Special Projects Pt 01

The Sortex Special Projects building is one of the largest offices on the main campus that isn't the main 52 story 'Tower.' It's a humbler 8 story building with an underground parking garage. I have a reserved parking position near the ramp that leads up to the foyer entry room. As one of 'The Method' industries, Sortex employs disciplinarians, and they treat us well. I have a personal parking space, we have a private cafeteria, and I get a stipend for dry cleaning and new clothes as well as subsidized aesthetic treatments (hair styling, body waxing, etc.).

I have the key to my secretary, Massi's, chastity belt--one that'll either be transferred to her significant other when she gets married or, in the extremely unlikely event that she quits, returned to her. The boy disciplinarians tend to treat their secretaries nicely, but Massi is haplessly turned on by a bit of cruelty so I deliver.

The cute security boys in the foyer wave me through--I have a neck lanyard so I don't have to badge in. I gave them my best, bright smile. They're rarely in trouble--but they do have light maintenance punishment schedules and I could see the soft blushes as a few of them avoided eye-contact while still waving a good morning to me.

I filed those shy, avoidant reactions away for future notice--not out of anger, but as a good disciplinarian, knowing which of them are most embarrassed is part of the job. I took the elevator up to my seventh floor office and power-walked past the reception desk and the Disciplinary Center (two girls looking red faced and miserable were waiting on the public display benches. I resisted the urge to smile at them--for the girls it's no joke, even though I found both of them adorable in their torment of anxiety.

My own office has a front area with a glass wall and I could see Massi inside at her station already. Now I smiled as I entered. "Morning Hon," I say brightly. It drew the customary little scowl from her. The Mistress-Brat game is an old one--and quite trying for the brat, but we keep falling into it and I have to admit I like it!

I saw her squirm slightly as I pushed through the door.

"How's Massi doing?" I asked jovially.

"Massi is fine, mistress--but very frustrated." Her words dripped with a spiky attitude. I require her to talk in mistress-slave protocol when it's just us, meaning she has to refer to herself in the third person and call me Mistress. It's humiliating, but I overlook the attitude (and even a bit of defiance) so long as she uses it. I also require her to confess humiliating discomforts like her painful level of frustration. She hates that I find that sort of suffering entertaining, and would withhold it from me if she was allowed to!

The morning humiliation needled her... but I wasn't done with her yet!

"Aww," I said, putting faux sympathy into my voice as I walked over to her. "Mistress' tracker app says Massi is starting her period next week." I watched the flash of annoyance on her face like my own personal sunrise. "Would Massi like to have a relief for that?"

One of the belt-protocols is that for a girl's period it's common practice that whoever is in charge considers letting the girl have an orgasm as 'Relief' for cramps and other frustrations. Hygiene with a chastity belt is a challenge and feminine hygiene doubly so--so I handle her changes and cleanings when it's her time of the month.

That in itself is a punishment, really--an extremely intimate one--but I enjoy the sessions of getting her belt off and cleaning her up and replacing it. I'm usually fine with making sure she enjoys them too--at least physically. The embarrassment is usually over the limit where she can bear it..

"Yes, mistress," Massi said sourly. "Massi would definitely like a Relief."

I bent over and kissed her on the mouth. She accepted it, opening wide, and tilting in, passionately. I didn't have to brush over her silk blouse to know her nipples were erect and her sex was moist in the confines of the belt. I held the kiss for a bit, liking the faint taste of her lipstick and the smell of her. My tongue in her mouth, tasting her intimately.

I broke away, running a hand through her hair.

"Mistress will THINK about it," I said, smirking. "If Massi is all caught up on her punishments then it's POSSIBLE."

Massi's look was a petulant snarl, but behind the flare of anger, I could see real worry and possibly tears. The frustration was no joke and her monthly Relief was awful from a dignity perspective but if I withheld it, she'd suffer extravagantly. My little 'game' meant she was going to have to ask me for punishments if she wanted an orgasm--an orgasm she desperately needed. I watched her spread her thighs on the chair in the universal sign of submissive availability.

"Your Massi is at your disposal, mistress," she forced the words out. "A punishment session for her misdeeds would be welcome whenever, mistress has time."

