Over the Knee (24 page)

I hardly noticed when Peter stopped. He caressed my bottom and I heard the camera beep dutifully as it recorded the moment.

‘Look at the state o’ her arse, man!’ said Iain, lowering the camera. ‘She’s rid raw!’

‘Gonny gie us a look at her fanny?’ asked Billy. He was the crudest of the lot.

I felt my face colour and I averted my eyes.

‘Oh, I don’t see why not,’ Peter said in a considering tone. ‘It wasn’t unusual for warders to take advantage of their prisoners.’

His hand slipped down between my legs and I drew a sharp breath, trying in vain to pull myself up out of the armholes. When he tried to separate my ankles I resisted and accidentally kicked him.

He tutted and gave me another stroke of the birch, this time across the tops of my thighs. The flash of searing pain forbade any further opposition and I simply prayed that Peter would tell them the show was over.

‘But if the prisoner didn’t co-operate,’ he added, ‘the spectators might be asked to hold her in position.’

The insinuation was luridly clear and it was the only signal the boys needed. The scruffy one jumped first, hauling the table out away from the wall and into the centre of the room. I squealed with surprise. Then Iain handed the camera to Billy and moved to the other side of the table to stand next to Peter.

Like sharks circling their prey, they closed on me. Billy was taking pictures now and I sensed things were about to get worse. I begged Peter with my eyes not to let them do it. His lips curled in a grin that was pure evil.

Hands pawed at me from both sides, groping clumsily, greedily. They hauled my legs apart and I strained against the handcuffs, but I was outmanoeuvred. My fruitless struggles only inflamed my tormentors further.

Iain snaked a hand down the front of my jumper and I tried to squirm away. I pushed myself against the table, squashing my breasts uncomfortably against the wood in an attempt to spare them his attentions. He was stronger, though, and his fingers wormed their way into my bra, roughly kneading the soft flesh at his mercy.

Billy repeated his request in a wheedling voice. ‘Gie us a look at yer fanny, hen.’ As if I had any control over what I exhibited.

The scruffy one laughed and Iain growled a mocking obscenity at him, still mauling my breasts with his cold callused hands.

But Peter leant down to whisper to me, ‘It’s only fair that paying customers should get their money’s worth.’ He unlocked my left wrist and hauled me up on to my knees. I reached back in a pitiful attempt to pull my knickers up and he slapped my hand away.

My jumper had a row of buttons down the front, but Iain ignored them, yanking it unceremoniously up over my head and pulling it off. Billy gave a crass gurgling laugh and clicked away at the scene. They stripped me and I let them.

Iain didn’t bother unhooking my bra; he simply dragged my breasts out over the modest cups. ‘Look at the pair on that,’ he said, giving me a hard squeeze.

I debased myself further by responding to his unkind touch. My nipples puckered and tightened, betraying me.

It was horrible. Sordid and demeaning. Utterly obscene.

And yet …

I had never felt more alive than I did now at the mercy of such extravagant debauchery, such magnificent degradation. I was completely helpless. They could do anything they wanted and I was powerless to stop them.

Peter clicked the other cuff back on to my wrist and pushed me down on my back. I hissed as my tender bottom pressed into the hard table and Peter stretched my arms over my head, holding me down.

The scruffy lad worked at my knickers, dragging them down my legs so he could pull them off. Grinning, he held them out to Peter, who shook his head.

‘Keep them,’ he said.

The boys arranged me with my head to the window and my splayed legs open. At last Billy got his wish. The camera beeped and clicked hungrily, devouring every explicit image. They’d left my thigh-highs and shoes on, which only emphasised the other bits on display.

Their vulgar commentary continued, much of it like a foreign language to me. They raised my legs up over my head, holding them apart and flaunting my stripes and my sex for the camera. Then the scruffy one drew back his hand and smacked me hard across the fullest part of my bottom, making me yelp with pain.

‘Ach, haud yer wheest, hen, it’s no’ that sair!’

I blinked in bewilderment, but caught the gist. I tried to be quiet as he gave me several more solid whacks before lowering me back down. Then his hand was between my legs, searching along the dampening crease with frenzied determination. He spread me open with both hands, forcing two fingers roughly inside me. I gasped and writhed on the table as he described the state of me in gory detail for his friends.

