The Spanking Department

Set in The Follower's universe (modern day, sort of horror), Addison Carter works for a mysterious government agency that is aware of The Followers. They are urban legends to most--creepy figures in dirty coats that find and surveil those who catch their eye until, finally, the person vanishes, only to be replaced by a double!

Addison has worked in The Department--but then something happens that is even more direct and uncomfortable!

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I took the DC Metro to the Crystal City stop where the Pentagon employees work. I was required to use a specific boarding time on the Blue or Yellow Line within a given 15 minute window each day. I get told the time and station to board on my Department issue phone, and if I see a co-worker, I'm not to acknowledge them. My morning schedule even comes with a specific car to board. Being late, or in the wrong car or whatever, is a "strike." In the department I work for, you don't want any strikes.

I exited with the crowd, keeping to myself, and walked briskly to the bathrooms across the platform. Inside, they were clean and deserted. Almost no one uses the bathrooms at their destination. I still checked for other people before I went to the larger stall at the far end. Inside, I got my skirt up and sat on the toilet. I held the phone up and took a selfie as I peed. That was part of the protocol--a required humiliation every morning.

The picture apparently satisfied whoever was at the entry desk and I held still while the silent motors built into the toilet shifted to draw me into the rear wall. Not all of the Junior Associates have to use the same entry method--there are some access points above ground and other places--but this was my entry point.

I had to wipe up as the system rotated me around to the view of the security women. It was a dull, horrid ritual each day. Of course, there were sharper, more scalding humiliations waiting for us if we slipped up. Behind the crisply dressed security women was a slightly raised platform with the backside of a boy on display. He was laying down, bare legs spread over a yard apart. I could see the bulge of his scrotum. His buttocks, the main attraction, were bright, angry red--the application of whatever implement the women had used had been done carefully to apply equal chastisement to every square inch of bottom. They had his hiring picture framed above his rear so that everyone could see who it was.

I felt the security women's eyes on me as I walked briskly by, putting my company phone and purse on the conveyor and then going through the scanner. A colorized picture of me nude appeared on the displays where everyone could see them. Ugh. They only did that for junior associates. When the light flashed, I went through, picked up my things and hurried to get to my "classroom" before the late-bell. If you were late--for any reason (without an excuse slip) the group commander would punish you. Ms. Casey would start with a spanking--but she'd likely get creative from there.

The Main Concourse of The Department (Technically The Department of Occult Interferometry) was a wide black tiled floor with numerous halls, escalators, or elevators extending off it. On the floor was a seal showing a beam of light split in two and reaching two mirrors.

Above it were two human figures--both kneeling in supplication. The figures were a bit abstract--but there was just enough detail to tell they were naked and their sexes. Above them were the symbols of a crossed carriage whip and a riding crop. The seal had been created by THEM. The curved writing under it read Efficiency in Obedience and Submission in something that was Latin-like--but not Latin. Not exactly.

Decades ago, once the Department was set up, some wag had named it "The Spanking Department" and the name had stuck. When I'd joined what I thought was the National Reconnaissance Office as an analyst right out of university, I'd gotten a fairly intense battery of psychological tests. When I'd been given the option to join the DoOI, still unaware of the secret, I'd agreed. Apparently, their testing suggested I'd accept the corporal punishment.

I didn't at all like it--but they were right: even with the ironclad Non-Disclosure Protocols (which meant I couldn't just quit--in fact, I couldn't really quit at all) I accepted that I'd rather know what was going on (sort of--a little, maybe?) than not know. Whoever had screened me, I'd thought to my intense annoyance, was right about me.

--Historical File: The Department of Occult Interferometry---------------------------------------------------

The story of the Department began in 1887 when Messers Michelson and Morley set up an experiment to figure out if the presumed "luminiferous aether" could be detected using a split beam of light that was then reflected back on itself and, if the motion of the earth meant that the medium through which light was theoretically transmitted would produce a "fringe shift" in the recombined light beam.

They didn't find the aether. They did detect a variance though, which was a message that was being tap-tap-tapped on the other side of the silvered backs of the mirrors in their interferometer.

