Over the Knee

by Fiona Locke

  Father Michael placed his left hand in the small of my back and without another word he brought his right hand down on my skirt with a muffled thump. It didn’t hurt at all. He smacked me several more times, but the woolly tartan offered too much protection.

  He stopped.

  ‘For this to have any effect,’ he began slowly. ‘You need to have less protection.’

  I made a mournful protesting sound, but I didn’t resist as his fingers dragged the tartan kilt up over my bottom. He exposed the frilly French knickers that barely covered my cheeks, revealing more than they concealed. I trembled in the silence. I knew how alluring my bottom must look, with the lower half of it on display and his distaste was unmistakable.

  ‘Even for confession,’ he said. ‘You wear the garments of a whore.’

  Quietly thanking God I hadn’t worn a thong, I took hold of the chair leg as I felt his hand rise again.

  He brought it down hard, with a resounding smack. I yelped. But before I could process the sensation he smacked me on the other cheek. Again and again his hand connected with the smooth skin of my bottom, the smacks ringing out in the dim poky office.

  I struggled and writhed over his lap, crying out at the stinging pain. I arched my back, but he pushed me down firmly and carried on. This was not play. It hurt much more than I had thought it would. Father Michael laid on with a will, alternating from cheek to cheek, peppering the whole of my bottom with brisk smacks. As the knickers left my lower cheeks uncovered he aimed most of the blows on the bare flesh. And he didn’t neglect the tender crease where my thighs joined my bottom.

  I twisted from side to side, but there was no escape. A stack of leaflets lay on the floor in front of me and I tried to focus on them to distract myself from the pain. But the spanking was too intense. In desperation I flung my right arm behind me, but he simply clamped my wrist against my lower back, smacking me even harder.

  It was exactly what I had always wanted. And now all I wanted was for it to stop. It was too much. There was nothing enjoyable or pleasurable about it at all. It was intensely painful. But I was helpless to escape it. I heard myself yelping and begging him to stop, but he had no pity for me.

  ‘No, young lady,’ he said over the unrelenting cadence. ‘I will not stop. You agreed to this. It’s intended to hurt because it’s intended to teach you a lesson. One you won’t forget.’

  ‘But I’ve learnt it!’ I cried. ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘You’re sorry it hurts,’ he corrected me. ‘But you’re not contrite. I have no intention of stopping until you feel genuinely remorseful.’

  The words filled me with horror. Remorse for what? A fabricated affair? I kicked wildly, howling with pain. I could almost see my bottom turning from pink to red to purple as his hand rained merciless blows on it. There was no escape.

  I heard myself pleading, promising, cajoling. Anything to make it stop. Tears pricked my eyes and, just when I thought I couldn’t possibly take any more, a strange thing happened. I flashed back to an incident from my first year at university. A time when I had felt overwhelming guilt and no one to confess it to.

  I’d been out clubbing with my best friend Diane and her new boyfriend, Nikolai. He was from Moscow and spoke almost no English. But there was a forthright intensity about him that fascinated me. I listened, transfixed, to his rich lyrical language as he talked to Diane in Russian and she translated for me. I couldn’t help seeing him through the obsessive veil of my fetish, which cast him as a KGB officer and had him inflict creative tortures on me. His large hands were made for smacking a girl’s bottom. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. And, as the evening wore on, it became clear that he felt much the same about me. And Diane – sweet, naive, trusting Diane – was oblivious to the sparks.

  As the night wore on and we got drunker and drunker, my resolve weakened unforgivably and I fell into bed with him that same night – while poor Diane was asleep in the next room. He murmured incomprehensible Russian to me while I drowned in wicked fantasies that would probably have horrified him. He was a rough selfish lover and he left me feeling cheap and dirty as he slipped away, back to bed with my friend. Unsatisfied, I had no choice but to get myself off. The shame only enhanced my climax.

  Diane never accused me outright, but I could tell by her eyes that she knew what we’d done. We drifted apart not long after that and I never saw her or Nikolai again.

