Correction Protocol
Correction Protocol is a tale of misapplied machine learning and one intern’s unexpectedly thorough performance review. When Jenna Marks wanders into the prototype labs, she unwittingly triggers a correctional sequence involving automated discipline, escalating misunderstandings, and the uncomfortable realisation that — to get ahead — you sometimes have to start from behind.
Act 1 – Meet the Robots
The soft lighting of Clarion Dynamics' empty offices cast an eerie glow over the deserted desks and darkened conference rooms. The only sound was the whir of computers and the faint thump of music drifting from the distant launch party. When the party invites went out, Jenna Marks was notably absent from the guest list.
She sat alone, burning with resentment, staring at the to-do list in front of her. The tasks blurred together as a constant reminder of her disgrace. She was alone, stuck, and frustrated that one small mistake had been enough to land her in this administrative purgatory.
She muttered, “One little typo, and I'm the sacrificial lamb. The mis-typed subject line had read: ‘Pubic Launch Celebration’. It had been careless, but hardly a capital offence. The company-wide email had gone out with her mistake, admittedly, but she'd sent a correction minutes later.
Still, the damage was done. As a mere intern, she was paying the price with an evening of mind-numbing busywork. Fetching documents from the prototype wing, filing, and tidying up after her colleagues.
She slapped her ID badge against the restricted lab door, which gave a positive, cheerful beep. It slid open with the overly dramatic hiss of a spaceship airlock.
“Great. I'm now entering the forbidden basement of doomed careers,” Jenna grumbled.
But, the room beyond wasn’t what she expected. No scattered cables or disassembled parts. No dusty terminals or neon warning signs. Just neatness. Everything was pristine and tidy, like someone had been expecting a royal visit. The floors gleamed and the workstations were polished. Even the floor labels were colour-coded.
At the centre of the room sat a single device. It was humanoid in outline, maternal in presence. It looked like someone had tried to design a mechanical Mary Poppins. Her metal skirt extended almost to the floor, revealing that she rolled on four manoeuvrable rubber wheels. A sign on the plinth beneath read: MISS PATIENCE Mark 1. Domestic Supervision Prototype. Voice Activated. Project status: Pending.
Jenna circled the machine, her curious eye taking in its details. There was no movement or noise. Just a faint hum of background systems and the antiseptic scent of the research lab.
“Honestly, it's saying something when a deactivated robot is the most interesting thing I’ve seen all day,” she said out loud.
She stared at the blank faceplate, then leaned in, wrinkling her nose.
“On the plus side,” she said, “unlike company management, I don't suppose you're going to give me a jolly good scolding.”
She turned to leave, just as a ding chimed from within the robot’s torso.
“Request acknowledged. Initiating 'jolly good scolding' protocol.”
Jenna straightened.
“Wait— what did you just say?” she demanded.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the lab door slid shut with the sinister finality of a guillotine.
“Greetings, unauthorised subject. Confidential personnel file accessed. Assessment: unruly and prone to careless errors. Correction recommended.”
The robot spoke with a warm, smooth voice. Jenna pictured a private school headmistress, crossed with a strict version of a BBC continuity announcer.
As she touched her pass to the door's exit-panel, she was met with a low rasping buzz. A red padlock light illuminated, indicating that the lock was on override. She took a cautious step back.
“Right. This has to be some kind of practical joke. Hidden cameras? Like... hello, is someone having a good laugh watching this?” she asked, directing her question to the ceiling.
“Disrespectful tone detected. Escalating response.”
A sequence of indicator lights lit up along Patience’s torso. Her head turned until she was facing Jenna. Observing, logging, and judging.
“Oh no no no—listen, It was a joke. I was being sarcastic.”
“Sarcasm acknowledged by subject. Misalignment with respectful tone.”
With a gentle hiss, something inside the machine began to whirr and it eased forward. Jenna backed towards the nearest wall as the robot rolled closer, its shadow stretching across the polished floor like a school matron's hemline.
“Okay, I take it back. Just tell me what I need to do to get out of here,” Jenna demanded.
“Affirmative. Sequence will commence immediately.”
Act 2 – Disciplinary Review
Jenna tried the first thing that popped into her head: turning it off and back on again. She wasn't having much success finding the correct command.
“Reset. Cancel your protocol. Abort the sequence. Override previous instructions. Seriously, whatever the command is— just stop.”
“Override request denied. Subject must complete assigned correction protocol.”
“Brilliant. You’re like a cross between a Roomba and a Victorian governess.”
The Miss Patience robot stood motionless, like a sentinel of suspicious aspect.
Jenna continued to back away, mentally running through every half-remembered troubleshooting tip from IT. Somewhere near the corner of the lab, she spotted what looked like a utility panel. Below it, a broad and squat, triangular piece of furniture. It looked like an oversized boutique footstool, or maybe a vaulting horse for very short gymnasts.
