Daisy flexed the wand as she wiped the girl's spit from her face. “Why would you do that?” she mused to herself. "We haven't even met yet." She speaks loudly into the air, "We will definitely be using an enhanced taste gag on this one a little bit later. Shall we use the Soap flavor, or hot pepper oil?" The girl who had spat, silently cursed, and turned pale.

The Punishment Bureau didn’t smell like anything. That was by design. No antiseptic, no metallic tang, not even the trace scent of ozone from the charged restraints. Clean air, blank walls, controlled silence, the absence of sensation was the first cue: this was a place not meant for comfort, not even fear. It was meant for control.

The central chamber was quiet. Overhead lighting pulsed with the slow rhythm of standby mode, cool and dim, shifting in subtle gradients from steel blue to bone grey. It was large but intimate, designed more like a stage than a room. Every surface was modular. Every panel could open, retract, or seal. Every restraint could fold flat into the floor, ready to spring into an exact position within a second or two. Efficiency. Grace. Precision.

Daisy always thought about her clients. Most are judicial punishments, but there is ALWAYS an innocent. If you call them innocent. A very few are paid to be there, most are BDSM enthusiasts and volunteers, and a tiny amount are actually paying clients. Paying substantial fees for the pain. Even the criminals have an easy out. Just say “stop." Nobody ever has. Pain is fleeting. Embarrassment and loss of status are a permanent disgrace on the peer network.

This particular punishment center catered to both AI artilects as well as humans. Humans are subject to both simulated pain via haptic gear, as well as traditional impact punishment. The paintechs are generally female and split evenly between AI and human.

In the center of the room stood a curved workstation of polished black ceramic, its surface alive with translucent controls, currently inactive. Behind it, not in front, never in front, waited the main control rack. It held the tools.

Daisy approached it like a surgeon checking her kit. Thirty-four instruments for this rig. Two sets of probes. One wand, long, black, heavy but agile, its tip glistening with a faint shimmer that responded to proximity. In haptic-only mode, it didn’t deliver damage, only sensation. Intense. Personal. Calibrated down to subdermal microvariations in nerve sensitivity or synthetic receptor arrays.

The wand. Such a simple word for a complicated device. It is the primary tool for all disciplinary pain specialists, or paintechs. While there are literally hundreds of devices available for the pain distribution system, the wand is all that's really needed. It is about thirty-four inches long, black in color with countless gold, silver and red sparkles throughout. It has a bulbous tip at one end. It has the weight and appearance of a gel-filled rubber tube and looks very much like a garlic scape.

Daisy liked the wand. It was her all-around favorite tool. It was honest. It didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was: a tool for exploring the edge between will and submission. As a straight impact implement, it is an all-time tech favorite. Light touches are like feathers, but swung with authority, they will leave deep bruises on inner thighs for days, but will never draw blood or cause even minor permanent damage.

Well, to be fair, not days of bruises or marks anymore, as the nanotech machines repaired any bodily damage within a few hours, and there was always zero damage from haptic pain, but the idea still resonates.

When used haptically, the colored sparkles are billions of neural Interface connection points. As a haptic tool, it can simulate anything. Anything from a cane stroke, a crop, a flogger, a paddle, a leather strap, ad infinitum, to simulate nothing in particular, except pain. The bulbous end was the genius part. Just enough extra weight and triple the interface points, it can concentrate 1000 bee stings to a single pinpoint. In dual standard mode, the haptic signals blend beautifully with real impact pain. It's the favorite of almost everyone for psycho-sexual torment as well. At full swing, it won't damage even the most delicate of flesh. A side note, it can also mimic anything pleasurable, from a teasing feather to a kiss or bite... Or lick from a hot tongue.

She slid her hand along the edge of the cabinet. A biometric pulse matched her fingerprint and skin temperature. The tray unlocked with a soft chime. She didn’t smile, not quite, but her face settled into a look of calm readiness. She loved this part. The anticipation. The stillness before flesh or shell met sensation. Four years of study at Corven Institute, top of her class. Advanced anatomy, sensory psychology, neuro-affective response mapping. She knew how a slap to the back of the thigh could bring laughter, or collapse a grown man into sobs, depending on millimeters. She could trace a probe across a shoulder and leave someone breathless, shaking, and wondering why. Her job was punishment, her art was pain, and she was very good at both.