  I had forgotten all about the incident. I’d felt terrible at the time, but I’d moved on. Now it was all I could think of as I gasped out apology after apology. I’d found a hidden pocket of guilt, a dirty little secret that needed purging. The tears began to spill down my cheeks and I surrendered to the release. I deserved this.

  I was unaware when the spanking finally stopped.

  I lay over Father Michael’s knees, sobbing convulsively. Gradually I became aware of his hand on my back, stroking me gently. Comforting me. The unexpected tenderness released another flood of emotion and he gathered me on to his lap, letting me soak his cassock with my tears.

  When I was finally able to calm myself, I looked at him in bewilderment, sniffling like a little girl. His expression had softened and his eyes crinkled in a slight smile.

  He offered me a handkerchief and I took it gratefully, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose loudly.

  ‘Do you feel better?’ he asked.

  Disoriented, I nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’

  I felt as though I had dived off a cliff and abandoned myself to the reality of death only to discover that I could fly. My body felt lighter and the pain in my bottom had shaded into a tingling pleasant warmth.

  I left the church in a daze, marvelling at the experience and the intensity of my response. The spanking was nothing like I’d expected. I had genuinely hated every minute of it, but now that it was over it was all I could think about. My backside was still smarting, a constant reminder. Confused thoughts and emotions whirled round in my mind, dancing just beyond the reach of reason.

  I knew instinctively that if he hadn’t held me while I wept it would have been traumatic for me. It had signalled an end to the punishment and reassured me that I was forgiven. I had let down my walls and let him inside my head. I had been completely vulnerable and exposed and he had not abused my trust.

  No other form of punishment could ever reach me as deeply as the spanking had. Tedious impositions and detentions had never touched the emotional core. There was no surrender there, no submission to caring authority. And, most of all, no intimacy. That was the key.

  The sexual escapade with Paul hadn’t had the depth of what I’d just shared with Father Michael. And yet there had been nothing sexual about this spanking at all. It was pure punishment. Why, then, was I so aroused now that it was over?

  As soon as I got home I yanked up my skirt to see my bottom in the mirror. It was glowing red and sore to the touch, speckled with tiny purplish bruises from particularly hard smacks. His fingertips. Eager to experience the sensation fully, I sat on a hard wooden chair, wincing at the sting. It hurt to sit. Overcome with the joy of my discovery, I felt my eyes begin to water again. I had entered a strange and wonderful place and there was no going back.

  The euphoric awareness was like an alternate reality. I felt lighter, as though I could fly. I could only compare it to descriptions I’d read about spiritual epiphanies. My insides burnt with a strange new fire and I wanted to share my discovery with the world. But there was no one I could tell, no one who would understand.

  Suddenly my racy thesis seemed colourless and uninspired. Perhaps I could ask Dr Morrison about incorporating an experiential element. Field research. He would probably just nod distractedly, as if I’d suggested using Century Schoolbook instead of Times New Roman.

  Still high on endorphins, I climbed into bed. I closed my eyes and replayed the afternoon as my fingers crept inside my pyjamas. Now that I’d been punished, I could allow myself some pleasure. It only took a few skilful swirls of my finger to bring me to a shattering c
limax.

  The crash came the next morning and tore the bottom out of my heart.

  Five

  MY SLEEP WAS disordered and fitful. When I woke, the pillow was soaked with tears. I’d been crying in my sleep and waking hadn’t made it stop. Even the lullaby of the shipping forecast, usually so soothing and reassuring, had lost its power to comfort me. My head felt heavy and there was a rolling, queasy feeling when I tried to move.

  I couldn’t get out of bed. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do anything. The high was gone and in its place was an oppressive leaden weight. I had felt complete. Connected at last in a real way to the elusive conflicted part of me. Now there was only a cold aching void.

  All I could think about was Father Michael. I heard his voice in my head and felt his hand on my bottom. Cold rain streamed over the windowpanes like a mockery of my tears.