--Historical File: The Department of Occult Interferometry---------------------------------------------------

Along the concourse there were several "gates" that were used for security for the deeper secrets of the Department (which was, itself, built on secrets). I was stopped at a gate with a huge American Flag on one side. I checked my phone for the 'Go' code. Legend had it that even if we were "on time" the gating protocol would make a certain number of Junior Agents late, so as to provide a reason for punishment. I waited by one of the security booths and watched a man walking two 'subjects' on leashes. The two subjects were male--I could tell because the skin-tight shiny black uniforms they wore colored their scrotums and penises (and anuses) bright pink. They clambered along with gas-masks over their faces, corrugated tubes snaking down to a port near their waists.

I'd heard that in the blindness of the hoods, they were given smells and tastes related to their hygiene--and that the pink areas itched massively. I could see their buttocks swing extra wide--signs of discomfort.

They didn't work for The Department. They were subjects of the department. My phone buzzed, and I fell in between the two subjects. Led on the leashes, unable to see unless allowed to, bedeviled by sexual itches and helpless in the rubber sealed outfits, I could only imagine what it must be like to crawl across an unknown floor, vaguely aware of people around them (including pats or spanks on their bottoms).

There was so much about The Department I didn't know--I didn't know why some Subjects were here. Some were, allegedly, elsewhere--the ones here, I'd been told, were the "lucky ones." I couldn't even tell how they got into or out of the rubber outfits (how did they go to the bathroom?). I knew almost nothing about the inner workings or even the purpose of The Department.

My other point of question in The Department were The Others. That wasn't the official term: there was no official term--and we weren't to try to create one. The Others, whatever They were, had necessitated the founding of The Department during the Cold War. It had some presence before then--even in the early days of the 20th Century--but by 1961, The Department had taken form.

Like I said, I didn't know much about it--other than that it was obscure... and important. I followed behind the two subjects, watching them--penises erect in the tight rubber sheaths. The man leading them, slightly paunchy, stopped to let some office girls fawn over the two--both stroking and spanking the rubbery black-covered buttocks. I watched the two boys flinch--they were probably sore.

The Formation Point was past the 3rd major Gate. I could see down the colonnade: there were 5 and then the far wall with three sets of big double-doors and guards stationed at each checking IDs. We didn't know if there were gates beyond that. As Junior Associates, none of my group--or "troop" in Ms. Casey's terminology knew much about the deeper recesses of The Department.

Our Formation Point was simply a section of floor marked off with electrical tape (blue) with the number 11 printed over it and framed sets of the numerous rules of obedience and behavior The Department printed (including a Kama Sutra-like instruction on the different positions to receive a spanking or other discipline). Autumn was there, sitting cross legged ("criss-cross-applesauce" in Ms. Casey's sing-song). Craig was standing. He 'got it' yesterday so maybe he was still sore? I took a seat next to Autumn, crossing my legs--sitting like a schoolgirl. The demeaning protocol is a hundred percent intentional, and it extends to all kinds of Department protocols. The two unlucky subjects on their leashes were walked past the 5th gate and through one of the three sets of doors.

Autumn and I watched them go.

"Something happened," Autumn whispered to me. "I heard about it. I think They are in the building." She glanced up at the high ceiling and around.

"They--wait--THEM? They're here!?" I looked around as if I might see something--some alien or monster or... something.. wandering through the colonnade.

She nodded. Autumn is short, cute, and smart. She has some contact in administration that sometimes tells her things, like if there's a performance review or a knowledge check-quiz scheduled.

"Something happened," she repeated. "Something big? Maybe? Anyway, they've been going crazy since Friday. They're here." I shuddered.

What I knew about 'THEM' was hugely minimal, but no less disturbing. The key points were (1) for the most part we couldn't see THEM. It's not that they were invisible, exactly, but that our minds just refused to process THEM. That extended to pictures of THEM, apparently. (2) THEY were human-shaped. THEY came in male and female varieties. Apparently, the males were frightening, and the females were worse. (3) THEY were 100% definitely humanity's friends and mentors--allies in whatever this was. THEY had our best interests at heart: The Department said so.

