Steam and Circumstance
When influencer, Arabella Finch, sneaks into the Seaforth Spa’s VIP suite, she expects bubbles and glamour for her livestream. Instead, clad only in a sodden bikini, she discovers “holistic spanking therapy” courtesy of a retired Danish javelin champion! Steam and Circumstance is a stinging tale of glistening correction, a formidable bathbrush, and discipline going viral.
Arabella Finch lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. It was the type of voice she used when recording her sexiest ASMR content on her channel.
“Darlings,” she cooed into the camera, framed in the glowing circle of her ring-light, “this is a super-exclusive wellness experience. You're not supposed to be seeing this. In fact, I'm not even supposed to be in here.”
She reclined in the sunken corner-bath of the Seaforth Spa’s legendary “Gossamer Suite”. The tub was a tumultuous ocean of steam and froth, an effect she had achieved with three sachets of bath crystals and some unauthorised tinkering with the jacuzzi controls. It was a serious violation of spa rules that would have horrified the maintenance department. Bubbles trailed across her shoulders like frothy epaulettes, as if she were marching in a parade of indecency.
For today's outfit she had chosen her most daring bikini-briefs. Turquoise, strappy, and high-cut, to accentuate her toned thighs. Instead of the matching bikini-top, she had chosen the latest best-selling garment from her 'merch' collection. It was a cropped, butter-yellow t-shirt, with her channel-name, “Glow From Within”, proudly arching around the swell of her ample breasts. She stretched one leg out of the water in a coquettish gesture, lying back to saturate the thin fabric in a manner that gave scant regard to the transparency of wet cotton.
She knew it would stretch livestream content-moderation policy almost as much as her curves stretched the clinging t-shirt fabric. But she justified it, reasoning that it would help her emphasise her point... or both of them, to be precise.
“I had to be as stealthy as a cat burglar,” she whispered. “While housekeeping were changing towels, I managed to sneak in, and hide in the utility cupboard. I spent ten minutes wedged in there, with a mop handle pressing on something unmentionable, and a feather-duster tickling something else, but... voilà! Here we are in the Gossamer Suite. Today, I'm bringing you something unique and exclusive. I promise that you will never, ever, have seen a livestream like this one!”
She raised an eyebrow, accompanied by a flirtatious pout, and pressed on.
“They say only heads of state and VIP dignitaries are permitted to use this suite. But honestly, wellness should be for everyone. You probably know by now that I’m not the kind of girl to let locked doors, or common sense, stand in my way.”
She adjusted her long, wavy hair, already frizzing in the steam, and leaned in towards the camera. The manoeuvre gave her audience a glimpse of her at the peak of her naughtiness and was guaranteed to create a spike... in engagement levels.
“So let’s talk about luxury, and the best ways to enhance your inner calm. First, and this is the most crucial step, ensure that you have absolute privacy.”
With comic inevitability, the door handle chose precisely that moment to turn. With an ominous click, the frosted glass door swung wide. Through the curling steam, and with mounting dismay, Arabella recognised Ingrid Rasmussen, the Therapy Manager of the Seaforth Spa hotel. Her white tunic was impeccable, as though it wouldn't have dared to show a crease.
A former Olympian, Ingrid had taken this job after her retirement from international javelin competition. Her deep tissue massage techniques were legendary, and had been known to inspire fear in the toughest of athletes. Imperious, even at the best of times, the stern expression now upon her countenance suggested to Arabella that this episode might not qualify as, the best of times.
Behind her, a slender young woman in a floral summer-dress stood with regal bearing. Even if Arabella hadn't recognised her at once as Princess Stephanie of Bulgaria, her aristocratic presence would have been unmistakable. Flanking her was a tall, stern-faced translator, his eyes settling on Arabella with aloof disapproval.
For the first time all day, Arabella forgot about her phone, her followers, and even the livestream. She sat upright in the froth, looking for all the world like a naughty schoolgirl caught by the headmistress. All of a sudden, her translucent t-shirt was starting to feel cold and clammy.
Ingrid kept her voice low and iron-edged. “Miss Finch. What precisely do you think you are doing in this suite?”
Arabella tried to mask her guilt with flippancy. “Well- would you believe me if I said this was a bubblebath quality assessment for an online review. All very innocent, I assure you.”
Ingrid folded her arms, fixing Arabella with an irritated frown. “Even if that were true, you are still not authorised to be in here.”
“Not exactly authorised... as such,” Arabella conceded. “But, think of the advertising and publicity that you'll get from my livestream. And, I'm doing it all for free! You should probably thank me for being here, actually.”
The Princess murmured and her translator straightened, turning to Ingrid. “Her Royal Highness enquires if it is correct for this young lady to be reclining in the bathtub in such an inappropriate outfit?”
Ingrid was flushed with annoyance. “No, it is absolutely not correct. But rest assured, swift corrections are my personal speciality. Complimentary, of course.”
