Over the Knee

by Fiona Locke

  I knew how to dress to flatter my grown-up charms, but I had a penchant for girlish tartan skirts. An independent uniform fetish, I suspect. I rarely wore anything else. When people asked, I simply shrugged and confided that it made me feel more studious. They laughed it off as a charming eccentricity. They had no idea.

  But, though I fantasised about it often, I never got up the courage to go back to Ravenscroft. And as the years passed, the preoccupation lost its urgency. University kept me busy and before I knew it I was buried in my thesis: ‘The Victorian Chat Room: Covert Sadomasochism in Nineteenth-Century Family Magazines’.

  Victorian England was alive with deviant undertones. The sexual repression coupled with the harsh discipline of the period created an ideal environment for fetishes to flourish. There was a wealth of flagellant literature and I was certain that if I had lived then I’d have been writing my own as well. But the obsession with corporal punishment went beyond overt pornography. The ‘English vice’, it was called.

  A group of enthusiasts infiltrated mainstream periodicals like The Family Herald and The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, publishing spurious accounts of spanking and birching, rendered in obsessive fetishistic detail. There were accounts of the birching of young ladies by schoolmistresses. Floggings in monasteries and nunneries. Whippings administered by strict governesses. Discussions of whether it was decent for gentlemen to whip girls, ladies to whip boys. The disciplinary merits of such chastisement. And on and on.

  But the most enticing aspect was the fact that these detailed letters were to be found sprinkled amongst the commonplace crises of etiquette. The moral implications of kissing before marriage. How to break off a tender acquaintanceship. Where one may purchase birch rods for the chastisement of unruly daughters.

  Ah, the glorious hypocrisy of Victorian sexuality. The lengths to which they went to repress their urges. They staunchly refused to acknowledge that there was anything inherently erotic underlying their obsession with corporal punishment. Heavens, no – that would be perverse!

  Many of the letters were obvious hoaxes, pornography masquerading as morality. Some of them purported to condemn the practice of corporal punishment. The moral outrage only lent further credence to the discourse, however.

  A HATER OF THE SYSTEM (our old friend) writes to inform us that even she does not disapprove of flogging, but only indecent flogging; and she says that in the most aristocratic schools flogging is of daily occurrence. She describes the system pursued in one near Edinburgh, where the terms are 120 guineas per annum. ‘A book of offences is kept by one of the young ladies, in which every fault is regularly entered. There is a graduated scale of punishments, the highest of which is corporal. When an offence of sufficient magnitude takes place, the culprit enters it in the book herself, and carries the report to the lady superintendent, who writes under it the amount of punishment. For the first offence, the delinquent is prepared for punishment, but generally pardoned. For the second, she is whipped privately. For all subsequent delinquencies the punishment takes place in the schoolroom, on ‘the horse’; and, in addition to the pain it inflicts, it costs in money about 1s., paid in fees. The system is as follows: 1st. She proceeds to the housekeeper, to procure the rod, a leathern thong. She pays 2d. for the use of it. 2nd. She has then to be partly undressed by the maid, and this costs 2d. 3rd. The culprit has then to walk barefooted to another part of the house, to be robed for punishment, a peculiar dress being used, to add to the disgrace. It is a long linen blouse, short cotton socks, and list slippers, all of which each offender has to provide for herself. The young lady, thus costumed, now proceeds to the drawing-room, to be exhibited to the lady superintendent. Having been approved, she is then conducted to the schoolroom, when she has to pay 6d. to the governess, who inflicts the amount of punishment awarded. A wooden horse, covered with soft leather, is the medium of castigation. The delinquent subsequently thanks the governess! kisses the rod!! then thanks the superintendent, and retires to her own room, to appear no more until prayer-time the next morning.’ Our correspondent says the ceremony has more effect than the punishment. The young ladies are in other respects tenderly dealt with. Even the horse has a soft cushion.

