A caning now and a whipping later

"Since we don't want to disrupt your work day any more than it has been already, your chastisement will be split into two phases," Ms. Fletcher begins. "In a few moments, you will be caned rapidly for the first ten minutes of tardiness, starting with one stroke for the first minute and increasing by one for each of the following eight. Then you will get back to work and make up the time you've missed, before returning here to be whipped for the remaining…" she checks her tablet, "four-plus minutes. That means you will receive the maximum forty-five strokes now and sixty lashes this evening."

She continues to speak, but you don't really take any more in. For a moment you feel a little lightheaded, as if this isn't really happening to you. If it weren't for the ache in your bottom (which is about to be magnified enormously), you'd be quite happy to believe this whole afternoon escapade with the Rulebook were just an exciting daydream, but you're snapped back to reality by the HR assistant asking whether you understand.

Fortunately, you manage to pull yourself together and reply in the affirmative quickly enough to avoid any increase in your coming chastisement. Ms. Fletcher flicks a single switch to turn on both the lights and cameras, then a second to activate a television screen on the wall, before gesturing to indicate the spanking bench where you will be restrained. You stand up and begin the trepidatious journey towards your fate. The sixty lashes are irrelevant; you can use the Rulebook to cap punishments at the company to a more reasonable level later, but you can see no escape from the caning.

Soon (too soon for your liking), you have been secured in a kneeling position by straps at wrist, ankle and across the small of your back. Your legs are closer together than you'd have expected, given the importance of humiliation in punishments here, but you only have to turn your head slightly to see on the recently-activated display that the camera focused on your behind nevertheless leaves nothing whatsoever to the imagination. For the first time, you see the effects of your earlier strapping and paddlings in pin-sharp 4K high definition, a black inner zone of bruising surrounded by an irregular purple halo and dusted with tiny white flecks where the perforations in the policeman's paddle scraped your sensitive skin. The recording device is shooting at a slight upward angle, fully displaying your currently-not private parts to the future audience and the picture is in a split screen with a second camera trained on your face. As you shift around to try to find the least uncomfortable position your restraints permit, you realize the feed has a slight delay, for reasons that are not readily apparent.

In the time it's taken for you to take all this in, Ms. Fletcher has finished entering the parameters of your punishment on the computer system and turns her attention back to you.

"Look straight into the camera at all times, please, Ms. Cho. If you close your eyes or look away, the AutoSpanker will repeat the previous stroke." You instantly train your gaze on the dark circle of the lens in front of your face. It's not enough for the viewers to witness your ordeal, they also need to be able to see from your expressions how much suffering it is causing you. Unfortunately, the television screen is just at the edge of your peripheral vision and the moving images constantly threaten to attract an instinctual glance.

"The machine will now take your heart rate and blood pressure," your blonde tormentor continues. "The system will give you a ten second warning once it's ready and then start the programme." She bends to a microphone and reads out your offence and sentence, then clicks it off.

The seconds tick by in silence, tension building as you stare into the unblinking eye of the camera, a faint sheen of sweat forming on your skin despite the relative coolness of the punishment office. Then the tiniest of static noises makes you jump and a mechanised voice comes to life.

"Discipline Session oh-six-oh-three begins in ten…nine…eight…seven…" You want to scream, just let it start, the waiting is ****, but you'll be screaming soon enough.

"…three…two…one. Commencing."

Unlike any human, the AutoSpanker brings the rod towards your bottom in a straight line rather than an arc, nearly eliminating the difference between the impact of the tip and base of the cane. Unfortunately, this means that the whole line drilled across your cheeks just below your coccyx hurts just as much as the tip would normally and you jerk forwards involuntarily, bashing the fronts of your thighs on the unpadded frame. You press forwards to brace yourself for the next shot and only then realize that your head has fallen forward and urgently look up to train your eyes on the camera again.

*DING* "Stroke repeating." The mechanical tones of the AutoSpanker confirm your fear and before you can even take a breath, the cane cracks down, hitting the same spot with laser-guided accuracy, despite your bottom having moved since the last swing was launched.

