He gets angry

"This is a legal matter," the policeman begins sternly, "and takes priority over your personal business. Perhaps you think police officers have nothing better to do than wait for you to make telephone calls."

"N-no, I didn't mean—"

"Do not interrupt me, please." He doesn't let you finish, staring at you until you become even more uncomfortable than you already were, then he reaches into his car for a second time and brings out a rolled-up green mat, which he lays out on the pavement in front of you. It has two orange hand-shapes about a yard apart and between them the image of a pink pair of lips covered in many layers of transparent material. He rips off the top layer and stuffs it in to a pouch on the mat bearing the recycling symbol.

"Keeping your feet where they are and your legs straight, place your hands on the mat in the areas shown," he instructs. The position of the mat means that the least uncomfortable way to do this is to bend at the waist, leaving your bottom sticking out vulnerably.

Sure enough, the paddle cracks down on your upraised cheeks with enough **** that your knees nearly buckle, but somehow you control yourself, not wanting to discover the consequences of failure.

"Kiss the ground," he orders brusquely and you bend your arms to lower your face gently to the mat. The feel on your lips is like plastic and you realize that the transparent material is some sort of sanitary film which gets removed between users.

"Up," is the terse response to your compliance and you return to your previous position by means of an awkward press-up.

The paddle immediately descends again, knocking the air out of you and leaving you gasping in pain. Perhaps surprisingly, you bear the policeman no ill will for this treatment; it was your own actions that brought you here and if you're going to be angry with anyone, then it's going to be yourself.

"Kiss the ground," he repeats and you do, your descent slightly less smooth as your triceps begin to tire.

"Up." You **** yourself to rise and the paddle slams down for a third time, almost knocking you over and finally releasing the tears that have been threatening to fall since your strapping that seems a lifetime ago, rather than just a few minutes.

"Kiss the ground." So it continues, it becoming harder with each repetition to avoid smacking yourself in the face when you drop to plant your lips on the mat and to keep your legs straight when the black rectangle pounds your buttocks black and blue. After five swats, you're sobbing with abandon, not caring how you look or what people think. It's hard to focus on any one aspect of the pain. The dull ache of bruising in your bottom vies for attention with the sharp clawing sensation caused by the slots in the paddle blistering your bum and even your protesting arm muscles. Worst is the uncertainty. Do you have five more to come, or ten or twenty, or will it be over after the next strike? Your tormentor gives no indication, but the last of those turns out to be true, because after just one more brutal swat, the tells you to stand up.

So unexpected is the instruction that you instinctively start to lower yourself to the mat again before it sinks in and you have to struggle to reverse your direction of travel, shoulders burning from the effort. You're ashamed by how much half a dozen press-ups have taken out of you, but of course, you haven't warmed up and the conditions are hardly ideal. Finally, you get back upright and stand to attention, tears running unchecked down your cheeks, whilst the policeman goes through his forms and has you confirm your personal information and sign to confirm the punishment you've received.

You would dearly love to rub your bottom, at least to find out how badly abraded your cheeks are from the merciless slots, but that is out of the question in public. The last thing you need is more punishment, either from the policeman or simply a helpful passer-by. Finally, the inquisition is over and the officer of the law hands you your two Fixed Penalty Notices.

You thank him with genuine gratitude for taking the time to discipline you and pick up your bag, before limping off at the same pace as the other pedestrians. There's no point in hurrying now, because you're already late and it's not a question of whether you're going to be punished for it, but rather how much.

With every step and the attendant movement of your battered cheeks, you're left gasping at the discomfort, which actually seems worse than when you were being paddled. A few more people are taking notice of you now than earlier in your journey, but you successfully fight the urge to try to fix your face before you get back to work. Not that you're trying to garner sympathy, but anyone you meet deserves to know that the spankings you've endured so far today have really made you suffer.

You finally hobble into your office building and scan your ID card on the reader by the door. Another change immediately becomes obvious: in addition to a green and a red indicator, there is now also an amber one. However, it's the red one that flashes as text appears on the small screen spelling your name, your company name and a message that reads “LATE, >10 MINS, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO HR” and your heart sinks.

With the greatest ****, you put one foot in front of the other to carry you to the blissfully empty lift and instinctively push the button for the floor where the Human Resources department used to be before you started messing with the Rulebook. Then your gaze alights upon a poster on the wall, containing a mix of text and illustrations which graphically explain the fate that awaits you. Serious errors lead to being summoned to HR to be dealt with severely with heavy implements; those who committed less grievous deeds will instead be visited at their desk by an HR staff member who will issue a milder punishment on the spot using office supplies such as rulers or even merely their bare hand.