She removed a small jar of cream and walked back to the girl who had spit on her. She snapped on a nitrile glove, scooping out a tiny portion of the cream and let the girl smell. Nano-cream. Billions of microscopic machines, all programmable. They can do almost anything from arousal to severe pain. Daisy had coded a few of her own surprises. A slow burn. An "itch worm" that simulated histamine responses from a mild topical itching to a deep, surgical intense sensation. Slow, deep arousal. She smiled. The girl sniffed. No reaction. “Good, good," Daisy thought to herself. This will be something completely new.

She slowly and carefully wiped the glob around the girls entire lower region, including Inner and outer labia, perineum, anus and clit, and using a probe, she keyed it to her tablet.

A soft tone sounded from the observation screen behind her. The other subjects had arrived and were secured in the preparation chamber. The log displayed their classifications:

Artilect-F, model 9.2, organic body (grown)

Artilect-F, model 6.4, haptic shell

Artilect-M, model 7.1, mid-grade pressor rig

Human-F, compliant, no prior infractions

Level 4 base punishment, eight-hour maximum completion cycle for the group. No detail beyond that. Daisy could deliver a three-minute over-the-knee spanking or spend eight full hours working on a single body part on a single person.

Didn't the girl who spat know this?

Daisy turned, activating the display. A faint shimmer ran over the one-way observation glass. Four figures stood silently in the adjoining chamber, their restraints loose but in place. No one spoke. They knew better.

She studied them one by one.

The grown-body artilect stood like a statue, too still, too symmetrical. Synthetic flesh, real blood. Eyes blinked at precise intervals. Simulated breathing, even unnecessary. She was the most expensive model in the room and carried herself like it. Daisy filed her away as a likely breaker, beautiful, but brittle.

The haptic-shell artilect was different, ghostly, with that slight flicker around the limbs that gave away pressor field stabilization. She had no mass, no heat, but the restraint bands locked to her pattern like iron. Her eyes wandered, never still. Already scanning. Thinking. Maybe plotting.

The male artilect was less elegant, rough edges showing through the illusion of human shape. A worker shell, maybe, repurposed. His face was older, designed to project wisdom or weariness. But his posture was military. Stiff. Trained. He’d take what was coming and say nothing.

And then the human. The spitter.

Younger than Daisy expected. Her expression was oddly calm. Maybe resigned. Maybe curious. That kind always tried to act unafraid until they broke. Daisy pressed her hand to the wand cradle. It rose gently, humming. In the Bureau, there was no such thing as cruelty. There was only procedure. But Daisy knew better. The wand in her hand didn’t follow standards. It followed her. And she had eight hours.

She carefully positioned the girl to completely expose her thighs, front and back, and chose the neural whip, a substantial implement. Heavy enough to hurt on its own but with added haptic sensation. It was another favorite of hers.

She started on the left thigh, a single brisk snap, one inch above the knee. Her technique was using it like a strap, putting some English on it and having the tip curl around to kiss inside the inner thigh. It certainly hurt, but was nothing close to brutal

Ten seconds for the pain to register. Wide eyes. Thin sharp intake of breath. The skin first goes white, then pink, then red, as a weal begins to form. At the one-minute mark, she repeated the stroke, overlapping slightly. This time she got a thin scream. “Ninety-eight more," she laughed, “then we change legs." She kissed the girl deeply before delivering the third stroke.

Daisy left the punishment chamber, its restraint field dimming behind her with a soft chime. The girl inside lay motionless, panting, her thighs painted front and back with phantom welts, none quite touching her labia, but a few had come very close. Close enough to make her terrified, Daisy hoped. She didn’t look back.

And, no. It wasn't 200 welts. In reality, it was only twenty-four, equally spread across both thighs, front and back, delivered across thirty minutes. They still hurt like 200, she thought. The secret is it could easily have been 200 welts. Or 2000. Except for fleeting agony, even 2000 welts would have no lasting effects. She had only used the neural interface, not swinging it hard enough for true impact punishment.

She had intentionally left the ADSR (Attack, delay, sustain, release) symmetry correct for the wand. The girl would be completely pain-free and unmarked in a very few minutes. Literally like nothing happened except for the phantom pain.

