Over the Knee (19 page)

I blushed, though there was no reason to be embarrassed. We’d all been there before. ‘The adult shops.’

‘I see. So, while I was sitting at the restaurant with my colleagues, waiting for you to turn up and getting
more
and more concerned, phoning you and getting no response …’

I flinched in misery. ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t know what to say. I just – forgot.’

‘You’re sorry and you forgot? That is hardly adequate, is it, young lady?’

He was cross, but still in complete control. His low measured tone was even more unsettling than shouting and raving might have been. But calling me ‘young lady’ reassured me a little; it meant the issue could be dealt with and I would be forgiven. I knew he was going to punish me and I knew it would be severe. I flashed back to the rules he’d laid out and I gave a little shudder as I thought of the birch. I was struck again by the curious paradox and I wondered fleetingly if it was unique to spankos. It seemed absurd that a spanking fetishist could be punished with spanking. And yet at that moment I couldn’t think of anything more desirable than getting out of it.

I glanced over at Shaun, but didn’t really expect to find sympathy there. His usually boyish face was darkened with disapproval. He was just as annoyed with Courtney for leading me astray.

‘I trust,’ Peter continued, ‘that you at least met your work quota for the day before you went out.’

Now I truly wanted to die. My vision grew blurry as my eyes shimmered with tears. ‘No.’

Peter’s eyebrows lifted expectantly.

‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

There was a long silence, awful in its implication. ‘Yes,’ he agreed at last. ‘You will be.’

He gestured to Shaun that he should take over. It was Courtney’s turn to be reprimanded.

‘Do you realise,’ Shaun said, ‘that you’ve landed your friend in serious trouble?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She glanced over at me and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’

Shaun shook his head sadly. ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Courtney.’ He turned to Peter. ‘I think perhaps they should be punished together.’

Courtney and I looked at each other mournfully.

Peter was nodding thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I think that might be a very effective lesson. Girls, wait for us in the library, please.’

Courtney grabbed my hand and we scuttled down the hall. Inside the library, we fell into each other’s arms.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, squeezing me in a tight hug. ‘I didn’t mean to get you into this much trouble. I had no idea you had these dinner plans or that –’

‘Hey, I don’t blame you. I’m the one who forgot about dinner.
And
I forgot my phone. To be honest, I’m kind of glad you’ll be here with me.’

She offered me a brave little smile. ‘Me too.’

They kept us waiting for several minutes. I put my ear to the door once and could just make out the low hum of male voices down the hall, in the living room. But I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Neither of us could sit down. We paced and fidgeted and gazed out the window at the darkened garden. Distorted by the crown glass, the dim hulks of shrubs and trees morphed into sinister crouching figures. Silent voyeurs that peered in at us, eager to witness our disgrace.

Finally, we heard footsteps coming towards the library and we jumped as though we’d been shot. We looked at each other fearfully and retreated hand-in-hand to the corner furthest from the door.

Shaun opened the door and joined us inside. Outside, Peter’s footsteps continued on up the stairs and we listened to the creak of the floorboards as they crossed the landing and faded into the upstairs hall.

‘Well, girls,’ Shaun said, sounding like the good cop in the canonical pairing. ‘You’re not going to like what we’ve decided, but Peter and I both feel it’s deserved.’

I swallowed hard. Overhead, Peter’s footsteps began moving back in the direction of the stairs and before long he reappeared. When I saw he had the Lochgelly tawse I nearly fainted. He’d shown it to me before, but never used it – at least not on me. I knew what it was capable of, though.

The dense leather was about three-eighths of an inch thick, split down the middle of one end into two tails.
‘John
J Dick, Maker, Lochgelly’ was stamped into the leather midway down, along with a large ‘XH’ at the end of the handle. It was an implement intended to impart a short but memorable lesson with no lasting damage. The dreaded ‘strap’ or ‘belt’ of Scottish schools had delivered many a savage bite to the palms of errant schoolchildren. This one was well worn.

From the corner of my eye I saw Courtney grimace. My fingers clutched the hem of my skirt, trying to still the tremors.

‘Hands flat against your sides,’ Peter said. ‘They’ll be smarting soon enough.’

‘Please …’ Courtney began.

Peter silenced her with a look. ‘Do you want double?’

She shook her head emphatically and stepped back, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

Peter flexed the strap. ‘You’ve never had your hands strapped before, have you, Angie?’

There was a plunging sensation in the pit of my stomach and I felt the colour drain from my face.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then perhaps,’ he said, addressing Shaun, ‘Courtney should have hers first, so that Angie can watch.’

Shaun nodded agreement and leant back against the wall, his arms crossed. I was surprised he wasn’t going to punish Courtney himself. But then, of the two, Peter was much more the disciplinarian.

‘Courtney, come here.’

She obeyed, looking timidly round the room. She stood before Peter, her hands behind her back.

‘I’m going to give both of you two strokes on each hand for the embarrassment you caused me by ruining my dinner plans. If you don’t take it properly, the stroke will be repeated. Now then – hold out your hands, please, Courtney. Right hand on top. Palm up.’

I watched fearfully as she stretched out both arms to chest height, resting the right one on top of the left. She gritted her teeth as Peter measured the stroke. He gave her a meaningful look that told her not to move. He raised his
arm
at the elbow so that the tawse rested on his shoulder. Then he brought it down lengthwise on her palm with a sharp crack. Courtney yelped in pain, immediately yanking her hand away.

Peter allowed her to writhe for a few moments before clearing his throat softly.