Taking in the image of a young woman screaming in anguish as she is savagely thrashed with a wide strap, the terror of having to report for a proper whipping or a caning makes you quail, although waiting for someone to come and spank you at your desk in front of everyone would hardly be a good deal either! Suddenly it's all too much for you. You can't take another beating like that so soon after the others and jerk open your bag to get the Rulebook and undo, or at least ameliorate, the mistakes you've made.

Unfortunately, the doors open at that precise moment to reveal one of the people you least want to see. Your academic background gives you good insight into the practices in the HR department, so while you made some great friends there who were happy to finally meet an outsider capable of appreciating their work, with others you have earned a reputation of a know-it-all-from-marketing-who-thinks-she-can-do-their-job-better. Veronica Fletcher is one of the latter and it is she who is standing in front of the lift when you arrive, looking at a tablet fixed inexplicably to a clipboard.

"Hello, Ms. Cho," she greets you with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I see you're more than ten minutes late for work this afternoon. I'm afraid Mr. Brown has received an urgent summons, so I will commence your chastisement and he will join us upon his return. Please follow me."

You curse inwardly as the angular blonde turns without waiting for a reply and leads the way. She's just the sort of person who would come to meet you personally if she found out you were in trouble, not able to wait for you to find her. You hurry after her, jagged twinges shooting through your buttocks as you rush.

"Excuse me, v-uh-Ms. Fletcher," you interrupt her rapid pace. "I need to use the lavatory." You don't, but you do need the opportunity to fine tune your rules before you get skinned alive by this vindictive martinet.

She stops and spins round to face you.

"Use the lavatory? You just came back from a break. You know you should have gone then!"

"Yes, Ms. Fletcher, but I was already late and I really can't hold it any longer. I'm very sorry."

"Very well, Ms. Cho," she replies, making an alteration on her tablet, "but the time you take will be added on to your break—that is, the time by which you were late returning."

"Thank-you, Ms. Fetcher."

"Come along, then." If you thought she would let you go and come back later, you're sadly mistaken, as she leads you the rest of the way to the HR department, which turns out to be exactly where you remember it. In fact, the only change on the outside is that the usually neglected plaque now can outshine the sun itself. The changes become a bit more pronounced once you enter the office itself; the bulletin board is replaced by three flat screens, only one of which still lists current announcements. The other two are titled “Monthly DVD Contents” with lists of female names and corresponding misdeeds, but Veronica whisks you onwards before you can see more.

You enter the waiting area and pass a sign that announces you must wait till called and a sofa that looks soft and inviting. Veronica opens a door with her key card and ushers you into a restroom with open stalls and stainless steel toilets and basins. She clearly intends to watch you finish your business, but more shocking are the video cameras trained directly on each stall. You start to realise why being punished in front of your colleagues is not considered to be bad as far as public humiliation goes. The other option is having every aspect of your misfortune recorded and presumably saved for posterity in the monthly DVD release mentioned on the screens outside.

Your hopes of making changes to the Rulebook in private dashed, you nevertheless sit, or at least hover awkwardly above the bowl. You don't want to annoy your guide any further by making it seem you were wasting her time, so you **** out a piddle that echoes loudly enough to make you blush with embarrassment, then complete your ablutions.

"Ready?"

You nod and follow her back through the waiting area and into Simon Brown's office, which has undergone even greater changes than the communal areas. The desk and the small conference table occupy a corner of a now much larger space, while the rest is what you would have taken for a BDSM production set in your old world, only without the expected softness or sexual themes. It is very practical and simple instead, clearly made to enable one to cause most pain in various ways, easy to clean and disinfect, perfect to make someone helpless. Apart from the standard simple gear such as a St. Andrew's cross, two spanking benches and what looks like a gynaecologist chair, there are two bulky items with extending arms that you've never seen before, although the logo AutoSpanker gives some clue as to their purpose.

"Please sit." Veronica points at the conference table and you reluctantly obey, letting out a grunt of distress, although as it happens the chair isn't particularly harsh on your throbbing behind. "Let me now tell you what will happen…"

Finally accepting that your magic book isn't going to save your bottom, you realize you would very much like to know that.