  The letter had the same effect on me as on my predecessors. The extravagant ritual was a form of protracted foreplay and the detached mannerly voice only heightened its eroticism. It was all perfectly proper and above board. And all in the name of old-fashioned English discipline.

  My supervisor hadn’t batted an eye when I’d proposed my thesis title. Dr Morrison was a humourless, asexual pedagogue who was oblivious to my personal interest in the subject. The irony was delicious; the vanilla readers of The Family Herald didn’t realise they were watching fetishists at play either.

  My academic life was steeped in erotica, but my reality remained steadfastly bland and boring. At twenty-four, I was getting desperate for sympathetic company. I’d had boyfriends, of course. But none of the guys I went out with could measure up to my fantasy of Mr Chancellor. They completely missed the hints I dropped. But I couldn’t spell it out for them. They had to be the ones to initiate it.

  I had no trouble attracting vanilla boys; the trick was finding the kinky ones. There was the Net, of course. But I was wary of visiting dubious sites from the university library’s computers. There were strict regulations about that. If I were caught, the humiliation would be too much to handle. Then again, perhaps it would be worth it.

  There was a wealth of material about the spanking fetish – so much that I could never hope to read it all. But I tried. Naturally, the Victorian offerings were my favourites. I was fascinated by the harsh class division and the wicked things the upper classes could do to the lower. Power was hot, but power abused … well, that was something very special indeed.

  One of my fondest fantasies cast me as a maid for a prurient gentleman who punished me when I didn’t perform my duties as he expected. I had no option but to submit to his touch as well as his correction. It was that or be cast out on to the streets. No choice. No responsibility. No guilt.

  My favourite book was the Victorian classic Frank & I, the story of a girl who disguises herself as a boy and lives with a strict guardian. When the guardian orders ‘Frank’ to take down his trousers for a birching, he discovers her secret, but keeps it to himself. Frank must continue being a boy, unaware that her guardian knows full well she is a girl. And her guardian, a self-proclaimed ‘lover of the rod’, delights in finding fault with his young charge and administering sound punishments for every offence.

  Of course, there is nothing more traditional, more quintessentially English, than the cane. A short sharp shock. Skirt up, knickers down. Six of the best in the headmaster’s study. But, even more than the implement, it was the ritual that obsessed me. There were prescribed conventions that I saw played out compulsively in both my fantasies and the stories I read. The English had made an art of discipline.

  But all things considered, I couldn’t imagine anything more intimate and humbling than an old-fashioned bare-bottom, over-the-knee spanking. The exquisite embarrassment of being treated like a child, my clothing adjusted just enough to expose my bottom for smacking. My ears would burn as my disciplinarian scolded me, telling me what a naughty girl I’d been and how I deserved punishment. He would bring his palm down on my pale cheeks, turning them pink and red while I kicked and squirmed over his lap. Perhaps then he would move on to the hairbrush, the most domestic implement of all. The polished ebony would elicit cries of pain and promises of better behaviour from me.

  I sighed and flipped through my notebook. It hadn’t been a productive morning. I’d spent most of it lost in daydreams. The possibility that there could be someone out there who wanted to spank me as much as I wanted to be spanked was driving me to distraction.

  Perhaps I could justify visiting spanking websites and chat rooms as part of my research. After all, I couldn’t very well compare Victorian magazines with modern chat rooms if I didn�
��t visit some of them myself. But I’d have to fill in a special application form for that and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to out myself to the librarian just yet.

  Frustrated and torn, I returned to the comfort of the dictionary. I could always rely on its clinical descriptions for a little fix. This time I looked up ‘birch’. I pictured the embarrassment and dread of having to cut switches and bind them together to make my own birch rod. Presenting it to my disciplinarian and asking to be punished.

  Sometimes I liked to fantasise about being a boy. Or just a modern-day ‘Frank’ disguised as one. I wondered how I would look in short trousers and a schoolboy cap. Or an Eton suit. There was no shortage of corporal punishment accounts about the elite public school. I’d gone to the Eton museum once to see the famous birching block. Imagining myself as a boy during Dr Keate’s reign of terror, trembling before the rod, stretching myself across the block …

  ‘Hey, Angie.’