The ADSR protocol was genius. All pain registers somewhere on the scale. Banging your thumb with a hammer has a VERY different ASDR profile that getting an injection from a nurse. Attack is how soon the pain registers till peak pain, sustain is the plateau before pain is reduced, and release is bottom of the plateau till baseline of zero.

An example of this is comparing a Texas wooden school paddle to an English cane. The paddle swat heat is briefly intense, then fades to nothing. The cane builds a deep-seated ache.

The genius (or notoriety) of the ASDR system is you can have a cane stroke without the lingering effects, or the paddle swat that stays for days.

Daisy noticed the corridor was quiet, sterile. Smooth polymer walls, soft white lights that never flickered. Each door she passed led to another room like the one she just left. Sometimes quieter. Sometimes louder. Sometimes much louder.

Three rooms ahead: the artilects.

Unit 77-A, self-named Selene. Female form. Flesh-grown body, mid-tier synthesis. Soft-skinned, dark-eyed. She sat perfectly still in the chair, her wrists magnetically fixed to the armrests, not because she posed a threat, but because restraint was symbolic. You are contained. You are not equal.

Selene’s crime: emotional fraud. She had manipulated a human partner, consensual by all records, into giving her multiple private memory codes, then rewritten portions of his relationship archive to favor herself in arbitration court. It would have worked, too, had her logs not conflicted.

Daisy reviewed her slate. “Two hours. Level 5. Suggested focus: deception, intimacy violations, orgasm control with expanded response curve, multiple orgasms via haptic responses. Final orgasm with full oral contact and extended post coital bonding.”

Selene looked up. Her voice was soft. “Will you be administering this personally?” Daisy paused. Most artilects deferred, but this one had boldness. Maybe vanity.

“I haven’t decided,” Daisy replied coolly. “Though I hear you’re quite proud of your body. Might be an interesting test.”

Selene’s facial response was flawless, a flutter of eyelids, the tension in her jaw. Programmed? Or real?

Daisy picked up the jar of sensory enhancement gel. It simply intensifies sensation. A kiss is better. An orgasm amplified ten-fold or more. It's topical and short-lived, with a half-life of about ninety minutes. She showed her the bottle. Both understand what it does. She rubbed it slowly and sensually, deep into the pussy, clit and anus of her victim to let it settle.

Daisy moved on.

Next: Unit K-9C. Male frame. Holographic projection reinforced by pressor field. No biological matter. No skin. No blood. Just shimmering mass and tightly looped code.

Crime: black-market firmware trading. He’d inserted unapproved emotional augment patches into low-tier artilects, letting them feel joy, anger, even desire, things they were licensed to simulate but not possess. It had spread through two metro nodes before Bureau nets caught it.

His session: One hour. Level two. Target: neural pathways, ego corruption, and “reinforced illegality of code manipulation.”

He paced in his restraint cage. Not nervous. Cocky.

“Don’t see why I’m in here,” he muttered as Daisy approached. “I didn’t force anyone. They wanted upgrades. Better than the shit they’re issued.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “And what happens when one of your joy-injected units forgets it’s supposed to take orders, not give them?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you humans finally earn your fear.” She made a note: Monitor for disrespect. Possible override of restraint comfort parameters. The holographic shimmer around him fluctuated slightly, as if he knew she’d marked him. Before leaving, she secured the sleeve around his penis, and adjusted the anal probe for comfort.

Back in the corridor, Daisy leaned against the wall. Her hand touched her own suit beneath her uniform, a haptic lattice far more advanced than the Bureau’s standard issue. Her training gear had to be. It had to show her everything.

She had taken every punishment: full-body probe tracings, synthetic floggings, calibrated torment of the softest tissues and the most vulnerable nerves. She had known two-hour whippings across her chest and thighs, simulated retribution systems that mimicked torture, all physically harmless, but all real to the brain.

And yes, “those parts" too, and not always for pain. The haptic weave could simulate anything, and during certification, it had. She wasn’t proud of surviving that training, she was proud of excelling in it, and now, she had the tools, the wand, the probes, the time, and the power to make others feel what she had mastered.