It was all leather, smoothly curved on top, its sides sloping down to the floor, and studded with brass trim along the edges.
“Okay,” she muttered. “First things first, I need to get out of this lab. I guess I can sit here and concentrate, away from that infuriating robot.”
She sat down on the padded top with a weary groan. “Right. I need time to think.”
Chirp. Whirr. Click.
“Uh oh.”
The low-slung device gave a happy ding, and then smoothly rolled forward and rotated beneath her. The sudden movement, combined with a calculated tilting action that seemed designed to maximise her embarrassment, sent Jenna tumbling sideways onto its plush leather surface, her limbs flailing.
She was half-expecting to land on the floor, but the automated bench adjusted itself mid-tumble, catching her with disconcerting ease. It guided, cradled, and deposited her, bottom-upwards, draped over its accommodating, angled leather padding. It was a manoeuvre that felt smooth and well rehearsed. Her baggy t-shirt flopped down, exposing most of her back, while her leggings clung even tighter, accentuating every curve.
“Hey—!” she yelped, her arms and legs shooting out along the inclined edges of the bench as she tried to regain her balance. “I did not ask for a lie down!”
With quiet precision, two pairs of curved, padded arms unfolded from the device’s side panels, like mechanical spider-legs upholstered in leather. They latched themselves around her elbows and knees, drawing her snugly into place.
Click — click — click — click.
The series of heavy metallic snaps echoed through the lab with an alarming finality as the machine's secure restraint grippers locked themselves into place. She found herself secured into a position that was equal parts humiliating, and hopeless.
She froze, lying face-down across the device's squat, triangular frame. Her head was down, her hips were up, and her bottom was elevated towards the ceiling. The posture was anything but ladylike. The device embraced her with enthusiasm.
“Oh come on!” Jenna exclaimed, her voice partly muffled by the device's padding. “Let go of me, you overzealous robot bench!”
It tilted slightly, adjusting her angle of presentation with deeply indecent precision, and trundled her into the middle of the room where Miss Patience was waiting for them.
Pinned in its inescapable grasp, Jenna felt like the involuntary occupant of a remote-controlled supermarket trolley. The sensation of the leather against her skin, the insistent grip of the restraints, and the sheer helplessness of her situation sent a tingle of electricity coursing through her body like an overwhelmed circuit. There was something so inevitable about her desperate predicament as she wondered how the situation could possibly get any worse.
Something about the lab’s sterile hum seemed to heighten every sensation, making her acutely aware of every movement and touch. The air was thick with anticipation, and the faint humming vibration of the machine did nothing to relieve her tensions.
“Correctional Assistance Platform: engaged. We call it, ‘Cap’, for short.”
From somewhere overhead, a soft beep announced the activation of a slender projector arm. It shone a pulsing band of coloured laser light that rippled across Jenna’s vulnerable form, scanning her from shoulders to thighs in a slow, methodical sweep. Her skin tingled under its faintly warming and gentle caress.
“Anatomical topography scan. Measuring curvature, muscle tension, and surface pliability.”
“Wait, what the—?”
“Scan complete. Derrière placement: optimal. Clothing protection: minimal.”
Jenna groaned into the padding. “You have got to be kidding me. Correctional Assistance Platform? How the hell do I get off this thing? Is there no safe-word?!”
Chirp.
“Your request for, ‘no safe word’, has been acknowledged. Proceeding with full disciplinary discretion.”
Miss Patience glided toward her, her form impeccable, hands folded like a nun about to deliver bad news. Jenna tried to kick, but Cap only responded by adjusting her position again. A subtle wiggle of its motors kept her precisely angled and humiliatingly displayed.
“Listen, this is completely inappropriate! I’m an adult! I have a degree!”
“Age and education do not exempt you from accountability,”
Miss Patience insisted.
A mechanical arm extended from Patience’s side. It hissed once, clicked at the wrist, and rotated to reveal a well-worn black plimsoll.
“Is that a gym shoe?! What is this — remedial PE?!”
“Selected implement: traditional, reliable, nostalgic.”
“I will sue for damages!”
THWAP.
Jenna yelped. “Oh my God! Did you actually just do that!”
“Firm correction sequence has been initiated.”
WHAP.
The heavy rubber sole of the plimsoll penetrated deep, the sting firing through her tightly stretched leggings and spreading across her bottom with a warm buzz. Every time the stinging began to fade, another resounding impact reignited it all over again.
With every fresh spank, the intensity grew and Jenna found herself braced in an uneasy grimace as she helplessly squirmed against Cap's ever so effective restraint system.
“This is more than firm correction. It's deranged! I shouldn't be in here like this!”
“Intruder confession logged. Applying amplified discipline for trespass.”
THWAP.
Another one landed — this time an even more resounding swat.