  I gasped and slammed the dictionary shut, startling several students near by. They raised their heads and looked at me reproachfully before returning to their studies.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’ It was Karen, the librarian’s assistant.

  I blushed as though I’d been caught with a pornographic book instead of the OED.

  ‘Thought you’d like to know that this is back in,’ she said, handing me A History of the Rod. Again.

  It was a curious little book, written in the late 1800s by the Reverend William M. Cooper, BA. Subtitled Flagellation and the Flagellants, the cover displayed an embossed gold-leaf etching of the Eton birching block, complete with birch rod. The spine bore etchings of other instruments of correction. Not a masterpiece of subtlety, but a potent wellspring for those in the know.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I just needed to check some references in this chapter.’

  I tried to act nonchalant, but I could see her puzzled expression. She’d probably flipped through it and seen the delights on offer. She must have wondered what all the fuss was about – why two people were fighting over it, recalling it back and forth.

  She raised her eyebrows, as though waiting for me to let her in on the joke. ‘I expect it will be recalled again next week?’

  ‘I expect so.’ I refused to elaborate.

  Shaking her head, she left.

  It was an odd but alluring little game of cat and mouse. I didn’t actually need the book at all. I’d already read it. But I did want to know who else was borrowing it. He – and I was convinced it was a man – had to be a kindred spirit.

  He wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind.

  Two

  ‘LIFT YOUR SKIRT.’

  I heard the direction clearly, but my response came unbidden. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. Lift. Your. Skirt.’

  My skin felt chilled as my tremulous fingers crept down to the hem of my kilt. I hesitated, glancing up at him with pleading eyes.

  ‘Would you like me to do it for you?’ he asked, squarely in control.

  ‘No!’ Slowly, I dragged the fabric up until he could see my knickers.

  ‘Very good. Now turn around.’

  Closing my eyes, I obeyed.

  I was the one who had started this. I was the one who kept recalling A History of the Rod so that he had to do the same. It was like a possessive game between children. ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine!’ ‘No, mine!’

  So, when he recalled the book again, as I knew he would, I returned it. Then I staked out the circulation desk, waiting for him to come in and reclaim it. I wondered who he could be. Did I know him? If not, would I recognise him as a fellow pervert? Would it be obvious? All my life I had felt like the last of my kind. I assumed they had all died out after the golden age of Victorian prudery. I was not going to miss the chance to meet another like me.

  The sturdy little volume sat in a stack on the desk with a slip of paper inserted halfway into it. I knew it must have his name on it and it was all I could do to resist darting behind the counter and snatching it.

  I stationed myself where I could see everyone who approached the desk. I could hardly concentrate on my work. I was delighted by a Family Herald letter from a lady who disapproved of the word ‘flog’ when referring to the chastisement of young ladies. She offered instead ‘the elegant and soft English expression, “chasten”’, administered – of course – with all due affection and gentleness. But even this titillating bit of trivia couldn’t distract me from my quarry. I skulked about all day, waiting.

  At last, I saw the librarian take the book from the stack. At the desk was a young guy, clearly a student. He was tall, with longish dark hair and a goatee. Strong arms and muscular legs. I didn’t much like the Bohemian scruffiness, but he would clean up nicely. The baggy trousers would have to go.

  He was at the desk for a long time, talking to the librarian. She nodded in my direction and he turned, following her gaze. I ducked my head, pretending to be engrossed in my writing. I casually put my head in my hand and watched out of the corner of my eye. He was coming towards me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a slightly terse voice.

  I looked up. ‘Hmm?’

  He gave me a tight little smile. ‘Pardon my asking, but are you the person who keeps recalling the Cooper book?’ He had a strong northern accent, but it lent him a certain boyish charm. He was a long way from home.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, refusing to elaborate.