Billy barked an instruction to the others and I arched in pain as I felt my nipples cruelly tweaked. Their graphic observations increasingly excluded me and I closed my eyes, losing myself in the rough treatment as countless hands fondled and molested me, forcing me closer and closer to the edge.

I fought it, but their determined fingers finally reached the limit of my endurance. My body convulsed in ecstatic unbearable pleasure as I succumbed to wave after wave of sensory overload, almost screaming at the intensity. With a long shuddering sigh, I wilted on the table.

The hands released me and all of a sudden the room was scarily quiet. Even the camera had stopped clicking. Panting, I raised myself up on to my elbows. And gaped at the ashen-faced Chinese couple standing in the open doorway, their mouths working soundlessly in horror-struck disbelief.

Seventeen

SEEING MYSELF ON
the website seemed even more transgressive than the whipping had been. Of course, Peter had only posted the birching photos. The explicit ones were just for us. Encouraged by the elaborate nastiness Peter had orchestrated, I decided it was time to confess my secret fantasy to him. But in my own special way.

‘I need your help, Courtney. I need you to plant something in a phone box for me.’

Courtney narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

I displayed the card with pride.

She looked at it and then exploded into laughter.

‘I know, I know.’ I blushed. ‘But Peter will love it. He won’t be expecting it.’

At the top of the card were the words ‘Eton lad’. And beneath it was a picture of me, posing in my prize eBay acquisition – a vintage Eton suit, complete with bumfreezer jacket and topper. The only other text was my mobile number at the bottom.

‘Handsome,’ Courtney purred, tracing the outline of the hat. She put her arm around me and kissed me on the cheek. ‘My little rent boy,’ she said, grinning hugely. ‘Oh, this will be fun. Sure, just tell me which phone box.’

That afternoon, I called Peter. ‘Would you do me a favour?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’

‘Remember the phone box where Shaun and Courtney said they found Lenka’s card? Would you stop by on your way home and see if there’s anything interesting?’

I could sense Peter’s smile through the phone. ‘Of course. You think it’s our turn now, eh?’

‘One never knows.’

Peter agreed and I hung up, barely able to suppress my excitement.

I went back to my own flat and took my time getting dressed. I knew it would take Peter a while to reach the phone box and call me. The suit was an amazing find. I’d never worn an authentic Eton collar before, though I’d read how uncomfortable and confining they were. The stiff starchy paper was like a posture collar that rubbed constantly against the neck.

Shopping for boys’ underwear had been loads of fun as well. And wearing them was strangely erotic. They felt so foreign, so thick and unfeminine, covering more than a pair of knickers ever did.

The suit fitted as though it had been made for me, though the trousers needed a belt to sit on my girlish waist without falling down. The archaic top hat completed the image. I was tomboyish enough in girls’ clothes, but dressed like this I could easily pass for a teenage boy.

I’d originally wanted a tailsuit, but my research showed me that that was for older boys. I needed to be a younger one, fagging for a prefect who would take full advantage of his authority and privilege.

When I was dressed and preening and posing in front of the mirror, ‘Tubular Bells’ began to play. I let the tune cycle three times before reaching for my mobile. I couldn’t let Peter think I was sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring.

‘Hello?’

‘Eton, eh? What put you on the game, then? You lose all your money, you little dandy?’

I froze. It wasn’t Peter. I pulled the phone away from my ear, gawking at it. Courtney had said she would watch the box until Peter showed up. She also said she’d dash in and grab the card if anyone reached it before he did. I tried to think of something to say.

‘Erm, I, er …’

The man laughed and continued in his abrasive estuary accent. ‘A posh education and that’s all you can say?’ His tone turned harsh. ‘What’ll you do for fifty quid?’

My heart felt battered with a sledgehammer. This was like some of the ruder encounters in the chat room. Worse than what the Glaswegian yobs had said, much of which had been unintelligible to me. But that had been different. Men could be so much cruder with one another. Even with such a delicate lad as Martin.

‘Well …’

‘I want to bugger you,’ the man growled. ‘Shove it up inside you so hard you cry like a girlie. Fuck you good and proper.’