You let out a strangled cry, tears already forming at the corners of your eyes and the heavy rod strikes again and again.

The strokes land just seconds apart and each is individually hardly less painful than your earlier paddling. Cumulatively, the rapid pace completely overwhelms any mental fortitude you may have possessed, leaving you a howling wreck, thrashing vainly against your bonds as you are flogged into hysterics, the only thought in your mind: "Don't look away! Don't look away!" Your earlier shenanigans with the bathroom break may work in your favour now, since the relentless beating inevitably strips away your ability to think or concentrate on anything except keeping your eyes on the camera, including control of your bladder.

The agony is engulfing you in waves from every direction and you don't even notice that the AutoSpanker is systematically working its way down your buttocks, tenderizing the flesh as it goes. Your screams only abate for as long as it takes you to gasp in air to scream again, your body wracked with shuddering spasms that leave you spent and exhausted, your nose running unnoticed amongst all the other competing sensations.

Only a minute or so after it started, the caning reaches your thighs, sending blasts of white hot fire through your nerves which finally inform your overloaded brain that the stick is not striking the same spot repeatedly. You wouldn't have believed that the torment could get any worse, but indeed it does and you start to panic under the mechanical onslaught.

* SWISH * * CRACK * * SWISH * * CRACK *

The AutoSpanker continues mindlessly, its inhuman efficiency unfettered by notions of sympathy or compassion, flogging your thighs to a state of searing agony that eclipses even that in your battered nates.

You roar your anguish to the listening microphones over and over, no longer able to see the camera through the tears flooding from your eyes and just hoping you are satisfying the cruel requirements of your chastisement. Surely, you must be receiving dozens of extra strokes or the ordeal would already be over—

—but it is over, and has been for some time. In fact, it took as long for you to realize the caning had finished as it did to administer it in the first place. When the truth finally dawns on you that the agony you feel is not the result of continued strokes, but the after effects of those already administered, you collapse down onto the bench, sobbing wretchedly.

Your misery is interrupted by an unexpected male voice telling you that you can get down when ready and you almost fall off the bench, discovering that your restraints have been removed without you noticing. You wipe handfuls of tears from your puffy eyes, but can still barely see the person who addressed you. You can tell that he's alone, however, so Ms. Fletcher must have left while you were otherwise engaged.

"Sit at the table, Ms. Cho," the mystery man continues and it is not a mere request, so you **** yourself to walk the few paces back, a trek that might have been across the Sahara desert and back, so difficult is it to put one foot in front of the other.

Lowering yourself gently into the welcoming chair, you are surprised to find that your pain is not markedly increased; in fact, the pressure on your welted cheeks is almost comforting, turning the sharp sting into a dull ache. The man sitting opposite hands you a tissue to blow your nose, then takes you through the forms you need to sign confirming the punishment you've received so far and reminds you of that still to come. You barely register that the entire session has lasted just five minutes, but the news that you only earned one extra stroke for looking away gives you a warm glow of pride.

It's only then that you recognize him as HR's Mr. Brown, which with hindsight is hardly surprising, because he is so different from the Simon Brown you knew before. That Simon tried to put on an assertive facade, sometimes turning borderline aggressive, but his real insecurities and fears were not hard to see. The man in front of you now has a real aura of assertiveness and calm confidence which you find strangely reassuring as he helps you to your feet.

"I hope you know how lucky you've been," he says sternly, ushering you out of the door. "If you had arrived just fifty-nine seconds later today, you would have received a verbal warning."

Even through the haze of pain, two things occur to you. Firstly, a verbal warning must be pretty serious if it's considered worse than forty-five strokes of the cane (plus extras) and sixty lashes. Secondly, if Veronica Fletcher had signed you in just two seconds earlier after your bathroom break, you would have been getting fourteen fewer lashes, which you're sure was no accident. Still, there's no point worrying about it now, so you thank Mr. Brown for his help and start to make your way back to your office.