  He stared at me for a few seconds and his eyes flicked down to my tartan skirt. He clearly liked what he saw and it must have confirmed my own fascination. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘We – ah – seem to have some shared interests.’

  ‘Oh?’ I tried to play it cool, but inside I was ecstatic. No, there were no obvious signs that he was kinky. I never would have picked him out of a lineup. But the fact that he had come to me was exciting.

  He slid into the chair next to me, a grin spreading over his face. The discovery must have been as exhilarating for him as it was for me. My stomach fluttered and I coyly shifted my papers to hide what I was working on. He set the book down on the table between us, like a challenge to a dual.

  I looked at it, then back up at him.

  ‘You need it for research?’ he asked.

  ‘Research,’ I confirmed.

  He nodded knowingly, still grinning. ‘Perhaps you’d like to compare notes.’

  I pretended to consider. ‘That might be … instructive.’

  ‘Well, my flatmates are going to a concert tonight,’ he said slowly. ‘So if you’d like to stop by …’

  The offer was irresistible and it was all I could do to restrain my glee. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’d love to. Just give me your address.’

  He took the pen from my hand and wrote the address on the page I’d been working on. He also wrote his name: Paul Milburn.

  I smiled. ‘Angie Harker.’

  ‘A pleasure. I’ll see you around eight, then.’

  Not eight sharp, just ‘around eight’. He was no authority figure, but he was kinky. That was the important thing. He got up, leaving the book on the table.

  ‘Bring the book,’ he said.

  I changed in and out of several outfits over the course of an hour. My bed was a giant discard pile. At last I settled on a short black and green tartan skirt with a white blouse and matching crossover tie, white knee socks and low-heeled black shoes. It wasn’t exactly a school uniform, but it had the look. Finding the right pair of knickers took me almost as long. In the end I decided I couldn’t afford to be subtle. If he got that far I didn’t want any mistake. I wore the white boyshorts with ‘naughty’ scrawled across the bottom in girlish purple letters.

  I arrived at the dreary little house at ten past eight. I wanted him to have an easy excuse. My knickers were already embarrassingly wet.

  When he answered the door he looked slightly anxious. I guessed that he’d been watching the clock for the past half-hour, wondering if I was really coming.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said.


  Paul closed the door and looked me up and down admiringly. ‘That’s all right.’

  He was probably grateful I hadn’t been more punctual. The flat was much tidier than I had been expecting and I was touched that he would go to the trouble. It was unlikely he’d been cracking the whip over his flatmates to get them to help. He looked a lot neater as well. He was wearing smart black trousers and a dark-blue collared shirt.

  He gestured for me to walk ahead of him – either politeness or so that he could get a look at my bottom. I obliged him and found myself in a cramped but cosy living room. A well-worn sofa stood against one wall, but I was too keyed up to sit. I produced the book and gave it to him.

  ‘Here it is,’ I said. ‘Which bits do you like best?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ he said, flipping through it. ‘I’ve only just started it.’

  ‘You’ve recalled it three times!’

  ‘And so have you,’ he said carefully, his eyes glinting. ‘But we both know this isn’t really about the book, don’t we?’

  I blushed and looked down, listening to the soft slicing noise as he turned the pages.

  ‘But, since you asked, I rather like the chapter, “On the Whipping of Young Ladies”.’

  The title alone made me blush.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked pointedly.

  The question didn’t come out of the blue, but it still put me on the spot. ‘Well …’

  All at once I felt nervous and unsure of myself. I’d played teasing games with a complete stranger simply because he’d checked out a book on corporal punishment. I’d gone to his house dressed like a tart. Up to now nothing had been decided. But, once I’d told him what I liked, I’d be committed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it. But the recklessness of it struck me. His flatmates were away. No one knew where I was.

  I swallowed.

  My sudden unease seemed to give Paul even more self-assurance. Like a dangerous animal sensing fear. ‘Well?’ he prompted.

  Blushing deeply, I tried to regain some pluck. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’