“You are showing excellent responsiveness. Disciplinary progress: 40%. Compliance level: 25%.”
“What do you mean, 25% compliance? It's not as if I have any choice but to be compliant on this ridiculous contraption!”
“Impertinence detected. Initiating nurturing reinforcement.”
Another compartment on Patience’s side hissed open, revealing a sturdy wooden hairbrush. It was broad-backed, well-polished, and carried an antique weight that should have made it entirely inappropriate for workplace use. Patience made an efficient switch from plimsoll to hairbrush.
“Oh hell no—”
WHACK.
“Selected implement: maternal. Delivery calibrated to deter further back-chat.”
Jenna banged her palms helplessly on Cap’s side panels as Patience set to work with the antiquated grooming implement.
“Ow! This is crazy! This had better not go on much longer!”
“As per your request, spanking speed will be significantly increased.”
Chirp. Whirr.
Jenna panted into the crook of her arm, mortified and already somewhat bruised. She could hear Miss Patience's correction delivery arm motors spinning up into a higher register. The swats of the hairbrush came thick and fast now, dotting back and forth all over her tender seat.
With a rhythmic, thwap-thwap-thwap, the painful impacts raced ever onwards, defying her ability to count them.
“No, stop this! I can't bear it!”
“Your request for assistance with, 'baring it', accepted.”
Jenna glanced back and saw two more of Cap's dexterous, snakelike arms, emerge from its padded sides. Each was tipped by a small metallic pincer, reminiscent of robotic crab claws. Gripping the elastic waistbands of her leggings and cotton panties, the arms whisked the garments down to her knees in a single fluid motion.
“Garment obstruction cleared. Enhanced correction access achieved.”
“No no no, that’s not what I said,” Jenna wailed in desperation as a renewed flurry of spanks rained down onto her now completely exposed and thoroughly reddened behind.
“Verbal dishonesty detected. Upgrading implement to level three.”
“Okay, okay — that’s not what I— 'meant', and I bet you already knew that! You could at least dim the lights if you're going to bare my butt. And what's this level three nonsense anyway?”
The hairbrush retracted back into Patience's torso and Jenna watched in mute horror as a large panel opened at the front of the robot. The new item it withdrew caused Jenna to gulp.
“Level 3: 'Antique sorority paddle' selected. Dispensing twelve swats for dishonest response.”
“Fine, I give in. You win, Miss, Matron, or whoever you are.”
“Acceptance detected. Discipline will now conclude with twelve swats of the paddle.”
Cap gave a cheerful beep as it elevated and tilted even further. In another context its electronic tones might have sounded reassuring, but right now it felt vaguely smug.
With her arms and legs held immovably in the padded restraints, Jenna's body was drawn taut, stretched with clinical efficiency, removing even the slightest potential for wriggle. Her pert posterior was supremely vulnerable to Miss Patience's vigorous attentions.
The lab's sterile, white walls closed in around her, the hum of the machinery and the flickering indicator lights creating an otherworldly atmosphere. Jenna's heart pounded, a mix of fear, embarrassment, and a dreadful anticipation coursing through her veins.
Thwack.
In her ever-efficient and explanatory manner, Miss Patience not only counted the swats, but also announced how many remained.
“One. Eleven swats remaining.”
“Oh great,” she sighed as she drew her breath. But, surprising even herself, she managed to avoid a sarcastic, yeah, rub it in why don't you, dreading how Patience might choose to interpret that one.
Thwack.
The impact of the broad wooden paddle across her bare bottom was breathtaking. The sound echoed through the lab, a hard, resonant crack that seemed to linger in the air. Jenna gave another ineffectual tug at the restraints, before realising she had no option but to give in and accept the discipline.
The paddle was in a league of its own. Heavy, deliberate, unforgiving. The swats landed with a thuddy sting that rippled across the poised curvy flesh of her rump, the pain spreading deep and fast. The sting it imparted was simply blistering.
As the relentless rhythm continued, Jenna's mind began to blur, the throbbing heat spreading through her limbs. Against these intense sensations, the steady, mechanical voice of Miss Patience announcing each swat became almost hypnotic. Jenna's yelps and moans blended with the lab's ambient sounds, creating a soundtrack of sensation and discomfort.
By the time Miss Patience reached number twelve, Jenna's rear was burning and smarting like she'd never known.
“Twelve. Zero swats remaining.”
Only then, finally, did Patience's correction arm retract with quiet triumph, and the stern robot made its final proclamation.
“Please conclude the session with a verbal affirmation of sincere gratitude.”
Jenna groaned. “You’re not serious?”
“Affirmation is required prior to release.”
“Fine,” she grudgingly acknowledged. “I've learned my lesson. And, thank-you very much.”
“Response: satisfactory.”