Courtney instantly resumed the position and I could see a ferocious red stripe blossoming along her palm.

‘No. Swap hands,’ Peter said.

She offered him her left and he addressed it carefully. Then the strap flashed down again, eliciting another cry of pain from her. Hissing through her teeth, Courtney extended her trembling arms again, her sore right palm open for another attack. The tawse found its mark and she howled in agony. Tears shone in her eyes and I held my breath for her as she switched hands for the final stroke. It was harder than the previous three and Courtney shrieked in pain, dancing in place and cradling her hands to her chest.

Peter was unmoved by her display. He fixed his stern gaze on me and I crept over to him, my hands already tingling with anticipated pain. Courtney gave me a sympathetic look and went to stand by the window, where I had been. Somehow the idea that she would be watching gave me a small crumb of comfort. I felt closer to her for what I’d witnessed.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘You saw what’s expected. Cross your hands.’

I lifted my arms, alarmed at how much they were shaking. I could barely hold them still. Peter arranged my hands so that my right palm was supported by my left and my fingers stretched straight out. He held both wrists in his hand for a few seconds until the shaking was reduced to a slight tremble.

He laid the tawse across my palm and then raised it up behind his shoulder. I held my breath and closed my eyes.

‘No, you’re going to watch,’ he said impassively.

With great reluctance, I did as I was told, squinting my eyes like a child desperate to hide from a scene in a scary
movie
. I watched in detached slow motion as the heavy leather swung down in an arc, then connected sharply with my vulnerable palm. I yelped as Courtney had at the searing pain, writhing away and clutching the injured hand as though I’d just pulled it from a fire.

I looked pleadingly up at Peter, but there was no mercy to be found there. ‘Swap hands.’

I surrendered my left palm to the Lochgelly, astonished by the scorching rhythmic throbbing in my right. Again the leather slashed down with a crack like a stick snapped in two. All I saw was a dark-brown blur as my hand came alive with agony. I cried out and both hands instinctively flew to my underarms.

Halfway there, I told myself. At Peter’s expectant look, I put my hands up again. As terrible as it was, it was only four strokes.

The tawse tore into my raw aching palm a second time. Tears spilt down my face as I tried to cope with the brutal numbing pain. I shook my hands limply and made myself present my left palm for the last stroke.

It fell with a loud leathery crack and I was so blinded by the pain I couldn’t even cry out. I staggered back, gasping, until the throbbing fire began to fade to something slightly more tolerable. I stared at my hands. Both palms bore livid scarlet stripes – like the worst sunburn I’d ever seen. And they felt as burnt as they looked.

Peter set the tawse down on the table and motioned me to stand beside Courtney. She was blowing on her hands, trying to ease the sting. I gingerly pressed my palms together and winced. Of all the implements in Peter’s arsenal, the tawse was the one I had underestimated the most. The lingering ache of the dense leather was past enduring. It was almost enough to cure a girl of the kink entirely.

‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’

Dazed and a little shell-shocked, I looked forlornly at my hands. The redness showed no sign of fading and the throbbing only seemed to be getting worse. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘I won’t let it happen again.’

Peter acknowledged my apology with a nod and turned to Courtney.

‘I’m sorry too,’ she said at once, her words thick in her throat and clearly heartfelt. ‘I honestly didn’t mean any harm.’

‘I expect Shaun will deal with you himself when you get home.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, darting a glance at her boyfriend.

‘Don’t worry,’ Shaun said. ‘I fully intend to.’

‘As for you,’ Peter said, returning to me. ‘You can go up to the schoolroom and wait for me. I think I shall set you an imposition. It’s very effective for a girl to write lines after she’s had her hands strapped.’

I winced in dismay. Holding a pen would be a harrowing ordeal.

‘In the morning we will go out to the woods. I’m going to show you how to make a proper birch rod.’

Fourteen

UNABLE TO FIND
a comfortable position at the school desk, I shifted my weight and winced with pain. I didn’t think the birch stripes would ever stop stinging. There was also an underlying itchy sensation beneath the sting that was just as unpleasant.

I could not fathom Swinburne’s infatuation with the rod. It did no lasting damage, but it caused excruciating pain when it was applied. And yet that was part of its deadly genius. A caning or a strapping could leave deep penetrating bruises that needed a week or more to heal fully. But a birch could be applied again very soon after a first dose. No wonder the tyrannical Dr Keate and his ilk were so enamoured of it.

I sighed and looked up from the page. The tattered remains of the rod caught my eye, sitting complacently in front of me on Peter’s desk. I could almost believe it
wanted
me to slack off so it could taste the delicate skin of my backside again. I made a face at it and felt a surge of superstitious fear, like a child taunting an object that might come to life and attack. It was nothing but a handful of broken twigs now – eighteen inches of impotent threat. But all Peter had to do was send me outside with the secateurs and I could be thrashed again.

I had been working steadily all morning, not even tempted by lunch. My only excursions out of the schoolroom were to the library, for legitimate research material. Peter had called to ask how I was and I assured him that
I
was uncomfortable, but surviving. And working very hard. Indeed, I had never been more productive. The combination of my thesis topic and the methods used to encourage its writing struck me as so twistedly stimulating that I felt inspired again.

I wrote twice the amount I was expected to and I glared triumphantly at what was left of the rod, as I slammed Swinburne’s biography shut with a dusty thump. Now I had the rest of the day and all of the next to play. eBay awaited. But first I called Courtney to check on her.