  I moped around, in mourning for the profound intimacy I’d experienced. It wasn’t sexual; it was something I couldn’t define. But the ephemeral bond had taken me to a fantastic height and then forsaken me at its apex. It was all downhill from there.

  The marks lasted a week. I examined them every day, replaying the confession and penance again and again in my mind, yearning for more. Gradually, they began to fade and with them went my inconsolable mood. It had happened once; it could happen again. I wondered how long I should wait before going back to St James’s. How soon would be too soon? I didn’t want to put him wise to my game, but I needed what he could give me the way a junkie needs a pusher.

  Desperation finally gave me the motivation I needed. But not to see the priest. I understood now that this wasn’t just a frivolous quirk; it was something I couldn’t live without. And I couldn’t possibly be the only one who felt this way.

  As soon as I could, I filled in the university forms to get access to the online spanking community. I claimed it was necessary for my research. But my thesis was the last thing on my mind. I had to find my kink’s companion.

  It was surprisingly difficult to type the word into the search engine. Spanking. It looked so plain, so matter-of-fact. But it was a potent word; it had the power to weaken me and make me writhe with dread and delight. The cursor blinked unhurriedly while my finger hovered over the ENTER key. I was on the threshold of a discovery, one I knew would change my life forever. I made myself savour the moment, drawing out the suspense until the word began to lose its meaning.

  At last I pressed the key. Immediately a list of URLs appeared. Millions of hits. More than I could ever hope to investigate. There were websites filled with stories, photos, fantasies, drawings, discussions and personal ads. Newsgroups, forums, messenger services and chat rooms. Of course, there were countless porn sites as well, but the sites for true spanking enthusiasts weren’t hard to spot. The discovery brought back some of the euphoria I’d felt after the catharsis in the priest’s dusty office.

  Gateways demanded to know if I was old enough to enter and I felt like a knight on a quest. I clicked my way in, delighted and amazed. I’d found them at last: others of my kind.

  Within the spanking world I was intrigued to discover two distinct camps. There was an erotic contingent for whom sex and spanking were inextricably linked. The one had to lead to the other. Spanking was a sexual act, intended to arouse and designed for mutual pleasure. Though I’d enjoyed playing with Paul, I still couldn’t quite get my head round the idea of a mutually pleasurable spanking.

  I’d heard someone say once that whatever you thought about while you masturbated to orgasm was what you were into. Well, the only thing I ever thought about was being spanked. Sex could be enjoyable, but it just couldn’t compete with a well-smacked bottom.

  The other camp was where I belonged. They were into punishment. Pure and simple. And punishment wasn’t meant to be enjoyed; it was meant to hurt. To teach a lesson. To correct and reform. The enjoyment came afterwards – in the warm glow of sore cheeks and the sense of relinquished control.

  One of the most fascinating websites was a vast archive of factual documents and personal accounts of corporal punishment around the world. At first sight it looked like a purely objective resource, but it had all the hallmarks of a fetishistic mind behind it. Likewise, the overinterested Wikipedia article on spanking had clearly been written by people who shared my predilection. I was overjoyed. Here were my Victorian flagellants, strutting their stuff in the guise of detached reportage.

  I didn’t waste any time; I registered with a site for personals and posted an ad of my own.

  DEAR SIR,

  I’m waiting nervously in a queue outside your study, listening to the awful SWOOSH-THWACK! from within. All too soon the wait is over and a tearful girl rushes out. Now it’s my turn. I’ll fidget while you scold me, flexing the cane in your hands. When you order me to bend over I’ll be shaking so much it will be impossible to keep my legs straight. But you’re accustomed to girls being frightened. You’ll instruct me to raise my skirt and tuck it well up over my back. Then you’ll hook your fingers in the waistband of my white cotton knickers and pull them down to my knees. I’ll shudder as you lay the cane against my bottom. ‘Count them, girl,’ you’ll say sternly. Then the cane will draw back and land sharply, painfully. ‘One, sir. Two, sir.’ All the way up to six. Twelve if I’ve been especially naughty. How long will you make me wait, sir?