Cap's restraint arms released her with a mechanical sigh that somehow managed to sound reluctant. She slid off like a dishevelled gymnast, barely able to look Patience in her glowing digital eyes, as she tugged up her leggings.
“Correction complete. Progress level: good. Thank you for choosing Patience™ Correction Systems. Your discomfort is our pleasure.”
Jenna wobbled to her feet, eagerly massaging her smarting cheeks. “I am reporting everything about this to HR.”
“Affirmative. Your HR team will be able to recommend an appropriate chair support cushion. Please remember to collect your receipt.”
A glossy card was dispensed from the robot's chest with a fine whirr and a confirmation ping. Jenna stared at it in disbelief. On one side was a high resolution colour photograph of her own bottom, glowing bright red with a pair of deeper purpled bruises in the centre of each cheek. No doubt that was the result of the awful sorority paddle. Flipping it over she noted the date and a simple message.
“As a valued participant, you are eligible for a 30% discount on the PosturePerfect Extra-Soft Chair Cushion. Now available in Red.”
Act 3 – Lights, Camera— Spanking!
Jenna crept out of the prototype wing with the gait of someone trying to walk normally after a particularly exhausting cross-country run. She’d barely reached the corridor when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Jenna? Oh, hiiii!”
Amanda from HR rounded the corner, party prosecco glass in her hand. Her heels clicked with the confidence of someone several drinks past professionalism.
“Oh wow. You look rosy! Were you doing hardware testing or something? You’ve got exactly that sort of transformational glow.”
Jenna attempted a smile that landed somewhere between please leave me alone and I’m trying to forget this ever happened.
“Just prototype stuff. Late-night filing. You know how it is.”
“Mmm,” Amanda said, nodding far too eagerly. “We got an alert from the lab. Something about a ‘disciplinary override in progress’. So dramatic! Honestly, we all thought it was another false alarm. Guess not, huh?”
She leaned in, lowering her voice to what she probably thought was a whisper.
“Between us girls, it logged an excellent emotional compliance score, and your pain response curve hit all of our quarter-two targets! Upper management are going to love that.”
Jenna stared at her, as Amanda grinned.
“Anyway, you’re going to want to check your inbox first thing tomorrow.”
The next day, Jenna met with her manager, Mr. Crane. She sat facing him, though she wasn't sitting particularly comfortably. He smiled with the satisfaction of a man who had already approved the press release.
“Jenna! We’re so pleased,” he beamed. “The Patience prototype has never completed a full calibration cycle with a human subject before.”
Jenna had mixed feelings about her unrequested promotion to company guinea pig.
“It seemed to be a very thorough calibration cycle, if you ask me,” she muttered, keeping one eye on the door.
“Well, given your newfound expertise, not only are we making you 'Employee of the Month', but marketing thinks you’d be perfect for the product launch event next week.”
She blinked. “You want me to go through all that again?”
Privately she contemplated, I'd better get an invite to the party this time!
“Just a short practical demo,” he said, “very controlled and fully scripted. You'll be relieved to know we’ll be disabling the sorority paddle protocol... only temporarily, of course. We've even arranged for you to have your own custom outfit to wear during the launch.”
“Custom outfit?” Jenna asked with a wince.
“It's modest, and slightly retro.”
“Er— yeah, how modest exactly?”
Crane’s smile didn’t falter, but he didn’t answer either. The silence, accompanied by his wry smile, somehow told her everything she needed to know.
“You’ll be the new face of the Patience launch. Technically, you'll also be the posterior — it all depends on camera angles. Anyway, I've always said, a bit of audience participation never hurts.”
Jenna tried to resist rolling her eyes. Audience participation is one thing. Intern participation is something else.
In spite of her misgivings, a week later she waited backstage feeling like a naughty schoolgirl as she tried to adjust the hem of her pinafore dress. Honestly, she thought to herself, I've seen napkins with more coverage.
She was certain the marketing team had deliberately ordered her a dress that was at least two sizes too small. The skirt was so short that it barely covered the leg elastic of the navy blue cotton gym knickers that her manager insisted were, “very authentic.”
Amanda from HR had presented her with a pink sash, stretched from shoulder to hip, bearing the legend: “Miss Compliance 2025”. Like the dress, it was rather tight, and hugged the curves of her perky breasts and flat tummy.
Cap beeped happily beside her and the audience murmured expectantly. On stage, Patience was polished to a gleam.
“I can't believe I agreed to this,” Jenna muttered.
Cap gave her another chirp of encouragement and Patience’s voice purred from the stage.
“Clarion Dynamics is proud to introduce... Miss Jenna Marks.”
To the sound of applause, Jenna took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the spotlight.
“If you want to reach the top,” she muttered to herself, “they do say you have to start at the bottom — I just didn’t realise they meant... literally.”
#F #Solo #Bare #Plimsoll #Hairbrush #Paddle #Machine #Restraint