Regulation in Progress
By #HerbieHind
When Kat checks into a charming seaside cottage, she expects doilies and downtime—not a mysterious room labelled “Renovation in Progress.” But curiosity gets the better of her, and what she uncovers inside is a one-of-a-kind guest amenity, and a surprisingly thorough welcome that leaves her blushing—on more than one cheek. Regulation in Progress is a cheeky tale of misread warnings, unexpected hospitality, and a holiday experience that leaves a lasting impression.
1. A Cosy Little Mystery
Katherine Everley — Kat to everyone except her bank manager — had stayed in plenty of quirky British holiday rentals, but Primrose Cottage took the teacake.
It smelled faintly of lavender blossom and seemed to have doilies on every flat surface. Chintz curtains hung in the living room windows, mismatched teacups rested on crocheted coasters, and the bookshelf was stacked with jigsaws and dusty paperbacks. It was the kind of place where time hadn’t so much stood still as knitted itself a shawl and popped the kettle on.
After a coast-hopping adventure that had already treated her to a discreet nudist beach, an unexpected pub quiz victory (thanks to a team of retired police officers), and days of paddleboarding bliss, she found herself at her final stop. She had grand plans to immortalize every moment in her blog—if she could ever find the time to actually write them.
The cottage was as advertised: quaint, creaky, and full of seaside charm. A sloping staircase. Brass bedknobs. And a welcome note, handwritten and tied with string.
There was, however, one small caveat:
“Welcome, Kat! Help yourself to the biscuits. Please leave muddy shoes outside. Oh — and kindly avoid the room at the end of the landing. Renovation in progress. Thank you!”
Naturally, that was the one thing Kat couldn’t stop thinking about.
2. The Forbidden Door
For two whole days, Kat respected the request. She sunbathed. She journaled. She even made a valiant attempt at scrambled eggs. But curiosity — predictably — began to twitch.
So it was on her final morning, after an invigorating dip and a well-deserved nap on the beach — this time safely concealed behind her favourite bikini (she had already indulged her curiosity on the alternative) — that Kat decided it was time to investigate.
The mysterious door clicked open without resistance.
3. The Room of Curiosity
Inside, she found not stacked plasterboard and paint tins, but a clean, wood-panelled chamber with the far wall consisting of an almost room-sized mirror. Brass fixtures. Elegant lighting.
And in the centre: a strange leather-padded contraption with walnut side panels and an elaborate brass and steel mechanical appendage. This looked something like a retro robot arm, except it appeared to wield a highly polished cherrywood paddle.
The speaker grille on the wall crackled.
“Thank you for choosing the Perambulatory Regulator, Mark Two.”
Kat blinked. “Sorry, I wasn’t aware I chose anything—”
The voice was tinny, but friendly, reminding Kat of a sensual female robot voice that you might hear in a 1960's Sci-fi B-movie.
“This prototype is designed for correction, restoration, and vigorous impact-based deep tissue massage of the gluteus maximus and upper-hamstring muscle group.”
“Oh... boy,” she breathed. “For a vintage machine it sure seems to know a lot about anatomy. It looks like some sort of steampunk Peloton.”
Curiosity piqued, she couldn't resist running a hand across its luxurious leather cushioning. As she pressed down, trying to judge the softness of the padding, the voice reactivated:
“Please make yourself comfortable on the extra-smooth inclined body-rests.”
“I mean... you’re really selling it.” She stepped closer. Despite the incongruity, the thing was oddly beautiful, she had to admit. Elegant craftsmanship. Dials and vents.
Leaning over the machine — though careful not to get too close (for now) — she spotted a polished brass lever with the label: Manual Intensity Override: Supervised Use Only.
Beside it was a vintage segmented LED display that reminded her of her digital bedside alarm clock. She had to lean even further over to read it, and saw it was displaying a red, glowing: 06. There was a prominent green button beside it, marked: BEGIN.
“Okay. Hypothetically...” she murmured, leaning closer. “Six what? Reps? Minutes? ...Swats?”
Her voice faltered on that last word, as if it knew something she didn’t. “Swats? Right. Okay. So what we're dealing with here is an actual spanking machine. Why couldn’t they just say so! This has to be the weirdest Airbnb Easter egg I’ve ever found.”