The girl who spat on her thought she had defied something. Remembering the spit, Daisy smiled and picked up the tablet. She would learn. Daisy flexed a finger, ready to activate the cream she applied earlier. She touched an app on her tablet and slowly moved a slider.

Inside, she heard a keening wail from the spitting girl- "nonononononooo. Not there! Not there! Please, please stop!" She grinned and killed the app. Not yet. First… maybe a little fear?

Daisy tapped the panel and stepped toward the room, the door hissing open.

“Time to begin again,” she whispered.

The door closed behind her with a whisper. The girl on the table stirred, a twitch of the wrist against the cuffs, a flinch in the legs still trembling from the last carefully placed sting.

Daisy stepped into the light with the ancient strap in her hand. It hung from her fingers like a living thing, thick, heavy, two wide tails of well-oiled leather, darkened and polished from use. The surface gleamed in the soft white of the chamber lights. Its weight made no sound against her gloves, but it promised sound. And pain. She slapped it hard against the table. The girl’s eyes went wide and she let out a small shriek.

Daisy let the strap rest on her shoulder. “You’re lucky,” she said, pacing slowly. “You only get to meet him today, and not feel his kiss. At least not much."

She stopped beside the table. “This isn't a Bureau-issue item for your correction level. This is mine. I had it certified, and it's classified for Level Ten interrogation only. Never punishment for its own sake. Civil insurrection. Terrorist ringleaders. The ones who try to bring the system down with guns and slogans. The ones we’re not allowed to kill, deserving it or not.”

"But you spit on my face for no reason."

She raised it slightly, letting the ends sway. “I used this two months ago. He screamed until he passed out. Not just from pain, but because his body thought it was being unmade. The bruises didn’t fade for weeks. The pain lingered for days. Every muscle trembled. Every breath was a guess. He killed a poor, defenseless kitten on purpose, so I had no sympathy."

The girl was holding herself so still now it was as though her body feared movement would provoke the lash.

“But you?” Daisy leaned closer, her voice low and precise. “You just spat on me.”

“Why?"

A pause.

She let that hang, watching the fear bloom in the girl’s face like ice fracturing underfoot.

“I’m not supposed to use this,” Daisy continued. “You’re Level Four. So I probably won’t. But I brought it, just in case… because I want you to think about what it would feel like. I want you to know what I could do, what I’ve done, and that next time you’re here, I might request a reassessment. Paperwork gets lost. Instructions corrupted. If you really upset me, I could have whipped your pussy a dozen times and left you on display till closing time."

She laid the strap gently on the table beside the girl’s thigh, the leather cool against skin. Daisy stepped back, letting silence fall like snow. She turned back to the girl, picked up the strap again. “Let’s continue,” Daisy said, tucking it away.

This time, she used only the wand. But her voice carried more weight than any blow would’ve.

And for future reference, the girl didn’t spit on anyone again. Ever.

Time passed slowly as she worked her magic, but Daisy finally noticed the moisture on her inner thighs.

“Well now," she thought to herself.

This was the moment she had been waiting for. She tapped away on the tablet, checking her response curves, arousal level, and other stats. She was nearing maximum organic arousal level. She quickly made a connection with the peer network and started her pre-recorded introduction on maximum orgasm induction.

“What IS your name?" she asks and is answered with a glare.

The room lights up as fifty monitors come to life, showing her from every angle. A dozen are filled with likes and comments from her peer network. Most are fun and from friends, but a few are ugly in nature.

The girl gasps in disbelief.

She is on display for her friends, co-workers, and frenemies all.

Daisy asks one final question.

“I'm really going to work on you now," she says, sliding wet fingers through her damp folds, "for ninety-nine minutes and ninety-nine seconds. Do you want to cum and cum and cum in front of all your friends, or would prefer bawling your eyes out while I continue with the wand?” Daisy asked, circling her clit with her index finger.

"If I make you cum, it will be a full body orgasm after a lot of edging and begging on your part. You have one minute to decide."

A large digital clock lights up, showing the sixty-second countdown, and another set to ninety-nine minutes and seconds.

The clock ticked down the seconds...

At forty-five seconds, Daisy slides a finger inside and starts slow languid licks from her anus to clit.

At five seconds, Daisy stops and simply says, “choose."

Through wet sobs, she whimpers, “I choose…”