"Sure, hon," I said. "Maybe we'll do a sleep-over tonight." I patted her on the head. Treating her agonized urgency for sexual release as a fun little game is one of the ways to torment and dominate her. It's awful for her, but it also pushes every button she has. I was looking forward to seeing how the merciless 'wedge' of irritation between her legs would drive her to creative submission to me!

That got a cute little whimper as I walked away. Massi is well schooled in 'The Method.' She attended a Method college, grew up in a Method household--she knows how it works. We've slept together more than a few times--sometimes for my pleasure, a few, rarely, for hers, and, of course, sometimes for punishment.

In my office, I sat down at my console. I have an app that tracks Massi's chastity belt--it reports on her hygiene, arousal, and bathroom habits. It has several controls for mild shocks (which can be quite effective discipline when applied to the clitoris) and a couple of stinging pods that were developed from the nasty barbs of the puss caterpillar. I don't use them often, but there are sheathed furs at her labia and anus. I adjust the tightness to make her belt just slightly uncomfortably snug. It'll remind her it's there and that I'm watching her.

The screen lit with pulsing nodes of mild, persistent annoyance radiating from her delicate places and, equally gratifying, an unwanted freshening of her channel's lubrication. I didn't have to look up to know she was squirming slightly in her chair and that the squirming wouldn't help a bit!

Then pulled up my work queue and blinked. I had a priority summons to the Social Media Monitoring station. In Special Projects, the SMM is one of the, well, most special. I picked up my velvet lined bag with the 'cat' in it.

The 'cat' is a 9-tailed whip. The tails are 1/8th inch PVC rubber surgical tubing with a reservoir of thickened fluid which can be pumped into and out of the sealed tubes to vary their weight. It's a fearsome instrument but the lash it provides leaves the buttocks pink-striped and smarting badly more than causing abrasion or causing skin damage. The tubing can be used on delicate places like the anal cleft or applied directly to the vulva without causing bleeding.

When my subjects see the cat come out, they know they're in for a prolonged session that will end when I want it to, and no earlier! The horror and contrition I see in their faces pleases me greatly; the emotional side of punishment is easily as important as the physical!

I shouldered it and headed out, giving Massi another long, dominant kiss. I could feel the heat of her blush and her frustrated passion from her face. Again, her mouth tasted delicious.

I used my ID lanyard to access the restricted below-ground level. The Social Media Monitoring room is underground and has a set of airlock security doors with a wall of lockers for stowing phones, cameras, or other electronics. It has a biometric hand-scanner to open the inner door and is always camera-observed.

As a disciplinary officer I don't have to be buzzed through and the inner doors opened for me. Floor lighting in a soft amber lit the darkened hall. The series of halls led to secured offices. There was a single-stall glass-doored bathroom that the SMM quants had to use. They also had a glass-walled CCTV monitored break area that even has sleeping capsules, a small gym, and laundry. The SMM girls usually work on week-on/week-off shifts and stay in the SMM center 24/7.

The center is a large dark room with big monitors showing various social media and Internet sites with the system's AIs constantly trawling them for activity of interest to Sortex. The girls are 'quants' meaning they are all quantitative analysts--math heads. Geeks. I think maybe glasses are part of the uniform.

The three-person teams are uniformly two or three girls and one 'honorary girl,' meaning a boy who is submissive and slotted under the girls in the org-chart. Like a lot of things in The Method, it's sort of like a terrible dream-come-true for them.

When I walked in, through the sliding door like they have at supermarkets, I could see the team working at stations, wearing hospital scrubs. The girl in the 'duty station' wore cute scrubs with ice cream treat designs over it. Next to the station was a stack of adult diapers that the duty girl wore since, for her six-hour shift, there were no bathroom breaks.

The Team lead, a tall girl named Samantha in violet scrubs turned and met my eyes--and nodded. Most people are a bit alarmed to see an ambulatory disciplinarian walk in, but she'd sent for me. I gave her a slight smile and we headed for the privacy room.

It was occupied. The privacy room is off the main command-room floor and is tiled like a bathroom with a shower, drainage, and a punishment trestle.A boy--I think his name was Mark--was strapped in, his head slightly down, his bare bottom up. The trestle was well padded synthetic leather and despite the restraints, quite comfortable. The boy's thighs were widely spread, his bare bottom cute and glistening with a lotion clearly applied to it. He was wearing a 'mute'--a buckled on face mask that has a noise-canceling function and has a breathing mechanism that can admit air or be hooked up with a hose to a positive pressure machine. That was the case here, he was being fed positive pressure air from the small device.