  Yours respectfully,

  Angie

  I got more responses than I could have wished for. And there were some frighteningly clueless ones. Guys who had obviously read too much of John Norman’s Gor series and taken every word literally. ‘True masters’ who didn’t seem to understand that I wasn’t into whips and chains. I couldn’t possibly have been clearer about what I wanted. I didn’t have anything against D/s or BDSM in general; they just weren’t my kink. And if these guys were truly into it themselves, they ought to have known that.

  Some of the emails I got were as much an assault on the English language as on me. I deleted them. The grammar and spelling were so appalling I marvelled that the writers were able to operate a computer at all. I knew I was being a snob but, if these men couldn’t be bothered to proofread three lines of text, why should I bother to read it? The stern headmaster of my fantasies would never write, ‘wow u sound hot, send me a pic of ur ass and im me for cyber!!!’

  I likewise deleted anything with the phrase ‘On your knees, bitch’. There were dismayingly many of those. But I wasn’t alone there either: the forums were filled with rants about swaggering, posturing wannabe doms. ‘Lord’ this and ‘Sir’ that. Social invalids who wouldn’t know what to do with a vanilla girl, let alone one with my needs and desires. It wasn’t the titles that bothered me; it was the profusion of blustering men who mistook domineering for dominance.

  Even the sincerely kinky ones could be frustrating. No sooner would I enter a chat room than an instant message would pop up with some crude Gorean sex command or graphic description of how I would serve them. The presumption of not capitalising my name and expecting me to call them ‘Master’ on the basis of their self-proclaimed dominance really rankled.

  ‘Oh, but spanking is just part of S&M,’ one man insisted.

  I pictured a naked slave girl kneeling at the feet of a headmaster brandishing a plastic Ann Summers whip. ‘Sorry,’ I replied, trying hard to be polite. ‘The physical act may well be, but the ethos is completely different.’

  He changed tack, assuring me that slaves got punished too, that it wasn’t all about pleasure.

  ‘I’m not a slave,’ I bristled. ‘Nor do I want to be.’

  But he wouldn’t give up. He was the leather equivalent of a Jehovah’s Witness, determined to convert me from schoolgirl to submissive. I finally had to slam the cyber door in his face.

  Most surprising of all was the number of people who were seriously conflicted by their feelings. In my naivety I had assumed that anyone ‘out’ enough to admit being into spanking was as unapologetic about it as I was. But for some the fetish was a
sickness, a morbid fixation, a kind of self-inflicted torture. Compelled to find ways of justifying their offbeat sexuality, they agonised over the guilt they experienced for not being normal. I’d had my moments of doubt too, but that was ancient history now. The kink was too large a part of me to try to quash it. It defined me.

  Day after day I haunted the chat rooms and forums, gushing about how wonderful it was to find a community of fellow enthusiasts – people I could share my fetish with. It was like being in love for the first time.

  The librarian commented that she’d never seen me so engrossed in my work. I was at the library every day when it opened and had to be chucked out when it closed. Thinking quickly, I explained that I had just come up with a new angle for my thesis and was very excited about what my research was uncovering.

  If she doubted my story she didn’t let on, but I considered it a warning nonetheless. I tried to be good and focus on my naughty Victorians, but the lure of real spanking chat was always there and impossible to resist. I slipped into an unproductive cycle: I’d write a few words, decide I needed to look something up, surf the kinky sites, glance back at my thesis, declare myself uninspired, indulge myself with some spanking chat for ‘inspiration’, look again at my thesis, respond to email …

  And so on. My thesis languished.

  ‘And how many words have you written today, young lady?’

  The instant message gave me a jolt. I cast a surreptitious glance around the library. When it was available I always used the computer at the far right end of the long table. I could angle the screen away from the one beside it and have relative privacy. No one could see what I was doing. I had mentioned in chat that I was working on a thesis, though I hadn’t shared any details about the topic.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ I wrote back, trying to convey a challenging tone.

  A few seconds later he replied. ‘Someone who takes an interest in the education of young ladies.’