Over the Knee

by Fiona Locke

  I blushed. I didn’t know what to say to that. Luckily I didn’t have to respond.

  ‘Is your research proving fruitful, Angie?’

  I wasn’t surprised he knew my name; I’d used it in my personal ad. Rash, perhaps, but it was hardly an unusual name. ‘So far,’ I replied. ‘But you have me at a disadvantage.’

  ‘I’m Peter,’ he said, adding a smiley. ‘I was about to write you an email, but then I saw you were online.’

  ‘Yes, I’m supposed to be working, but I’m a little blocked.’

  ‘I don’t let my students get away with that excuse.’

  My fingers hesitated above the keyboard as a little flicker of warmth went through me. But before I could formulate a reply he wrote again.

  ‘Would you like to chat?’

  Would I ever.

  Peter was in his early forties. He was a history professor and self-admitted pedant, both of which appealed to the intellectual snob in me. He wasn’t into erotic spankings; like me, he favoured discipline and punishment.

  ‘I’m not interested in the slutty schoolgirl look,’ he wrote. ‘I believe in proper school uniform.’

  ‘What about underneath?’ I asked.

  ‘Regulation school knickers, of course. Anything else would be inauthentic.’

  Oh yes, we would get on well.

  Peter had been in the scene for many years. He’d been in spanking relationships and had friends who shared the fetish. He told me he was a keen roleplayer, which was something I’d never considered. I had my fantasies, but in fantasy you were already whoever or whatever you wanted. You weren’t playing a role. I had never imagined acting out my fantasies. But Peter piqued my curiosity.

  He was away on business, but would be back in London in a week. We agreed to meet for dinner on the Friday. Over the next few days, when he could escape from work, we exchanged email and played in the chat room.

  I was amazed that simple chat could push my buttons so easily. And Peter could talk the talk. I constantly found myself looking up from the screen, blushing and shifty eyed, paranoid that someone was reading over my shoulder. I worried that Paul might turn up to try to entice me back for more consensual spanking play. But I knew who I was now.

  In one email Peter asked for my measurements. I sent them, nervously wondering what use he would make of them. I was a kid counting the days, the minutes, the seconds until Christmas.

  I gave him my mobile number, hoping he’d oblige me with the spanko equivalent of phone sex. But instead he sent me an email telling me to be careful.

  ‘You must be more cautious, young lady,’ he scolded me. I could just see him wagging his finger at me. ‘I know it’s thrilling to find where you belong, but you need to be careful about sharing sensitive information with people you haven’t met. I could be Jack the Ripper for all you know.’

  ‘He’s probably not much of a threat any more,’ I wrote back cheekily. ‘What’s the big deal? I’ll be meeting you in a week anyway.’

  ‘And if I had bad intentions it would be too late then.’

  ‘Yeah, but maybe it will have been worth it!’

  ‘Young lady, do I need to set you an essay on internet safety? You’ll find it difficult to concentrate on writing it with a sore bottom.’

  I writhed in my seat, my cheeks burning. I lived for his words and I printed out every squirmy email. They were my bedtime reading.

  When he asked me if I’d ever been spanked, I told him about my recent experiences. He especially enjoyed the story about Father Michael. ‘I have a friend who will want to go to confession when she hears about that,’ he wrote.

  I also told him about the terrible emotional crash I’d suffered afterwards.

  Peter diagnosed it instantly. ‘Sub-drop,’ he said. ‘It happens to lots of people. You’d just been through an extremely intense emotional experience. The elation can’t last forever and, when the endorphin high wears off, it triggers a sort of grief. It’s like a holiday you never wanted to end. Suddenly it’s over and it’s back to reality again. You’re not equipped to cope with the mundane after that.’

  That made perfect sense to me. And just knowing I wasn’t alone in it was a comfort. I wondered if I would suffer it again after meeting Peter.