His bare feet were cuffed so that they could be tickled--or maybe spanked. His package looked plump strapped into a tight chastity cage that kept him from getting erect--and, given his submissiveness, he'd be quite uncomfortable in it. I saw his alarm when we entered.

Samantha smirked. "Matt, our disciplinary expert is here." She rubbed his oiled buttocks affectionately. "Ms. Chase, can you give him a few lashes before we send him out?"

"Six is nicely traditional," I agreed, and unshouldered my bag. I took out the cat. His eyes widened. I could hear soft, urgent complaints from him. "This won't damage your tender bits," I told him, my hand cupping his caged cock and balls. I could feel wetness from his penis--strapped in, bared, he'd been getting aroused despite himself. Now his cock was struggling in the cruelly tight cage. My fingers moved automatically to assess the pressure in his scrotum. The boys suffer frustration just like the girls do, and I wasn't surprised to feel how taut and inflated the organ was. It was tender and aching and had been for sometime. Sorry, Mark--it was going to get worse. Attention, touch, and even punishment would stimulate him in ways that might be technically related to sexual arousal, but which the Method and the cage turned into pressure and torment.

I knew I wasn't called down here to punish him--Samantha just wanted him touched up before he was released to give us the room. She adjusted the rack, lowering his head more sharply so that he was in what we knew as the 'wheelbarrow' position.

He was blushing furiously and trying to plead his case through the mute. I went to the industrial sink and turned on the tap for steamingly hot water. I ran it over the tails of the whip. The hot water would add a small amount of bite to the experience and every small bit of ritual delay let his emotions work him into a higher state of frenzy.

Samantha was rubbing his thighs and buttocks sensuously as she purred to him that the other girls would be absolutely delighted to tend to his stripes--something that made him cry out a little louder and blush harder. I knew it also encouraged his cock more--something I greatly approved of!

I walked back over. Again, I cupped his package.

"How often does he--"

"His cock? Almost never! The girls prostate milk him once a month."

I gave a slight squeeze, hearing the whisper of his groan. "Feels like he might be about ready."

"Oh," she smiled, squatting down low to stroke the hair back. "He's always ready--poor thing."

She was close, knees apart, looking into his eyes. She was going to drink in his expression as he was whipped. I approved.This sort of dominance was very, very intimate and under what we knew as The Method, it was something that would make the experience much more effective for him.

I took a small towel from my bag and put it over my shoulder, like one would do to burp a baby. Then I stepped between his spread legs, looking down at his bottom. His legs were wide enough that I could see the small bud of his anus. I shifted my stance slightly, one foot forward, and let the wet tails of the whip fall over the towel on my shoulder.

Samantha was speaking softly to him and I could see his blush.

"Here we go," I said. "Six and we're done." WHAP. I brought the cat down so its rubber tails spread over his orbs and down into his cleft. Some of them kissed his anus--he yelped! The still steaming hot water droplets scattered across his skin. I brought the whip back up, again over my shoulder. WHAP! My arm snapped down, the tails landing again--pink lines from the first snap blossoming. He cried out, high pitched and sharp--edged with coming tears.

Samantha cooed and stroked his hair. I watched his thighs flex and his buttocks clench in anticipation of the next stroke.WHAP! He jumped in the restraints, letting out a wail. Now his rear was criss-crossed with fine pink lines. I gave him a slight breather and stroked my fingers over the thin welts. He was crying softly now--most girls would've been more stoic, but I think Samantha's gentle attention was probably inspiring him to want her sympathy!

His cock struggled in the cage, a line of pre-cum dripping from it. I smiled. WHAP! And again--WHAP! He made a sound at the first one--then yowled in surprise at the sudden second one. I let the tails trail across his buttocks before re-cocking my arm.

"Last one," I said. I heard a delightful whimper of acknowledgement. WHAP! The stroke was hard and the tails snapped against his skin. He bleated a cry and then burst into harder tears. I washed and stowed the whip as Samantha got him out of the restraints to return to the group.