The machine was oddly charming. Not sinister. Polite, even. And she was alone. She could back out at any time.
“You know what?” she said, in a tone that sounded like she was trying to persuade herself. “Six really can't be that bad.”
She glanced at the door. Definitely nobody home. Nobody for miles.
As a guest in the house, and in this room against her hosts' request, she glanced down at her ivory linen sarong, still speckled with beach sand, and her dusty flip-flops. She couldn't risk marring that beautiful leather upholstery with even a grain of sand. Best to err on the side of caution, she thought, an instinct that was slightly out of character for her.
It was purely a mechanical device, yet she felt strangely self-conscious as she kicked off her shoes and slipped out of her sarong, leaving them neatly beside the door.
Looking at herself in the mirrored wall, she noticed her playfully modest red bikini was a perfect match for the red STOP button inset into the panel beside the speaker grille.
With a mixture of mischief and madness, she stepped forward and leaned into the padded incline. The angle was surprisingly comfortable. Moulded, and seeming to hug her thigh muscles as she eased herself onto it.
The top of the machine curved with her hips so that she bridged over the absurd contraption. She was a modern girl, and had never been spanked in her life before. In a fleeting daydream, she wondered if this was what it felt like — to be told off, and guided gently over someone’s lap. A shiver of anticipation tickled her spine — or maybe that was the effect of the cool leather against her midriff.
At least now she had a much better view of the LED display.
“06? Check,” she said. “Intensity lever? Midpoint. I guess that’s normal. They say curiosity killed the cat — but let’s hope this Kat has nine lives. Or at least... more than six.”
With a final check to ensure the coast was clear — and just a flicker of apprehension at how far away that STOP button really was — her finger reached for the BEGIN button and—click.
“Position confirmed. Please remain still while the body-support stabilisers engage.”
“Wait—stabilisers—?”
Two padded arms slid smoothly from the lower frame and, with gentle authority, secured her thighs. A third arm rose upwards from beside her right hip and locked itself down with a crisp click, reassuringly hugging the small of her back. She tried to shift — but found that she couldn’t.
“Uh—okay,” she said aloud. “That’s... cosy. No take-backs then.”
The machine came to life with a gently throbbing hum of residual energy, buzzing with a barely perceptible vibration that penetrated up through the luxurious padding. It spoke of a quiet, understated power and authority. Kat's unease grew... just a little.
“Thank you for assuming the position. Your weight is calculated as 9 stone, 6 pounds, 3 ounces. Calibration complete.”
“Hey, don’t go announcing those stats to the whole village!” she said, then gave another wiggle — just to be sure. “Still stuck. Marvellous!”
“Default setting has been selected. Intensity: Standard.”
“This is going to make one hell of a blog post,” she muttered. “Assuming I survive.”
Kat kept her eyes on the LED readout, still reading: 06, and hoped she hadn't made a big mistake.
4. A Thorough Calibration
The first swat landed with efficiency rather than ceremony.
THWACK.
Kat squealed — more in surprise than pain — and wriggled slightly in the frame.
“Okay! Ow! That’s — okay, I felt that!”
An unfamiliar tingle spread as the unorthodox machine withdrew its paddle-arm with a whirr of motors and rapid clicking as gears rotated and sprung triggers snapped into place.
She waited, eyes on the counter, waiting for it to click down to: 05.
She barely registered the change of display before another click unleashed the arm and delivered the paddle with an accuracy that was impressive — if perhaps a little unnerving.
WHAP.
“Oof!”
She squinted at the display in disbelief: 68? With growing unease she tried to push upwards against the soft padded arm that lay across her lower back, but it was doing its job far too effectively.
“For your comfort, please remain stationary while the equipment is in operation.”
“Comfort? Seriously! And what on earth is going on with this ridiculous counter? It should be saying: 05 now. I think I should know.”
The arm drew back with hydraulic calm and delivered another swat — brisk, measured, not cruel, but certainly designed to make a point.
The number on the display wasn’t even a proper number this time: L8.
Kat whimpered. “Okay. So. It works. Congratulations, mad machine. You are officially very committed to your job.”
SMACK.
The display updated again: 98.
“Oh, brilliant,” she muttered. “The stupid display is broken.”
The paddle struck again — lower this time — with a thump that made her exhale in a rush while the counter switched to: 58.