  He directed me to several websites I hadn’t yet found and my education progressed. I was amused to discover that America in the 1950s had its own equivalent of the Victorian correspondence column. Your Romance, a magazine for teenage girls, boasted its famous ‘Pats and Peeves’ column. Nearly all the letters were about spanking. Husbands who took their wives in hand and over the knee. Boyfriends who’d caught their girlfriends flirting with other guys and were keen to teach them a lesson. Bosses who knew how to deal with their secretaries’ misdemeanours. All in the innocent chirpy voice characteristic of the period. All this could go into my thesis and I was relieved to have justified my quest.

  He also sent me pictures and stories he’d scanned from old issues of Blushes. The magazine depicted another world – one where lecherous old goats were free to indulge their penchant for punishment with shop girls and nieces and maids. In the Blushes world, the girls expected no less and submitted, embarrassed but compliant, to whatever humiliating chastisement was inflicted on them. It was everything a modern, sexually liberated woman should scorn and despise. I loved it.

  There was one thing I was dying to ask, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. At his age, he must have some interesting school stories to tell. He’d mentioned boarding school but, when I asked him where he’d gone, he was coy.

  ‘Oh, a place in Shropshire,’ he responded glibly. ‘You’d like the town, though. A maze of small streets filled with half-timbered houses.’

  I was pretty sure I knew where he meant.

  Six

  I LOOKED AT the clock and sighed. I’d been chatting with Peter for nearly two hours. Reality was calling. My mum’s birthday was approaching and I hadn’t got a present yet. She had very upmarket tastes and I’d forgotten her completely the year before. This year I knew I had to make amends and the simple high-street shops just wouldn’t cut it. Reluctantly, I explained the situation to Peter and said I had to go. I wanted to get to Selfridges before it closed. He wished me luck and I set off for Oxford Street.

  I meandered around the immense store, unable to focus on the task at hand. I’d been unable to focus on much of anything since getting online and connecting with kindred spirits. I couldn’t resist a stroll through the lingerie department, where I managed to talk myself out of a criminally expensive pair of designer silk pyjamas. But then my eye fell on a display of frilly panties and before I knew it I was digging for my credit card. As if I really needed another pair of French knickers. But these were blue. I didn’t have any in blue. I was good at rationalising: I wanted to be wearing something new when I met Peter. That was only one day away. The red ones tempted me as well, but at the last minute I found the willpower to put them back.

  I wandered around the rest of the departments for nearly an hour, feeling intimidated by the price of most of the merchandise. But at last I found a pashmina that wouldn’t plunge me into too much debt. It was the usual fall-back gift, like ties and socks for my dad, but it was something she could show off to her class-conscious friends.

  It was dark outside by the time I was finished. A tall redheaded woman almost knocked me down as I left the store, shoving between me and the door frame. Her attention was riveted on her mobile phone and she seemed totally oblivious to me. Appalled at her rudeness, I stood staring after her for several seconds before shaking my head in disgust. Then I continued on my way, heading for the Tube station at Bond Street.

  Just as I rounded the corner a man stepped out in front of me, startling me. I gasped, almost dropping my bag.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.’ He wore a dark-blue uniform with a peaked cap. There was a slight London twang in his voice, but he had the authoritative bearing of one
who was accustomed to being obeyed.

  I blinked in confusion. ‘What?’

  ‘Store security.’

  I just gaped at him.

  ‘I’m sure you know what this is about,’ he said with cool confidence.

  Utterly baffled, I shook my head. ‘I have no idea.’

  But the guard wasn’t having it. He took me firmly by the arm and guided me back in the direction of Selfridges. ‘Then we’ll have to discuss it with the manager.’

  In shock, I allowed myself to be led a few steps before digging my heels in. ‘Look, I really think you ought to tell me what this is about.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. He had a nice face with finely carved features. Bright hazel eyes. He was probably a handsome man when he relaxed his fascist demeanour. ‘Would you mind telling me what you bought in the store, Miss …?’

  ‘Harker,’ I said, a hint of indignation creeping into my tone. I wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘If you must know, I bought a pashmina and some underwear.’

  ‘What kind of underwear?’

  Now he was trying to embarrass me. Well, it wouldn’t work. ‘Sexy little things,’ I said brazenly. ‘French knickers, if you must know.’