Apparently his trousers were in the main room as he had to walk stiffly, his bottom complaining, out to where the rest of the girls were waiting. The 'waddle of shame' would show off his inflamed buttocks, his humiliated cock and over-swollen scrotum and, of course, the freshly cried face so the girls could coo and comfort over their young man's emotional defeat. His spanking might be over, but his humiliation was just getting started!

Samantha shut the door and took out a data-slate.

I moved to look over her shoulder. It was an Accord Voice and Chat Server--I could tell by the icons it was private. It was called "Suxtex" in a parody of our corporate name, with what appeared to be a mud-smeared version of our corporate logo.

"We found the server about three weeks ago, the participants--eight to twelve junior employees--are using it to complain about the company's disciplinary policies."

I nodded. Complaining 'in public' about being spanked at work was surprisingly limited. There WAS a non-disclosure agreement employees signed as part of their entry package, but even so, it just wasn't really done--maybe because the punishments were so embarrassing.

She used her finger to scroll through several 'selfies' that didn't show faces, but rather intimate regions that had been punished--A set of uniformly red buttocks of a boy, taken bent forward with the camera using a mirror to capture the aftermath of what I estimated at a rigorous and well delivered hand-spanking.

There was a front shot of a waxed bikini area where the swelling and redness on the girl's vulva was clear. I smirked. Showing off your punishment was pretty expected--with one's close circle of friends. Showing off this sort of discipline, however, was uncommon--maybe the relative anonymity of the Accord Server made it easier to share the aftermath.

"Is this server private?" I asked

"Yes--quite locked up. We're cross-referencing the pictures with the screen names. We have a pretty good identification for 80% of the members--and they're calling their bosses bitches or fuckers. We have a file to present to their managers."

I nodded, considering. These junior employees were going to have some embarrassing days. One's I'd help with if they were in my buildings.

Samantha read my mind. "It turns out our malefactors are in this building--not surprising, given that it's Special Projects. But I wanted to avail you of this."

I looked: A camera view of a lilac pair of flowery panties bulging around the wearer's region with an incontinence pad. "The bitch poured punishment irritant on the pad and is making me wear it! The fucking witch told me I could pee in it a little to dilute the irritant if it got too bad. Every time I sit, it pushes the pad into me--I CAN'T STAND HER!"

I gasped. I recognized the panties and I knew who the 'bitch' referenced was--it was me.

"Massi!" said, delighted. "Oh--my little brat is calling me names!"

Samantha smiled. "I thought you'd want to know. We'd like to find out how the invites are coming out though. The server owner--OverSpanked is still a mystery. They--presumably a 'she'--has some means of handing out invites to people who won't turn them in."

I nodded. "I'll check in with my brat."

"I thought you might be able to help us there. Should we act to shut the Accord server down? It's quite in violation, even without the insults. There are some social-media servers we own that could host some of the showing-off, which I think we may want. Of course insulting your manager like that...."

I nodded. I wasn't really upset--Massi bitching about me was cute, honestly. It also gave me a wonderful excuse to discipline her... which I'd enjoy. However, I agreed with Samantha that a clandestine non-corporate server with pictures and things was problematic.

"There's also this," Samantha said.

I watched as she navigated to a historical channel.

"One of the earlier posts--it's not a punishment picture. It's the report."

I raised an eyebrow. Reports were after-the-fact accounts of disciplinary actions. They were pretty well controlled and generally only the disciplinary staff could get their hands on them. Senior executives could request them--but that took an official form. I saw the screen-shot of the disciplinary report come up. It was a complex form with a number of fields, an outline of a female body with close-ups of the buttocks, anus, and vagina where disciplined areas could be marked.

I felt a shock of concern. The form was for a Senior Director--Ellen Monroe. It was from the first quarter of the year. I enlarged the screenshot, studying it. I knew of this case--Sr. Director Ellen had beefed with a colleague in a meeting and both had been called before Mr. Sing, the Sr. Director of Discipline at Sortex.

I remembered what had happened to her--the other executive I wasn't as well versed in. She'd been sent to the company esthetician and fully waxed and given some skin treatments for tightening and softening.Then she was assigned to two days in a bottom pillory--a fate usually reserved for junior employees. It's a bad one.