Over the Knee (20 page)

‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ I asked.

‘Ha ha.’

‘I’m not either if it’s any consolation.’

‘It’s not, actually,’ she said, her voice tinged with sadness. ‘I still feel guilty.’

‘Don’t be silly. It was my fault and I’m perfectly willing to take responsibility for my own screwups. And I paid for it this morning.’

‘Poor thing. You must have been up all night, fretting.’

‘I was, rather.’

A long silence followed and at last I asked what she knew I wanted to know. ‘So what did Shaun do when you got home?’

Her dismissive laugh was full of bravado. ‘Oh, not much,’ she said. ‘Just reminded me how hard a frat paddle can be used.’

‘Ouch.’

‘That,’ she said with a snort, ‘is the understatement of the century.’

I couldn’t resist a little barb. ‘Aren’t you the one who said it was no big deal? “So what if you get spanked?” I think those were your words.’

She groaned. ‘Don’t remind me.’

When she didn’t volunteer anything else I pressed her. ‘Well? How many strokes was it?’

She tried to sound unconcerned. ‘Oh, it really wasn’t too bad. It was only ten.’

‘
Only
ten?’ Having seen her collection, I could scarcely imagine such an implement being used with force. At least not on a girl’s bottom.

‘I have some awesome bullseyes, though. I’ll show you next time I see you. I don’t think they’re going away any time soon.’

Her pluck was reassuring. ‘The Thai was good though, huh?’ I offered lamely.

This time her laugh was genuine. ‘Yeah. And Shaun thoroughly approves of my new toy, even if it is a bit noisy for my tastes.’

‘Discipline as foreplay,’ I mused. ‘Surreal. I’m amazed you were able to operate heavy machinery after what Peter did to our hands.’

‘I didn’t use it on myself, silly,’ she said, giggling. ‘That’s what boyfriends are for.’

‘Ah. Yes. Silly me indeed.’

‘I’m just relieved there are no hard feelings.’

‘None at all.’

I could sense her working herself up to the question, so I didn’t make her ask it. Knowing she’d never been birched before, I described in detail the nerve-racking process of going into the woods with Peter to cut switches. Tying them together with twine, fashioning the very implement I was to be whipped with. Putting on the humiliating punishment gown and waiting in the corner for him to come up to the schoolroom. The torment of the strokes and the bliss of comfort and forgiveness afterwards.

When her stunned silence began to get awkward I reassured her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m still kinky.’

‘I hope so.’

‘And my knees look like I’ve been deep in prayer for days.’

‘I’ll be deep in prayer that I never have to experience a real birching,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure
my
kinkiness would survive.’

When she rang off, I went to have a look at my marks in the cheval mirror in the bedroom. The angry red had faded to a pink blush. Thin ridged lines snaked across my sore round cheeks, punctuated by tiny swollen spots where the buds had struck. My upper thighs also sported lines where the switches had splayed out as they landed.

Peter was uncompromisingly strict, but always fair. I wasn’t proud of myself for needing punishment, but I was proud for taking it. I had thought the Lochgelly tawse was more than I could stand, but the birch was a step beyond even that.

Courtney hadn’t got off lightly either. Ten strokes with a paddle, well laid on, would weaken anyone’s knees. Peter didn’t care for the paddle. He thought it unrefined and so he rarely used it. When he did, he made it a very childish punishment indeed and preferred to administer it over the knee. The belittling nature of it was almost harder to bear than the acute sting of its impact.

I felt myself growing hot as I remembered one of my earliest fantasies: the spanking machine. It was the ultimate impartial punishment. And until I discovered the spanko community I couldn’t have known how common a fantasy it was.

My version was an elaborate ritual of objectification, set in a futuristic reformatory. I had been disrespectful to one of the instructors – a serious offence. My name was called over an intercom system and everyone listened as I was summoned to the disciplinary wing of the compound. It was called simply ‘The Centre’.

A bookish man in a pristine lab coat led me into the room where the punishment was to be administered. The room resembled a sterile operating theatre and above the floor was a large gallery where several seated figures observed the proceedings with disinterested solemnity.