  ‘What colour?’

  God, he was unflappable. ‘Blue.’

  ‘Not red?’

  The question took me aback and I shook my head slowly.

  ‘Would you mind showing me?’

  I hesitated, then reached into the bag and took out the knickers I had bought. I waved them in front of him like a flag and several passers-by paused to watch the display. ‘See? Blue. Like I said. Would you like to touch them?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Miss Harker,’ he said, completely unruffled. ‘Would you mind showing me what you have in your coat pockets?’

  My eyes flashed. ‘Oh, now this is going too far.’

  ‘If you have nothing to hide …’ he began reasonably.

  He had accosted me on the street, where people were watching and making the obvious assumptions. It was humiliating. Galling. Fuelled by the fury of the wrongly accused, I snapped, ‘Right. You want to see?’ I plunged my hands into both pockets, intending to find my Underground pass and nothing else. But, to my surprise, my left hand met something soft and lacy. Slowly, I drew out an incriminating scrap of scarlet material.

  The guard raised his eyebrows at me.

  I could scarcely get the words out. ‘Those – those aren’t mine,’ I protested feebly. ‘I mean, I looked at them. I considered getting them – buying them – but I didn’t!’

  He nodded grimly. ‘Yes, I can see you didn’t buy them.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand!’ Desperately, I cast back in my mind. Was it possible I could have been so absent-minded? That I had just shoved them into my pocket instead of putting them back? No. It wasn’t possible; in fact, it was inconceivable.

  But, all the while, the security guard was watching me impassively, his face betraying nothing, not even triumphant glee over this turn of events.

  A nervous laugh escaped. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘This is clearly a misunderstanding. I’m sure the girl at the lingerie counter will remember me. I’m happy to pay for these, but you have to understand I didn’t steal them.’

  ‘Do you know how many times I hear shoplifters say that?’ the guard asked wearily.

  ‘But I’m not a shoplifter!’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re not,’ he said with patient condescension, as though I’d claimed to be Joan of Arc and was now insisting I wasn’t mad.

  Several people had stopped to watch our little drama. I wanted to scream at them that I hadn’t done it.

  The guard took my arm again. ‘You can explain it all to the manager. Now, come along.’

  Dread began to gnaw in my stomach like a hungry rat. My eyes burnt with tears of shame and my legs felt too weak to carry me. A sour-faced woman with two little kids stood watching me with righteous gratification as I passed them in disgrace, the contraband knickers dangling from my hand. For a crazy instant I pictured myself collapsing on the street. I’d wake up in hospital to find the whole mess sorted. A simple misunderstanding and good-natured apologies all round. No hard feelings.

  Suddenly, I remembered. ‘Wait! That woman at the front door …’

  ‘Come along, Miss Harker,’ he repeated, this time more firmly. ‘Fifteen years ago I might have dealt with this on my own, but nowadays I’m afraid that’s beyond my authority. So it’s a matter for the police.’

  I knew full well what would happen if the police got involved. There was no way they’d believe such a ludicrous story. A strange woman came from outside the store and shoved something into my coat pocket as I left? Why? It had happened so fast I doubted if I could even identify her.

  But what had the guard said? If he had the authority? The police hadn’t been called. The manager didn’t even know yet. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked cautiously. ‘Deal with it on your own?’

  The guard stopped. We had almost reached the front of the store. He gave me a long considering look. ‘I suppose it depends,’ he said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how sorry you are.’

  ‘But I didn’t –’

  He held up his hand, silencing me. ‘I might be persuaded to let the matter drop if I felt you’d been sufficiently punished for it.’

  He’d looked me straight in the eye as he said it. There was no mistaking his words or his intent. My face and ears burnt so intensely I felt feverish.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What – what do you mean?’

  His hand dropped to his belt buckle. ‘I think you know what I mean. This. Across your bottom.’

  This couldn’t be happening. I hesitated and, when he made as if to drag me into the store, I capitulated. ‘All right, all right.’

