Right between your legs

As if there were ever any real doubt, Dave succumbs to the temptation and smacks the heavy rule spiritedly along your exposed slit, the impact enough to flex even the stiff metal so that the tip snaps onto your mound just above your clitoris. A pair of red stripes appears instantly, one on either lip and joining together at the top. You grunt rather than cry out and hear a breathy moan of "Oh!" realizing it came from Diana, who's staring intently at your peachy flesh, her thighs pressed tightly together as though in need of the powder room.

The burly intern continues, a look of concentration rather than the expected delight upon his face, the swats moving slightly left or right to ensure the whole of your pudenda is covered, whilst the core of your sex never escapes the bruising blows. Despite your recent experiences, this quickly breaks your resistance and soon you're giving short screams with every blow. After ten smacks, your spanker stops and you breath a sigh of relief; the punishment was certainly hard, but not unbearable.

Unfortunately, Dave hasn't finished yet. Unsatisfied by your response to his spanking, he turns the ruler sideways and raps the edge down cruelly onto your left labia. You give a pitiful squeal at the concentrated agony and Diana gasps, but neither of you protests, giving the young man confidence to give you another thin weal on the same lip, followed by a matching pair on the right. Then, he reaches down with his left hand and peels back the hood over your clitoris, to expose your **** nub to the whole office—and the whole office is watching, nobody even pretending to work any more.

Not wanting to hit his finger, Dave takes his time and delivers a stinging blow using the very tip of the ruler, then follows up with five energetic swats with the flat of the implement. This gets the reaction he was after, almost total hysteria, wailing with abandon and sobbing inconsolably.

Emboldened by the situation, he inspects your sex closely, running his fingers over the raw welts he's raised and even giving each lip a firm squeeze to test the bruising, before doing the same to your clit, making it all you can do not to howl in anguish loudly enough to disturb your boss in his private office.

"Please spread your outer labia, Ms. Cho." Now, Dave can barely keep the smirk from his face as his words send you into fresh rounds of sobbing. You obey with shaking hands and discover what he felt seconds ago: your lips are stiff and swollen and blazing hot to the touch.

Your intern resumes with the edge of the ruler, striking the inner surfaces of your outer lips, then your normally hidden inner lips and finally one blow right down the middle, before switching to flat swats again and roasting the whole of your spread sex. Not for the first time today, you are surprised by the amount of pain your body is able to experience without shutting down. Individually, each type of stroke is ****, combined they are excruciating beyond belief and if your elbows weren't pinned between your knees by the need to hold yourself open, you would never have been able to keep your legs apart as required.

Dave checks his handiwork again, poking and prodding, pulling you wide so he and most of your coworkers get an obscene view right down the pink tunnel of your sex.

"Well, Ms. Cho," he says, giving you an almost playful slap on the thigh with his hand, "I hope you found that experience extraordinarily unpleasant."

You're weeping and spluttering too much to form any coherent reply at once, which might have saved you from further chastisement, considering what you'd like to say to the smarmy git, but he's content to wait until you recover somewhat and thank him earnestly for disciplining you, adding hoarsely that you're sure it will be extremely effective.

Satisfied, he gives you permission to get down and return to work straight away, as you wouldn't want to be late for your whipping. Then, he walks jauntily back to his work station and leans back in his seat, grinning widely.

Diana helps you off the desk, asking whether you have anyone to take you home after your whipping. When you tell her you don't, she says she'll do it, as you shouldn't be alone afterwards. The way she says it, doesn't make her offer sound optional.

You finally slip back into your chair, and find that you have a very difficult time settling down as more and more of your nether regions have tasted the new world you have created with a stroke of a pencil, the pain between your legs exacerbated more than that in your backside by the pressure of the seat. After making sure you're not going to collapse, Diana returns to her desk and you get back into the swing of work, trying to ignore the show you've just put on for all your colleagues. You sort of work out a position where the pressure is lowest but before long your muscles get too sore and you have to shift again. There is little benefit in hiding your groans of pain at this point, so you do not even try.

Time passes slowly and you easily manage to complete all your assignments before you're due to head over to HR. Eventually, the hands of the office clock reach the end of the day and your coworkers start to file out, although you still have twenty minutes to make up. Diana stays too, as does Dave, busy typing. At first, you think he's just staying for the chance to torment you more, but then it occurs to you that he still has his own work to do. Acting on impulse, you call across to him and offer to cover for him so that he can leave on time. He seems suspicious for a moment, then smiles and thanks you, sending his workflow over to your screen and packing up his things. You're much more experienced than he is and probably finish the report before he's even out of the building. Now is your opportunity to get the Rulebook and make the changes you've been considering, but the more you think about it, the more you want to see this through.

Your company can't be an anomaly and many hundreds or even thousands of young women are surely suffering as much as or more than you have today—only they didn't get to choose this. The least you owe them is to finish what you started.

Having made the decision gives you a feeling of calm, although the butterflies in your tummy regarding the punishment to come just increase. When Diana sees you take a deep breath and try to rise, she comes over and helps you to your feet.

You had thought that the chair was causing you pain, but it only gets worse when you stand up, swaying a little and swallowing in shock. Thankfully, your lovely colleague holds onto you and supports you as you begin your journey towards the fate you've chosen to accept. You're grateful, both for her help, without which you feel as though you might fall down and for her presence, which dissuades you from checking the results of your previous spankings with your hands, an action likely to result in more trouble if anyone sees you.

The two of you reach the HR department just a minute or so before your appointment and both remain standing—you because it's easier than sitting down and then returning to your feet, she in order to help you. The television screen in the corner is showing a channel called DisciplineTV, but you're unable to use it to distract yourself from the coming ordeal.