The doctor betrayed no emotion at all as he consulted his clipboard and explained to me that the reformatory governors were introducing a new form of discipline. Because of my persistent want of respect, I had been chosen as the first experimental subject. His function was simply to operate the machine and take notes on the results.

There was no need for any telling off. Indeed, once the system was perfected, there would be no need for any human interaction at all. The machine would ensure that instructors and administrators were not swayed by manipulative tears and pleas for lenience. Absolutely fair and
impartial
, it would simply perform its function and the offender would soon learn that it was no use fighting the system. Resistance would be punished swiftly and severely and the machine was incapable of pity.

An adjustable padded stool stood in the centre of a large platform. Two sturdy legs angled out in either direction away from the seat. A wide leather strap hung from the seat and there were smaller straps at the base of each leg. Behind the stool stood a large hooked arm with a complicated network of chains, cogs and springs. At the end of the arm, suspended above the seat, was a thin wooden paddle.

The doctor measured the distance from my feet to my waist and set about preparing the machine. I watched with a mixture of awe and dread as he raised the seat to a satisfactory height and tilted it forwards, so that it sloped downwards and away from the paddle.

‘Come here,’ he said. When I hesitated he added brusquely, ‘Do as you’re told, girl.’

There was a murmur of disapproval from the gallery and the doctor nodded and made a notation on his clipboard.

Had I earned extra strokes for not co-operating? I was too scared to ask. I moved towards him fearfully and he guided me into position over the seat, securing the strap tightly around my waist and effectively pinning me down. The slope of the seat forced my back to arch invitingly, making a prominent target of my bottom.

My legs hung down so that the tips of my toes just reached the platform. The doctor fastened the straps round my ankles and buckled them tightly. My arms were next. I struggled a little in protest, but he merely smacked my hand. I couldn’t move.

The doctor set aside his clipboard and without a word he lifted my skirt. Then with a brisk businesslike motion he tugged my knickers down to my knees. I moaned a little and darted a glance up at the gallery. A chair creaked from there, but I couldn’t make out any faces. Behind me the doctor was making some final adjustments to the arm of the machine.

At last he retrieved his clipboard and stood to one side. ‘Ready, gentlemen,’ he said.

A booming voice from the gallery responded, ‘Begin.’

The doctor moved into my peripheral vision and there was a whirring noise as he switched on the machine. I heard the clicking of gears and the paddle drew back, striking my vulnerable bottom smartly, immediately.

I recoiled and strained away from the arm, but I was held fast. Before I could begin to process the sensation, the paddle struck again. I yelped, struggling feebly in my bonds. Another sharp swat; another yelp. The unremitting paddle rose and fell, brutal in its unstoppable cadence.

Tears were soon streaming down my face, but the machine did not relent. I had no idea how long it was programmed to spank me and my helpless cheeks burnt as the unfeeling machine performed its simple function, impervious to my distress.

Over the humming of the machine I heard the scratch of the doctor’s pen as he jotted down his observations. The men in the gallery looked on silently as I cried out at each swat.

I was so lost in the pain and misery that I barely registered when the paddle stopped. Relief washed over me and I went limp, panting for breath. I hung my head and saw the doctor behind me, examining my bottom. I winced as he placed his hand on each cheek in turn, gauging its warmth and tenderness. Again his pen scratched and he addressed the gallery with satisfaction. ‘38.2 degrees.’

My objectification was complete and total.

I drifted out of the fantasy to discover that my hand had strayed inside my knickers. Flushed and excited, I indulged myself, turning on to my stomach on the bed. Shoving a pillow under my hips, I raised my skirt and pushed my knickers down below my bottom as I pictured myself strapped down to the spanking machine.

The cool air on my bottom enhanced the sense of exposure and I reached behind to squeeze my sore cheeks, rekindling the pain from the birching. Gasping, I ran the fantasy through my mind again. This time, however, I was
made
to wait in a queue, watching with increasing anxiety as each girl ahead of me had her bottom smacked by the unrelenting automaton. Before each punishment the doctor read out her offence and the length of time she was to be paddled.