Before Arabella could protest, Ingrid rolled up her sleeves with seasoned efficiency. Demonstrating the casual strength of a woman who had thrown javelin for Denmark in two consecutive Olympic Games, she hoisted the dripping influencer straight out of the tub.
Arabella found herself airborne, wrestled like an uncooperative rolled-up yoga mat, her barely clad bottom directed skywards. The skimpy bikini briefs, and sopping wet t-shirt left very little to the imagination. She squealed as soapsuds and water streamed from her wet skin, leaving a bubbly trail of collateral dampness across Ingrid’s white tunic.
“Ingrid, no! Put me down this instant!” she wailed in indignant desperation, casting a doleful eye back to her livestream camera.
It was still running. Of course it was!
“I'd be careful what you wish for, young lady,” Ingrid declared, taking a seat on a padded bench beside the towel radiator. “I'll put you down exactly where you belong... across my lap! And I suggest you brace yourself, because you're in for a spanking that you won't soon forget.”
Without difficulty, she swung the young woman across her firm and muscular thighs. The soap bubbles continued to slither from Arabella’s dripping skin, plopping onto the tiles below the bench. The resolute Treatment Manager seemed unconcerned by her moistened tunic, now glistening with bath foam.
After another hushed consultation, the translator chipped in with a helpful suggestion. “Her Highness suggests that, in her experience, an appropriate implement can often help to expedite these proceedings.”
He stood back, observing in a detached manner as the Princess retrieved a sturdy wooden bathbrush from a shelf beside the towels. Ingrid accepted it with a solemn nod.
“An excellent suggestion Your Highness. In Scandinavia we would normally use birch twigs in the steam-room. A bathbrush is a little unconventional, but I'm sure it will be effective. Please tell the Princess that I compliment her astute choice.”
Arabella flapped in indignation, and more than a little panic. In this day and age, it was hard to believe that this outrageous punishment was even being contemplated, let alone taking place under the exacting supervision of royalty.
“There's no need for this!” she insisted. “If you think I shouldn't be here, I can go back to my room. I don’t want to take up your valuable time.”
“No, I don't think so,” Ingrid retorted, clinging to the young woman's hips so that she remained pinned helplessly into position. “As the spa's qualified therapy manager, I'm certain this is a type of therapy you've needed for a very long time. Consider it a free consultation. On the house, as it were. Or, perhaps more accurately... on the buttocks.”
The brush commenced its fierce assault upon Arabella's curvy behind in an escalating sequence of dramatic wet splats! The focussed energy of each swat sent bouncing ripples, first through one cheek, and then the other. Each was accompanied by a fiery, biting sting, with the rapid impacts sending bubbles and water droplets flying in all directions. Arabella yelped, the sounds echoing through the tiled room, her body tensing in shock.
“This isn't hydrotherapy! It’s humiliation!” she squealed.
“Relax your muscles,” Ingrid advised. “You'll probably find this improves circulation tremendously. Although, some regions of your anatomy will benefit more than others, I must admit.”
“No! stop! I never signed up for this. All my video collaborations have to be agreed in advance!” Arabella yelped, slippery and squirming like an unruly bar of soap, but she remained pinned by Ingrid’s iron grasp.
The Princess spoke again, her translator relaying the query with cool indifference. “Her Highness expresses curiosity, and wonders whether this treatment is often employed here at the Seaforth Spa?”
“Not too often, thankfully,” Ingrid replied, smacking the brush down with another brisk flourish. “This treatment is reserved for those without a reservation!”
As the merciless smarting bloomed throughout her reddening cheeks, Arabella grimaced, her pained squeals escaping through gritted teeth. Her bottom was already displaying a “glow” of the sort she had never contemplated promoting on her channel.
“You can’t spank my bottom on livestream! Don't you know, I’ve got a million followers?”
“That's all the more reason,” Ingrid said, her brush-arm continuing its vigorous delivery, “for you to set a good example.”
The heavy wooden bathbrush cracked down again and again, each whack sending yet more arcs of soapy spray into the air. Arabella writhed, hair plastered to her flushed face. With an anguished whimper, she began to wish she'd stayed hidden in the utility cupboard.
“Try to think of this as a comprehensive mindfulness experience,” Ingrid remarked, delivering a final blazing volley. “Anchor yourself to the present moment, and specifically to the flaming sensations in your lower posterior.”
Arabella needed no further encouragement. She braced herself, wincing in anticipation each time the brush was raised. Yet, despite all her efforts to steel herself, the penetrating sting was unforgiving, each swat astonishing her with its intensity, like the rising swell of a perpetual crescendo.
With a final emphatic splat, Ingrid set the stout instrument aside and hauled Arabella to her feet. The chastened young influencer stood dripping, her bottom a vivid shade of scarlet. Tears streaked her cheeks, blending seamlessly with the residual sheen of the bathwater.
Ingrid turned her around, so that her smarting behind faced directly towards the phone camera. Addressing the still growing audience, Ingrid warned them, “Attention livestream! Take a very good look. This is the official Gossamer Suite intrusion prevention policy. All future trespassers will receive an identical treatment.”