  The guard nodded curtly and led me back the way we’d come, back down the street. I could hardly believe this was happening. It didn’t seem real. But there was no other way. I had no idea where he was taking me, but as long as it was away from Selfridges I would go without complaint.

  He led me down a private street, a narrow alley somewhere beyond the Tube station. I supposed I should be relieved he wasn’t going to do it in the middle of Hyde Park. I stood trembling beside a scattering of rubbish, waiting for him to make the first move.

  The guard held out his hand and I realised I was still holding the red knickers. I’d forgotten all about them. The two of us must have been quite a picture as we strolled by. I surrendered them to him, along with the bag of things I’d legitimately paid for.

  ‘Your coat as well.’

  I hesitated, but when he sighed and made as if to take my arm again I hurriedly slipped it off and passed it to him. He set the shopping bag down on the ground and folded my coat, before tucking it carefully into the bag. Then he tore the price tag from the knickers.

  Holding them back out to me, he said, ‘Put them on.’

  I took them and lifted one leg to step into them, but he stopped me.

  ‘No. Take off the ones you’re wearing first.’

  There was nothing lecherous in his tone. He wasn’t here for cheap thrills. In a way, that would have been easier. If he had demanded sexual favours in exchange for his silence I’d have felt empowered. I could have insisted on seeing the manager then, to report his indecency. Perhaps my outrage would get me off the hook. But he wasn’t interested in a blow job or a quick shag in a stairwell.

  Miserably, I reached under my skirt and slipped down the white panties I was wearing, blushing deeply at the damp patch in the gusset. I wadded them into a ball so he wouldn’t notice and relinquished them to his outstretched hand. To my horror, he unfolded them and inspected them closely. I hurriedly stepped into the red lace knickers and yanked them up, then smoothed my skirt down over my bottom. Then I stared at the ground, waiting.

  He returned to the Selfridges bag and dropped my panties inside. ‘Right,’ he said.

  I clutched my hands b
ehind my back.

  Without another word he began unbuckling his belt. It was a wide fearsome leather strap. He pulled it briskly through the loops and it made a sharp flapping noise that set my nerves on edge. He doubled the belt and pulled the ends taut, snapping it. I jumped.

  He indicated a spot on the wall to my right. ‘Hands up there, girl,’ he said gruffly. ‘Hands and feet apart.’

  Shaking, I turned and pressed my hands against the cold clammy bricks.

  He lightly kicked my feet apart until my legs were spread to his satisfaction. Then he lifted my skirt. He took his time tucking it up into the waistband to hold it out of the way.

  ‘Bottom out.’

  I squeezed my eyes shut, but I did as I was told. I expected him to take my knickers down, but he didn’t. Not that they would afford me any protection.

  ‘How much did the knickers cost?’ he asked.

  Too much, I thought ruefully. ‘Fourteen pounds.’

  ‘Hmm. Fourteen strokes, then, I think.’

  I swallowed hard.

  He laid the leather belt across my bottom. It was warm from his body heat and I tensed in anticipation.

  ‘No screaming, now.’

  The belt whipped into me with terrible force, its resounding slap echoing in the closeness of the alley. I gritted my teeth against the slashing pain, just managing to keep quiet. The pain dwindled until the punished skin was a wide throbbing welt. I shuddered to think of thirteen more like that.

  Another stroke and I gasped, pushing hard against the wall to keep from flying up and grabbing my bottom. The flesh must have been as red as the knickers.

  Another. I threw my head back with a groan, gritting my teeth and digging my nails into the wall as he lashed me again.

  The next stroke followed so soon after the previous one that I cried out, writhing and dancing in place.

  ‘Not a sound,’ he instructed softly, aiming the strap again.

  Biting my lip, I nodded frantically, urging him to get it over with.

  As the belt painted scorching stripes across my cheeks I did my best to take them without making too much noise. I couldn’t help gasping and hissing through my teeth. And I couldn’t suppress the occasional yelp, especially when the strap licked round into the crease, just catching my sex. Tears sprang to my eyes and I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out.