“Ow—seriously, what even is this? Some Victorian finishing school simulator?”
THWACK. Now: h8.
She groaned. But at least there was only one more to go.
CRACK. And the readout ticked over to: E8.
Some sort of “E” error code? Well how on earth was she going to get out of this thing? Kat gave a high-pitched squeak and buried her face in the crook of her arm.
“Well… at least I won’t need a cappuccino to wake me up today.”
She waited, hearing the same whirr of motors and clicking of gears. She presumed that awful paddle would have to be out of the way before the body support stabilisers could be released. She rolled her eyes. “Hmm. Stabilisers, indeed? They provide a bit too much stabilising if you ask me!”
But instead of the release that she was expecting, the machine delivered another mechanical swat. That paddle was relentless. It simply carried on — efficient, implacable, and extraordinarily consistent.
THWACK. 28.
“Hey now — just hold your horses! I never signed up for this. I said yes to six!”
SMACK.
Now it was telling her: 18. With slowly dawning horror, Kat inclined her head — or at least, inclined it as much as she could with those awfully insistent automated restraint arms holding her in position.
08... 8L... 88...
As the swats rained down, the symmetry of the “88” finally confirmed her worst suspicions.
“Oh my god,” she muttered. “I’ve been reading the darned thing upside down.”
Not “06”, but “90”. Who in their right mind would have left this infernal contraption set to ninety swats? Then again — who in their right mind would even own such a thing?
In desperation, foolhardy though it later seemed, she jerked the intensity lever towards the left, presuming that would be the reduce power direction.
“Setting has been updated. Intensity: Brisk but Fair.”
The buzzing hum of the machine seemed to rise an extra notch. There was only a slight increase in the force of the paddle swats, but the abrupt increase in speed was certainly amplifying the message even further.
“No!” Kat wailed. “Tone it down, not up!” Instinctively she wrenched the lever in the opposite direction.
“Unauthorised operation. You must stop the device before reducing intensity.”
Kat groaned. “Yeah? Great — so how do you suggest I do that, eh?”
The brisk assault on her rear was doing nothing for her problem-solving skills. But unless her arms could quickly grow to double their current length, the STOP button remained visible, yet tormentingly out of reach.
Searching for a solution to that hopelessly unreachable STOP button only served to draw her attention back to the mirror. In a surreal twist that felt more like a nightmare than a dream, she felt as though the machine was punishing her for indulging her curiosity.
In spite of the discomfort, she was beginning to find some sort of meditative sense of calm in the experience. Although, achieving mindfulness was not exactly difficult when the metronomic swats of the paddle made it quite tricky to focus on anything else. She tried to find the silver lining, but it was hard to appreciate the discipline when every swat felt like a personal affront to her dignity.
After some moments lost in her thoughts, absorbing the inescapable sensations, she noticed the readout was now showing: 15. Followed by another — THWACK.
“Oh. Wonderful. Right on schedule — if your schedule’s written in evil,” she moaned, glimpsing the numbers: 05, a value she expected to have seen several minutes previously. Mentally rotating the display into its correct position, she sighed. Still 50 more to go.
There was little she could do but wait. She flopped forward onto the accommodating leather padding, occasionally glancing up at the mirror to witness her blushes and to see the machine performing its deft flicks of the paddle.
Against a backdrop of the unsympathetic automaton’s tireless efforts — whirring, clicking, smacking — she took occasional glances at the readout. Finally, when it seemed as though this ordeal would never be over, she saw the welcome sight of some readings she was waiting for.
90... 50... h0...
SMACK! THWACK! CRACK!
E0... 20... 10...
SMACK! THWACK! CRACK!
And with a conclusive whirr of motors and a slow easing of hydraulics, it was over. With a single perky DING — sounding far more cheerful than it had any right to be — the machine began blinking its display in a final blessed relief: 00.
5. Release and Reflection
Kat slumped forward once more, blinking and breathless.
“Operation complete. Calibration shutdown in progress. Body-support stabilisers will automatically disengage in sixty seconds.”
After her experiences on the machine, she was eager to give her toasty behind a comforting massage — and check for smouldering around the edges of her bikini bottoms. But the restraint arm across her lower back was very thoroughly padded, unlike herself, and made access impossible.
“Moral realignment complete. Please exit with humility.”
