should someone tamper. Tripping over counted as tampering, for the record.

Asher went into the office. Darrow-Tech. The letters on the building were all golden, which really said it all. Darrow-Tech worked on perfecting artificial intelligence, helping AI best understand and interpret natural human language. As such, they played a big part in the Robotics Revolution right here in this building, and Asher did feel appropriately bad about that. But he had to eat, too. Anyway, as an intern, he was marginally employed here at best.

The guards were all inside today. Portia, the wife of the company's owner, Nicholas Darrow, was visiting. All the interns, and only the interns, were lined up in a row, standing at attention like soldiers. Great. Did he just give away five whole dollars before getting unceremoniously booted out?

A guard pointed to Asher, and pointed to the lineup. He got right in place, as usual, doing his best to keep out of trouble. Never complaining or making waves was his best theory on how he got this coveted paid internship in the first place.

Portia Darrow was tall for a lady and built like a ballerina. Her auburn hair was even pulled into a bun today, which completed the look. She started inspecting the interns like purebreds at a dog show. She took a keen interest in three guys, including Asher. When she squeezed his jaw between her fingers, turning his head left and then right, she verbally categorized him as 'so cute' which made him blush a bit. His pink cheeks got a quiet 'ooh' and a nod to a tall Indian man holding a tablet. He made note.

Asher was one of those guys who grew up awkward and still failed to realize his own looks had greatly changed for the better. He had a youthful, clean-shaven face with big blue eyes. Only recently had he learned to style his wavy brown curls, which helped him in the looks department considerably.

High heels clicked away on the marble floors as Portia went elsewhere without a word about her sudden departure. The guards waved their hands at the interns. Back to work.

Not an hour into his morning routine, Asher's phone buzzed. It was the company's preferred method of communication, texting, as they said it increased productivity and decreased pointless chit chat. The text read: Come to room 805 on the top floor.

Asher left his desk immediately, taking the elevator up. The top floor was nothing but large, private offices, the doors always closed. Not a place he'd ever been before. One of the interns Portia liked downstairs brushed past him towards the elevator, eyes glued to the ground, a pained look on his face. Worrying. Asher knocked on the door marked 805 softly, as he usually did.

Inside, it was just the tall assistant holding the tablet and Portia Darrow herself. Asher eyed the dainty pearls on her collarbone. She must have had an amazing security detail to wear those in this part of the city.

"Asher," she said, pointing to an empty chair. "Sit."

Portia introduced the assistant as Raj, and said they needed to talk to him. The talk was more like an interrogation.

Did he have any health conditions? (No.) Was he single? (Very.) They asked about his upbringing, hobbies, and if he spoke any other languages. What were his clothing sizes? What was his area of expertise in the company? Did he have a criminal record? (Absolutely not. Asher was a notorious goody-two-shoes. Didn't even smoke or drink.) They'd run a quick check anyway, or so they said.

For a hot minute he thought he was being promoted out of his internship and into a real job here. After only eight months! Then Raj the assistant said, "We suspect you've been stealing office supplies." That was an abrupt end to Asher's pipe dream.

"I promise I haven't," said Asher. A lot of men in his position might have said that with great indignity at such an accusation, but he was just a shy ball of anxiety. "Honestly."

"Mrs. Darrow is cordially offering all the potential guilty parties a chance to accept a new form of punishment instead of being terminated." Raj had a British accent, one of the posh ones from the heart of London, which really made things feel twice as severe.

Asher felt the blood draining from his face. A dock in pay, maybe? He'd have to start skipping meals, and they were already paltry enough.

"Asher," said Mrs. Darrow. "All will be forgiven if you take a simple hand-spanking over my lap. Do you accept?"

His cheeks went from ashen to pink in an instant, and he glanced at Raj, who wasn't laughing.

For too long, he stood there in shocked silence, staring at his own shoes. The words from the beggar outside the building rang in his ears. You'll be next. If he never had that interaction, maybe this whole thing would have gone differently. At least, he'd have put up more of a polite verbal fight.