The door behind you opens so softly your bare skin detects a draft before you hear anything. "Ms. Cho. Please, come in. Ms. May can wait here until we're finished." Mr. Brown stands aside and Diana gives your hand a quick squeeze before you hobble into the room. You hear the sound of a sofa being sat on just as the door closes.

Having already been through this once, you know more or less what to expect. You have to sit at the table to hear that you're going to get sixty lashes with a long, single tailed whip on your back, fully nude, at one minute intervals. When Mr. Brown asks whether you have any questions, suddenly remember that you have a punishment due at the coffee shop.

"Not a problem," he replies. Previously, any conflicting appointment would have been taken as a personal insult, but now he takes it all within his stride. "I will give them a call to delay your chore until another day; you won't be in any condition do it this evening. You can pick up your clothes from them at that time." You thank your helpful HR representative and struggle to your feet once more to strip naked, folding your clothes neatly and putting them on the table and your shoes under it. By the time you've finished, Mr. Brown has entered the details of the session into the system and guides you to a saddle in front of an AutoSpanker fitted with the promised whip.

You ease yourself onto the saddle with not inconsiderable difficulty. Although it's padded to prevent injury when sitting on it for long periods—and you'll be on it for about an hour, you remember—there's a stiff ridge down the middle which is rough and gnarled and presses against you all the way from your anus to your throbbing clitoris. The effect is not merely uncomfortable, but downright excruciating and you wonder briefly whether Dave knew about this when he chose to spank you there. The width of the saddle makes it awkward to straddle it, but you try to take the weight off your tortured crotch. However, the hum of hydraulics heralds the horrible seat rising up until you can't quite reach the ground.

Mr. Brown tells you there are rails for your feet and you look down to locate them. Unfortunately, they are narrow and dig punishingly into your soles when you try to lift yourself on them. Mr. Brown hangs a water bottle on a lanyard where you can reach it with your mouth, should you need it, then puts soft cuffs on your wrists and shortens the straps until your upper body is in a Y-shape, although they're not so short that they lift you off the saddle unless you pull on them with your biceps. You can already feel your legs and ankles straining to keep you up and the pain from the rails is searing into you. Even without the whipping, the next hour would be a terrible ordeal and you wish you spent more time in the gym, despite regarding yourself as fairly fit and active.

The accomplished disciplinarian takes what looks like a hand-held vacuum cleaner and turns it on, holding it towards the back of your head, where it quickly sucks in your hair, yanking it viciously as if he means to rip it out of your scalp. The pull increases, jerking your head back and bringing fresh tears to your eyes, then the motor stops and he takes the device away, but the tension on your hair remains and you feel an unaccustomed weight on the top of your head near the back. You look from side to side and up and down, trying to see what's happened, but the strain in your legs soon makes you lose interest.

Mr. Brown uses a spray bottle to moisten your back, making you shiver in the coolness of the office, explaining that it's disinfectant in case your skin is broken by the whip. Next, he goes through the usual spiel about taking your vitals and giving you a ten second warning, then makes the announcement for the recording, but all you can think about is balancing the agony in your groin, feet and arm muscles.

The room is silent, apart from your breathing that seems to echo in your ears, then the first * SWISH * comes disconcertingly loud in the stillness and your whole world explodes.

The whip is heavy enough to knock you forwards fractionally, scraping your sex and crack along the ridge. The only reason that isn't the worst pain you've ever felt is that it is dwarfed by the searing line from your right shoulder to the small of your back. It's like a red hot knife being dragged through every nerve ending in your body and you scream and scream and scream again.

It feels like an eternity, but nowhere near long enough, before the next lash tears down your back, practically in the same place as the one before. You're by no means a big girl and fitting sixty lashes in the space between your shoulders is going to mean putting them very close together.

It's impossible to tell whether your back is in tatters or completely unharmed, the agony is leeching your strength, stopping you from lifting your weight off the cruelly designed saddle.

When the third stripe is laid into your hide, you start to feel nauseous from the pain, which by now is engulfing you in a cocoon, sending pins and needles through the right side of your body. What were you thinking, submitting to this? But deep down, you know you deserve it, not for being late to work, but for inflicting it on all the other, unwilling women in the world with the Rulebook.

Your throat is going hoarse and your screams at the fourth lash are barely audible. You hang limp from the cuffs, twitching involuntarily as your nerves send jolts through your nervous system. You think maybe there's some limit to the amount of pain you can feel and eventually it will stop getting worse, but if so, you don't seem to be reaching it.

At the fifth lash, you wonder whether this severity of whipping has ever been given before or the threat of it has always proved sufficient in the past, but the Rulebook helpfully provides the information that on average, your company administers a two-hundred lash full-body flogging every month or two, and lesser punishments are exponentially more common. Women convicted of serious crimes can receive many thousands of lashes, spread over weeks or months. Your sixty probably isn't even the worst Simon Brown has administered today.

The sixth line of fire breaks you out of your musings; the vicious implement will not allow distraction or escape from its inhuman caresses. Delirium threatens to overtake you when you realize you are just a tenth of the way through and already the pain is worse than you can possibly endure. Your mouth is dry and your nose is blocked. You gulp, straining to get enough air into your lungs to scream.

Number seven is, unbelievably, even more excruciating and now you're sure you'll be torn to shreds by the time you've finished. Your back is stiffening and you've pretty much given up trying to control your movement on the saddle. Your unresponsiveness might make the recording of your chastisement less interesting to some, but connoisseurs of corporal punishment can see your suffering etched in every nuance of your face.

You begin to despair at the eighth lash. There is nothing you can do to make the torment more bearable, nothing except endure and you cannot imagine you will come out of this the same person you went in. Slowly, your eyes close…