She slid gently off the bench with the air of someone who’d survived an unexpected Pilates class that was led by a vengeful Army drill sergeant. She stood for a moment, processing. Then she turned and looked at the machine.
“Well, that was an experience. I think I'll stick to paddleboarding from now on.”
For something mechanical, the experience had felt oddly personal. As if the machine knew just how to make a point.
As she stepped toward the door, the speaker chirped one last time:
“We hope you have benefited from your experience on the Perambulatory Regulator, Mark Two. Have a nice day.”
Kat rolled her eyes and muttered, “Oh, shut up,” giving the machine a playful salute with her middle finger before exiting swiftly through the door.
She couldn't bring herself to be angry with the machine. Not exactly. But her emotions were a jumble. She was feeling sore, yet strangely impressed—and just a little alarmed.
She might not have become enlightened — but her posterior had certainly seen the light.
6. Recovery in the Afternoon
She did not go swimming that afternoon. Nor did she sit in the garden to read.
She did enjoy a pot of tea — while standing — and paced the kitchen, contemplating the vagaries of curiosity, and whether her favourite red bikini might now be better colour-coordinated to her slightly blushed skin.
She decided not to check.
There was a very small part of her — a small, ill-advised, incorrigible part — that was already wondering what the Mark Three version might have to offer...
7. The Interview
When the owners arrived for check-out, they were every bit as charming as their property.
“How was your stay?” asked the husband, Michael, as he carried a neatly folded set of linen to the car. “We hope you were comfortable. Most guests rave about the beds — although the comfort of the seating arrangements can be a little more... divisive.”
“It was a very... memorable stay. And yes, I found everything quite comfortable.” The questions were taking her of guard and she added added with a hesitant half-smile, “Well, mostly comfortable.”
Steph, Michael's wife, stepped into the hallway with a knowing smile. “That’s lovely to hear. You’re looking very refreshed—almost glowing. The cottage must have made quite an impact.”
Kat blinked, taken aback. “I—”
“Probably the sea air,” Steph suggested innocently. “Or maybe some adventurous sightseeing?”
Kat choked slightly, feeling her thighs tensing in a moment of vivid déjà vu.
“But no soreness, I hope?” Steph continued, glancing at her with faux concern. “You do have to be careful. Things can get quite tender if you're not properly protected.”
“Sorry?”
“Suncream, dear,” Steph said smoothly. “That coastal sun can catch you out, even on an overcast day.”
Michael gave a chuckle. “Ah — the local rights of way — another common source of soreness, if you find you've strayed too far.”
“I didn’t... stray anywhere,” Kat said quickly, far too quickly. “I mean, I stayed entirely where I was meant to be.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Steph said sweetly, with just enough mischief in her tone to suggest otherwise. “Although we did realise that we’d forgotten to lock the door at the end of the landing. Silly us!”
“Very silly,” agreed Michael. “But we were certain you’d be far too well-behaved to go exploring where you shouldn't.”
Kat smiled stiffly. “Of course.”
There was a pause. Kat sipped her water and declined an offer to sit.
Michael glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. “Funnily enough, we thought as soon as we saw you arrive that you looked like a young lady who would enjoy some paddling.”
Kat’s eyes widened. “I beg your—?”
“Paddleboarding,” he corrected, before she could finish speaking. “I noticed your board strapped down securely to the roof rack.”
“Ah. Right.”
“Though I imagine,” Steph added, “you enjoy trying all sorts of things. Not the sort of girl to be restrained by rules.”
Kat’s blush deepened.
“Well,” said Michael, patting his hands together, “we’re very glad you’ve had a good time. I think what Steph and I are really trying to say is... you’ll be sorely missed.”
There was an even longer silence. Then Steph leaned in — discreetly, conspiratorially — and whispered, “It’s terribly old-fashioned, I know. But so many people seem to find it... enlightening.”
Kat stared at her, searching for a reply, but none came. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and managed a weak smile.
“I suppose I’d have to say I found it... brisk. But fair.”
8. The Guestbook
She signed the guestbook in her neatest handwriting:
Thank you for a delightfully restorative stay. Cosy, full of character, and... surprisingly memorable. Would consider returning. Eventually. Perhaps with a cushion.
She hesitated, pen hovering, and added a final flourish.
P.S. You really should move the STOP button a little closer.