"Where's the rest of us?" I asked. There were only three of us here. That meant Kelly, Amy, and Patrick were either late (ow!) or somewhere else (interesting).

"Called in early," Autumn said. "There's a big set of packages and Ms. Casey pulled half the team ahead of schedule."

I was both glad that wasn't me and worried that I wasn't on the "early-morning crew." Of course I had my own apartment. Those three lived in Department housing with a "House Mother" that enforced Department Protocols--no masturbating, no fucking, no swearing, no leaving messes anywhere, and humiliating infantilizing punishments if you broke the rules. It was easier for her to get half the team moving with one phone call.

Packages were data-sets, folders, on Subjects. They were generally young men or women who fit a profile of what THEY categorized as bad behavior: lots of masturbating, some defiance or quarreling with authority figures like parents, teachers, or the law, use of pornography that included spanking, bondage, or other humiliations, "dress code" violations--dressing with 'insolent' t-shirts, wearing things with rude slogans, or dying your hair or getting piercings or visible tattoos.

We didn't know how the dossiers were compiled or where the data came from--but our job was to evaluate their behavioral patterns and produce a set of "snatch points" where the subject would be alone for a short period of time and vulnerable--usually not in an apartment or house.

The evaluation needed to show the geometry of the location, what kind of obstacles might be encountered, and so on. Once we were done, we returned the plan to "snatch" the Subject and then a few days later we got a hit or a miss. A hit, presumably meant the snatch went well. A "miss" got the analysts (usually two of us) a strike that was handled in the 'classroom' where we worked. We tried hard to avoid any misses.

"Hello Troopers!" Ms. Casey, young, vibrant, with short-cropped hair that was 80's-styled with little spikey bits, a too-short skirt, and heels, ought to have qualified for a dress-code violation--but I assume she got special permission to make the boys all struggle with erections or something like that.

She carried a riding crop--a symbol of authority over us. We all got up, intoning "Good Morning Ms. Casey" like reluctant grade schoolers.

"Good morning Troop!" She beamed. Trying to play the I'm-so-happy-to-be-here-too game with her was a recipe to get on her list of Junior Associates to get an attitude adjustment. We rose and got into a line.

She waited and scrutinized us for proper alignment. Inside the Department we went everywhere in lines--like grade-schoolers. It was, I was sure, intentionally annoying and demeaning. She made a show of checking us over and leaning in close to ask Craig a question about his standing up. I didn't hear his answer but I could imagine his blush and she sounded satisfied. I heard the soft sound of him getting a tap on the seat of his trousers from the crop.

"Let's go!" She announced, and ahead of me, Autumn started walking. She moved along with us, taking a path deeper into the labyrinthine Department. We passed the Discipline Chair: it was, we understood, an artifact from the other-side-of-the-mirror. Something THEY had made. It was on a raised platform with transparent plastic around it. It looked like a heavy wooden chair with restraints and an open toilet hole on the seat. Beneath it was machinery that looked like a car engine but ran a horizontal cylinder with numerous rubber straps attached. When operational they would spin at high speeds, lashing out against the subject's buttocks, anus, and sex. Apparently it was bad. I hadn't seen it run, but Ms. Casey had and she assured us that we never wanted to sit in the chair. I believed her.

The halls got a little darker. They were 1970's era paint and wiring so there was a slight flicker of the lights. Down a long hall were three wooden structures and a smell. The smell was hints of body odor and female lubrication. Overlaid on it was a slightly nasty organic smell I couldn't place--but it was definitely something intimate and unpleasant. In the wooden structures were three subjects. They were covered in the skin-tight rubber in different shades of tan, red, and bright pink. They were reclining, slightly, wrists cuffed to the board and legs spread in wide V's. They wore the gas-mask-like head-coverings with the goggles shut so they couldn't see and the tubing running into the waist socket so they were bathed in whatever smell--and, probably far worse, taste was reported to them. All three were held fast with restraints, but were all struggling nonetheless. I thought I could hear faint sounds of protest or pleading from inside the head-covers--but it was hard to tell.