Arabella, aghast, glanced over her shoulder and saw the viewer count continuing to spiral upward.
“Back to your own room Miss Finch,” Ingrid ordered. “The rest of your belongings will be brought down later by housekeeping.”
Sulking and sodden, Arabella shuffled toward the door. To her horror, an inquisitive audience had gathered in the corridor. Guests in towelling robes, chambermaids clutching linen, a porter collecting suitcases. They parted before her, their eyes wide with silent fascination, their attention drawn downwards to the arresting spectacle of her bruised and burning backside. She scuttled past, dripping and sore, her dignity in tatters. In her wake, she left a remorseful trail of wet footprints.
As she departed, her saturated t-shirt, with its “Glow From Within” logo, remained plastered to her body, revealing more than it concealed. An elegant guest was heard to remark to her companion: “Well, she certainly does have a glow… though I very much doubt that it came from within.”
Behind her, the Princess spoke again, and the translator's voice remained matter-of-fact. “Her Highness remarks that this therapy reminds her of her former governess, Miss Clarissa Burningham. At the time, she often doubted the benefit of regular applications to her person. She now acknowledges it as an admirably holistic treatment.”
Ingrid inclined her head. “I suppose some people might consider this an unconventional therapy for modern spa guests,” she admitted. “Nevertheless, for young ladies like Miss Finch, nothing completes their wellness journey quite like a thorough forehand swing with good follow-through.”
Two months later, back in her apartment, Arabella perched gingerly on her sofa. Her rear had long since recovered, but the tender memories of her spa ordeal still lingered.
One hand clutched a fermented pro-biotic juice, the other her phone. The wall-mounted flatscreen was broadcasting an all too familiar scene. Ingrid Rasmussen appeared in her trademark white tunic, stern and composed, her pigtails in perfect symmetry. A young woman in a skintight spandex cheerleader outfit lay draped across her lap, pom-poms discarded on the floor.
Ingrid's new “Therapeutic Discipline” channel had captured global attention, and was becoming the latest runaway success amongst the wellness streaming community.
“Welcome back, everyone,” Ingrid announced. “You’re tuning in to Livestream number twenty-four of our therapeutic discipline series. Today, we have a guest who’s been struggling with a bit of overconfidence. Our subscribers voted for today’s costume, and it was a close call. But, 'Cheeky Cheerleader' edged out 'Naughty Waitress' by just over a hundred votes. For sporty authenticity, I’ll administer treatment with this traditional gym-shoe. Without further ado, let's begin.”
The heavy rubber sole of the black plimsoll came down with a crack, and the cheerleader let out an emphatic squeal. Ingrid didn't so much as blink.
Arabella sighed, though whether from relief or envy, it was difficult to say. The pretty young guest, draped so inelegantly across Ingrid’s lap, was Tina Moore. Best known for her channel, “Send Me A Massage”, the two women were long-time streaming rivals.
What Ingrid was doing might technically qualify as “a massage” of sorts, but a more accurate description would be a vigorous, impact-based deep-tissue treatment of the gluteus maximus region!
Arabella knew from bitter experience that Ingrid’s disciplinary prowess was world-class. She permitted herself a sly smirk at Tina’s evident discomfort, but her gloat soon soured. The livestream numbers were rocketing, rising like the hemline of a silk frock in a gale.
Between Tina's anguished yelps, it was hard to tell which was hotting-up faster. Her poor bottom, or the Like button!
The comments of awestruck viewers flew up the screen:
“Iconic again!” “Queen Ingrid never misses!” “Cheerleader Correction is trending!”
And then:
“Bring back Arabella – we need to see bathbrush round two!”
The sheer number of up-votes on that last comment made Arabella cringe so violently she almost upended her juice down the front of her “Glow From Within” t-shirt.
On-screen, matters were escalating fast. Ingrid yanked down Tina's hot-pants with casual authority. The plimsoll cracked down again, square across the blossoming red behind, clinically indifferent to its owner's howls of protest.
“What makes it even worse,” Arabella mused, as the on-screen spanking continued unabated, “is that Ingrid stole this whole concept from me.”
She sighed. Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but it stung to see Ingrid’s brand new channel already eclipsing her own. That day in the Gossamer Suite had felt barbaric at the time. And yet, she had to admit that it had been her most-viewed content... ever!
Perhaps wellness wasn’t always about avoiding discomfort. Perhaps it could also be about embracing it. Vigorously!
Almost without thinking, while she watched Tina's squirming bare bottom colouring along a fleshy spectrum from pink to angry red, Arabella scrolled through her phone-contacts until she reached the name: Ingrid Rasmussen. An anxious smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Would she dare to volunteer for a guest-spot on Ingrid's “Therapeutic Discipline” channel? Could she afford not to?
Her eyes dropped once more to her t-shirt. “Glow From Within”?
With a pained grimace at the memories flooding back to her, Arabella decided it was time for a rebrand. Something more truthful? Something that acknowledged, with rueful inevitability, that sometimes the most radiant glow comes with a little help from... without!