"Come here, Asher," said Portia. She sat in an armless chair in the centre of the room, smoothing her dress over her knees. She waited for the unfortunate intern, unflinching. "Let's take care of the punishment right here and now."

This or be fired, he assumed. So Asher replied with a deferential, "Yes, ma'am."

He never felt so humiliated and small, but he did exactly as he was told. What else could he do? With the softest shaky sigh of embarrassment, he lay across her lap. In this position, his pants were pulled taut over his cheeks, presenting his bottom to her for discipline. His legs were stretched behind him, the toes of his shoes on the floor, and his palms were flat against the carpet below his head, now hung in total shame. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a soft hand resting right over his backside.

He held his breath in anticipation when that hand moved up. She cracked her hand down just hard enough on the centre of his bottom to make him let go of all that breath he'd held. Then again, and again, her hand warmed him, focusing in particular on the lower portion and sometimes the backs of his thighs.

Was anyone out there in that hallway? If so, they surely knew Asher was in here getting spanked, hearing that rhythm, a loud slap every second or so. And that assistant was standing right there, watching every single spank land on the seat of his pants, every twitch of his legs or arms, every little jump and helpless struggle under her hand. Was he taking little notes about all this on his tablet, too?

The spanking was only hard enough for Asher to feel some pain, but not hard enough to make him yell or cry out. With each and every smack over his pants, Asher reacted with little whimpers or breathy gasps or pained sighs. It was more humiliating than anything else.

Asher had admittedly enjoyed those leaked servant videos, but always the ones where women were the subjects of punishment. He never put it together that maybe he wanted to be the one over a woman's lap. But it was dawning on him right now, as his backside stung under his pants and his humiliation grew to astounding new levels. Part of him loved Portia's choice of discipline. He was getting more and more aroused with each sound smack.

God, he hoped she didn't notice. The CEO's wife, for goodness sake. But how could she not? His erection was pressed right against her thigh. Each spank made him jolt a little forward, only making him stiffer. The very concept of this moment alone drove him wild. Him over the lap of an elegant and intelligent older woman, helplessly taking spank after spank because he had no other choice. And there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop her.

The final ten or so spanks were particularly forceful, eliciting little yelps from him at last, all smacks landing soundly on his sit spot. She'd noticed the erection, probably, now ragingly rock hard against her thigh. These extra firm swats were payment for his stolen pleasure.

He lay still over her lap, his backside burning hot, his frontside twitching and begging for release. Was there no other time for this sexual discovery to be unearthed?

"Okay, Asher. It's over," said Portia. So he stood as gracefully as he could, wrists crossed over his erection behind his fly, trying to look natural like that. Two soft laughs let him know his secret was out, but he still kept his arousal hidden.

"Th-thank you, Mrs. Darrow," he said, surprising even himself. A hot bottom serves as a wonderful reminder for manners. Portia found it amusing enough to smile over, and Raj took note of his gratitude.

"I want you to stand facing the wall outside the office, Asher. Hands behind your back. Then you'll be completely forgiven. Clean slate."

A timeout? In the hallway? Everyone would know that position of total disgrace, even if he was perhaps the first intern in the whole country to be treated this way. No one else would stand still like that, with their hands clasped in position, facing the wall. God, he was so embarrassed his ears were going red, too.

He gave her his shyest 'yes, ma'am' yet, and stood facing the wall as ordered, right by the door, ready to intercept the slightest sound from in there. Raj left the door just a touch ajar instead of latched, meaning some words escaped the room, but not all. He heard just enough of Raj's posh London accent to get confused. A list of adjectives. Quiet. Obedient. Polite. Timid. These qualifiers all sounded like descriptors of himself. For what purpose, he didn't quite know. They promised him the internship back after this final shame. He didn't even steal anything in the first place! Were they going back on it?