The rubber was tight enough that when we went by, we could see the folds of their labials and the erect nubs of their clitorises and nipples. Ms. Casey expertly smacked each of them on their clit as she passed, drawing jolts and barely audible cries and alarmed spasms from the surprised subjects.

Ms. Casey hummed happily.

'The ones here are the lucky ones,' I recalled hearing. It wasn't that I didn't feel sorry for them--I did, I guess. It was that I knew full well that if I didn't work for the Department I'd be subject material. All the Junior Analysts were. If I didn't have a problem, I likely wouldn't be able to live alone either. I was fully aware that my diagnosed anorgasmia from masturbation meant that I couldn't have the prohibited orgasms that the Department ruled out. Of course even pleasuring yourself was against the rules--so I had to engage certain wretched protocols at home to ensure that I wasn't going at myself with a vibrator. But I was painfully--frustratingly--aware that I was very close to being a subject folder and then, maybe, one of those girls trapped in a rubber punishment suit.

That the view and the thought made me moist was just more dismal evidence that all of us Junior Associates were on the menu, somewhere, for THEM.

The classroom was exactly what it sounded like: rows of school desks with writing surfaces attached. A blackboard up at the front. A teacher's desk. A globe, A world map (and several other pull down maps for major metropolitan areas), An American flag, and so on. It was, as far as I could tell, exactly what a 1960's middle school classroom would look like. Someone had even put up penmanship guides for writing letters in block or cursive along the top of the blackboard.

Patrick was up at the blackboard, writing lines. He wore only his jacket and shirt. I could see his waxed sex in his penis-cage. He was blushing as he concentrated on the first part of his punishment. The second part would likely be a spanking with two different instruments from Ms. Casey. He wasn't looking forward to it--but I knew from experience that his cock was.

When I'd been in the same position, my vagina had been humiliatingly excited for my upcoming utter loss of pride and dignity. He met my eyes and I gave him a little warm sympathetic nod.

Kelly and Amy had pushed their desks together and were collaborating on a snatch-plan for one of the subjects with the folder and maps and notebooks open on their desks. There was a stack of folders yet to be analyzed on Ms. Casey's desk. A long day of work. I was going to take my seat when the black phone rang.

On the teacher's-desk was a 1950's bakelite black rotary phone. It rang like a claxon, loud and jarring in the quiet room. Everyone jumped--even Ms. Casey who moved rapidly to answer it--like she didn't want it to ring twice.

We watched her lift the receiver to her ear and listen, answer quietly, nodding--she looked at me. Oh, fuck! Another answer. Then a "yes sir." She hung up. "Addison," she beckoned me. I shared a look with Autumn as I got up and came to her desk.

"Ma'am?"

"That's a summon from The Office. There is a request for you to be attached with a Senior Agents team. An aide is bringing a hall pass right now. You're to go without delay and do as you're told."

"Yes, Miss." I watched her. "Is there--"

She shook her head, anticipating my question. "Nothing about what or why--but this is a good thing, Addison. It may very well not be pleasant--but it will be excellent experience. You have good review scores. That might be why they chose you!" Her voice conveyed that she was proud of my ability. It was annoying that it felt good.

Five minutes later was the knock on the door, and a girl about my age opened it and held up a bright yellow hall-pass. "Addison Carter?" I glanced at Ms. Casey who nodded to me, gathered by bag and went over to her.

"You're wanted in the Main Segment Ready Room 'Fox,'" she said--which didn't mean much to me. "I'll walk you." I took the hall pass which I held like a talisman and followed her through the halls.

"I hope you wore fresh panties this morning," she said darkly.

"Oh," was all I could think of to say--but, I had, thankfully.

"The Senior Agents will have a look," she warned me. "Trust me."

I believed her. I nodded. We moved past a sign that marked a change in the complex. Floors with thin industrial carpet. A small coffee-nook, with two women in "sexy stewardess" uniforms talking. Cheap, generic landscape photos on the walls.

In the next staff area was a pyramidal frame with a sex swing in the middle. Affixed, there was a boy--covered in the rubber uniform. His erect penis and scrotum bristled with a forest of subtle clamps about three or four inches long, in different colors. They seemed to pierce the rubber coat and grip into--or even under the skin.