By the time it was my turn I was ready to explode. The machine had barely begun to redden my bottom when I felt the first quivering spasms. Within seconds they overwhelmed me and I drowned myself in a flood of images.

Fifteen

‘I’VE HAD ENOUGH
of your insolence, young lady. And your excuses. It’s clear you don’t take my authority seriously, so I have no choice but to show you that I mean business.’

Without another word, the governess seated herself primly in one of the straight-backed wooden chairs against the wall. I stared at her lap, watching the way her skirt rose slightly and tautened against her long firm legs.

‘Over my lap,’ said Courtney.

‘Wanna play?’

I blinked at her. ‘What, just the two of us?

Her bright-green eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Of course. I’ve been dying to get my hands on your bottom since the night I got you into trouble at Selfridges.’

I smiled at the memory. The planning still blew my mind.

‘I was dying to follow you and watch,’ she said. ‘But Peter wouldn’t let me.’

‘Yeah, I might have been a little suspicious if I’d seen you.’ I laughed.

Peter was in York for the night and Shaun was working late, so Courtney had come over to have dinner and keep me company. She was a natural flirt, so I didn’t take her hints as anything but her usual playful banter. But, after a few glasses of the spicy Barossa Valley Shiraz she’d brought, our conversation evolved into something more than sisterly intimacy and I realised she was serious.

‘So …?’ she promtped.

We’d been punished together only a few days before. Submitting to her after that would seem strange. I also had no idea what she was like as a top. Would she be as intimidating as Peter?

As though reading my mind, she said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t traumatise you.
Much
.’

I relaxed into a laugh, considering her offer. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. And, even though marks from the birching still criss-crossed my cheeks, the allure of power exchange was irresistible. ‘All right,’ I said finally. ‘Let’s play. What did you have in mind?’

‘Oh, I didn’t really have anything specific in mind,’ she said with forced nonchalance, making it obvious that she did. ‘But I do have this governess fantasy …’

I shifted in my seat, my face growing hot as I thought of the governess stories I’d read. Uncompromisingly strict, Victorian governesses. The idea of being a child under her control definitely appealed to me, but I was too embarrassed to admit to wanting it. I needed her to take the initiative.

Sensing my obvious interest through my hesitation, Courtney did just that. ‘All right.’ She lifted her head, lengthening her neck. The simple gesture made her appear formidably tall. ‘Your father has decided that you’re too wilful to be sent away to finishing school, so he has hired me to instruct you in manners and etiquette.’

I bit my lip.

‘But you’re a little rebel and you decide to embarrass him at a dinner party one night.’

My imagination ran with it: I could see the elegant Victorian dining room laid with fine china and the polished family silver. A seven-course meal served by footmen in vibrant livery. Pheasant. Fine claret. Plovers’ eggs in aspic. My father and his stuffy friends in evening dress seated around the glossy table, politely and condescendingly making small talk for the sake of the ladies. Perhaps I had been told off earlier for speaking to a young man without a proper introduction. Perhaps I resented my governess for
restricting
my liberty. Perhaps I set out to get her sacked by displaying deliberately bad manners at this respectable gathering. I imagined my father’s thunderous face as he sent me from the room.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. I licked my fingers, smacking my lips as though devouring the last of the chocolate sauce from the sweet course.

Courtney grinned as though she could taste it too. ‘Very well, then. You’d better go up to the schoolroom and wait for me.’

I smiled slyly and went upstairs. I sat down at one of the school desks, drumming my fingers to dissipate my nervous energy.

Courtney kept me waiting about ten minutes and I hardly recognised her when she came in. She was wearing a sombre ankle-length black dress and she’d pulled her hair back away from her face in a severe bun. The very picture of strictness and sophistication.

I couldn’t suppress a smile. Despite her pretence that she’d thought of the scene on the spur of the moment, she’d come to the house well prepared.

‘There’s nothing to smile about, young lady,’ she snapped, closing the door behind with her a sharp bang.

I jumped.

‘Stand up, young lady,’ she snapped.

I got shakily to my feet.

‘Your father tells me that your manners at the dinner party last night were deplorable. He says you embarrassed him in front of his guests and that I am to straighten you out.’