In spite of the coarseness, I couldn’t help but notice the insistent pulse between my legs. The idea of a total stranger happening on my card … Wanting to be so rough and nasty with sweet little Martin … It was intoxicating, like forbidden fruit.

I made a sound I hoped sounded like a murmur of interest, just to see what the caller would say.

‘You gonna resist me, boy?’ he asked. ‘Because if you do I’ll bend you over and strap your arse till it’s raw. Then you’ll take it like a choirboy.’

I thought I would faint.

‘I’ll shove my cock in you, make you take it all, every inch. I want to hear you beg for it, nancy boy. Beg me to fuck your raw sore little arse.’

Mortified, I wanted to respond, but I couldn’t. Meeting the man was out of the question, of course. He thought he was talking to a
real
boy. But the thought was delirious and I squeezed my legs together, listening to the rustle of my pinstriped trousers.

The man chuckled. ‘Don’t have the guts, lad?’ he said. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Go back to school, little boy. Go learn some proper lessons.’ There was a click as he rang off.

I stared at the phone, bewildered. My legs were trembling and I sat down on the edge of the bed. What was I going to do now? The man had my card. Now Peter wouldn’t find it when he went to the phone box.

‘Tubular Bells’ began to play again and I jumped, startled. I pressed the button to answer.

‘Hello?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Did you enjoy that?’

My eyes widened. ‘Courtney?’

I heard wild laughter, Courtney’s and someone else’s. Then Courtney came back on the line. ‘Well, nancy boy? Did it get you all ‘ot and bovvered?’

‘Was that you?’ I gaped.

‘No, that was Shaun,’ she choked out, struggling through her laughter. ‘Wanna say hello?’

‘I’m going to kill you!’ I said, surrendering to my own laughter. ‘And him! You two are pure evil!’

‘Well, Martin needs to learn that if he sticks his card in phone boxes he’s bound to get some nasty calls. They won’t all be gentlemen. Besides, I thought it might help get you in the mood.’

Still shaking my head over the prank, I found myself thanking Courtney. It
had
got me in the mood. ‘Where’s Peter?’ I asked.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll see him long before he sees us. And we’ll make sure no one else dodgy finds your card.’

There was a burst of male laughter in the background and Shaun said something I couldn’t make out.

‘What was that?’

‘Shaun says unless you’re into dodgy men, in which case he’ll be your next customer.’

‘Tell him he’s a total perv,’ I retorted.

‘Will do,’ Courtney chirped. ‘Now get to work, boy. Or I’ll tell your pimp you’re holding out on him and he’ll make you sorry you ever left the comforts of the birching block!’

‘Yes, miss,’ I said, a huge grin spreading across my features. I ended the call and lay back on the bed, revelling in the new game. I couldn’t wait for Peter to call.

Half an hour later, the phone rang again. It was hard to force myself to wait, but I did it, again letting the tune play more than once before answering. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager.

‘Hello?’ I said, pitching my voice lower.

‘
Floreat Etona
,’ said Peter.

I bit my lip.

‘How much, lad?’

‘Depends what you want to do,’ I said, trying to sound casual.

Peter gave a sinister chuckle. ‘I know what I’d
like
to do to a boy who uses the school’s name in such a way. I think your headmaster might have something to say about it. I doubt he’d be pleased to hear about some little rent boy besmirching the name of the school like that. Do you?’

The stern tone was having its usual effect on me. ‘No, sir,’ I said.

‘Right. Well, I think we can do business,
Eton lad
.’ He emphasised the nickname. ‘How does a hundred pounds sound?’

‘Fine, sir.’

‘When I was at Eton they had certain rules and traditions. You boys are all coddled nowadays. You’ve probably never even seen a school cane, have you?’

I sighed as I felt my female body begin to respond. ‘No, sir,’ I said softly.

‘No, I didn’t think so,’ he said, a sneer in his voice. ‘Well, we’ll get that sorted. I hear they’ve abolished the fagging system too. It used to be a privilege for the younger boys to act as servants to their seniors. In exchange, they got protection from bullying by their peers. It was good for them. It was character building and they were grateful for it.’

I smiled at that. Grateful. About as grateful as they were to the headmaster for all those birchings.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Martin,’ I said.

‘Your surname, boy,’ Peter said impatiently.