You've barely gone two paces when Ms. Fletcher walks up to you again from wherever she got to.

"I'll walk with you back to your desk," she informs you brightly. "We wouldn't want you dawdling on the way, would we, Ms. Cho?"

"No, Ms. Fletcher," you reply in a more subdued manner. Clearly there won't be any opportunity to fix your appearance in the bathroom before your colleagues see you in your current state, nor use the Rulebook. Furthermore, the blonde martinet sets a brisk pace, which soon has your tears and your nose flowing in earnest once more, bolts of pain shooting up your legs to the base of your spine with every step.

You make your way through the office to your station, trying to act as if your bottom is not bare and sore, your face not ravaged by tears. A woman walking around bottomless and well-spanked is clearly not that unusual, but your state is worse than most and attracts considerable attention: eyes stay on you longer than you would normally expect them to, a few women wince sympathetically and some even gasp with shock, although they quickly find something else to occupy themselves when Ms. Fletcher glances their way.

Once at your desk, you gingerly sit down, blessing the softness of the office chair and put your bag down beside you. You won't risk getting the Rulebook out in front of the visitor from HR, so you open the product summary chart you were working on and try to look busy.

"Excuse me, could I ask a favour?" Ms. Fletcher's voice wafts over from a little way behind you. You try to ignore her, but you suspect she is planning something to do with you and can't help earwigging. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Veronica Fletcher, from HR."

"Uh, David Reed. Of course; how can I help?" So she's talking to your graduate intern, Dave. He's a real asset to your team, no doubt, but he's also the type of guy who loves walking the very fine line of being very irritating but not quite so mischievous as to get into real trouble with you or your superiors. He stands almost two feet over you too.

"Well, Mr. Reed, Ms. Cho here was very late back to work this afternoon and she has to make up the time, so we need someone to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't slack off."

"Oh, I'm sure Jenna, I mean Ms. Cho wouldn't…"

"No, no, of course, it's only a precaution. But if she did happen to undertake any non work-related activity or leave her desk for any reason, would you feel able to take her in hand and give her an extremely sound spanking?"

"Well, yes, Ms. Fletcher, I'm sure I could manage that…if it proves necessary." You can't help think he sounds as if he's rather hoping that it will, despite his earlier protestations.

"Excellent! I'll send you and Ms. Cho an email confirming your authority to discipline her, momentarily. Incidentally, she used the lavatory just a short while ago, so there won't be any need for her to go again this afternoon." You feel the blood rush to your face, as much from the inequity of being subjected to your intern's supervision as embarrassment at having your toilet visit openly discussed. The knowledge of the Rulebook (which you notice only starts to flow after a particular event instead of forewarning you) suggests that while Dave is indeed technically eligible to be delegated spanking duties, it is uncommon to ask an intern to spank a manager, unless the intern was the one harmed in the first place.

Ms. Fletcher leaves and a slightly awkward conversation follows as Dave feels it necessary to come over and explain his new duties, although you would have to be deaf or comatose to have failed to be aware of them already. You assure him that you respect his position and promise to do your best to abide by the rules.

If you hoped that work would distract you from the burning volcano of agony in your bum and thighs, then you are sadly disappointed; the pain pulsates through you without respite, thrumming with every breath you take. It feels as if you can sense the blood pumping through your arteries, every beat of your heart sending spikes of anguish through your mortified flesh. However, the opposite is also true: the pain in no way distracts you from your work. In fact, you feel more focused and alert than ever, your fingers flying over the keyboard and eyes taking in the data and making connections that would have taken you hours before. Even wiping your eyes and nose constantly does little to slow you down.

You're about to start on your third file of the afternoon, when Diana, one of the colleagues from your marketing group, comes over and crouches down beside your chair so as to be on the same level.

"You poor thing! You ought to go to the bathroom and let me put something on that bottom of yours for you."

"Not allowed, I'm afraid; I have to work all the way through to make up the time I lost."

"That's just cruel! We all need aftercare after a spanking, especially a flogging like yours. What happened, anyway?"

You give a very brief (and abridged) account of your afternoon, but mid-way through, Dave comes over and interrupts, almost apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Cho, but is this conversation work related?"

"Of course it is, Dave," Diana snaps back before you can say anything. "Now go and get on with your own work."

Dave hesitates in an agony of indecision. He obviously overheard what you were saying and knows that it can hardly be described as work related. However, he doesn't want to openly question the word of a superior. Unfortunately, you know from experience that Dave's modus operandi when confronted with a situation he's not confident in dealing with is to kick it upstairs, which in this case means reporting to Ms. Fletcher. You don't want Diana to get in trouble too, so with a sigh, you confirm your transgression and accept the consequences. Diana makes one more attempt to shield you from further chastisement by claiming it is her fault and if anyone should be spanked it is she, but you know that's not going to wash with HR and letting her be punished on your behalf might just get you into more trouble, so you pull rank and insist on taking responsibility.

Dave instructs you to stand up facing him and apologise for your slacking, wearing the I-am-only-doing-as-told-and-taking-no-pleasure-in-this expression you cannot find sincere. After you say you are sorry you became distracted from your work, he offers no reaction and an awkward ten seconds later you start talking again, explaining how it is unacceptable and someone in your position should be a better example to her coworkers and you will benefit from the discipline you are about to receive. A furious blush spreads on your cheeks. You have to give Dave credit for keeping his eyes on your face as you talk even though your crotch is facing the young man directly.

"Thank-you, Ms. Cho," Dave finally lets you stop your apology and asks you to clear your desk; it is already quite neat so all you need to do is to move the few piles of papers to one side. Dave then instructs you to climb onto it face up, which you do with Diana's help, together with not inconsiderable difficulty and discomfort. He tells you to lift your legs, bend them and hold them open, an action which causes you pain he can't imagine. Trying not to think how you look to your coworkers, you can almost physically feel the shame pulse through you and you allow yourself to start crying again. You need to save your strength for the challenges to come and fighting the urge to bawl like a baby comes very low down on your list of priorities at the moment. Dave then physically slides you by your shoulders down to the point where your lifted and spread bottom is just over the edge and slides a folded cushion from his chair to support your head.

"Keep your eyes open and forward, Ms Cho" he instructs and you do, looking down your displayed body. For the first time, you see the damage the caning has wrought, your thighs and buttocks corrugated by livid weals butting directly up to one another. In this position your weals and your holes are visible not to Dave alone. As he doubtlessly intended, you see the faces of your coworkers through your tears; most males alternate between looking at their screens and you; most females make themselves busy working. Not all, though. Bella (known as Bellatrix to your friends), the manager of a rival sales group, has an obvious smile on her face. She must have just come in at the worst possible moment, as you did not see her before. Diana, standing close enough to touch, has lost the air of indignation she was feeling on your behalf; instead, she's staring at your exposed crotch with an expression best described as dreamy. Diana never made a secret of her preference for female companionship and not for the first time you wonder if there is a chance for something there.

Your thoughts are rudely pushed from the amorous path as Dave makes you apologise again. You indeed feel sorry (mostly for being so stupid) so it comes more easily than you would have expected it to. Dave reminds you to keep your eyes forward and produces a metal engineer's rule from an inside pocket. It's not normal office equipment and you notice that Property of HR is stamped on the underside; a gift from Veronica Fletcher, no doubt.

The ruler hovers over your thighs, but Dave hesitates. The welts already present will make further spanking inordinately painful and you think perhaps mercy will win over dutifulness. Firm smacks to your untouched inner thighs would certainly be sufficient to make you a very sorry and contrite young lady, but you know that this is not where Dave wants to spank you. What he wants to do is thrash your neat little twat black and blue, swatting you over and over with that ruler until you're an emotional wreck and he'll have memories to fuel his fantasies for years to come, but he has absolutely no justification for applying his chastisement to that particular area. Of course, if he did, you would hardly be in any position to complain, when he could choose to belabour your weals instead, but you hope he doesn't realize this.