Over the Knee (3 page)

I sighed and flipped through my notebook. It hadn’t been a productive morning. I’d spent most of it lost in daydreams. The possibility that there could be someone out there who wanted to spank me as much as I wanted to be spanked was driving me to distraction.

Perhaps I could justify visiting spanking websites and chat rooms as part of my research. After all, I couldn’t very well compare Victorian magazines with modern chat rooms if I didn’t visit some of them myself. But I’d have to fill in a special application form for that and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to out myself to the librarian just yet.

Frustrated and torn, I returned to the comfort of the dictionary. I could always rely on its clinical descriptions for a little fix. This time I looked up ‘birch’. I pictured the embarrassment and dread of having to cut switches and bind them together to make my own birch rod. Presenting it to my disciplinarian and asking to be punished.

Sometimes I liked to fantasise about being a boy. Or just a modern-day ‘Frank’ disguised as one. I wondered how I would look in short trousers and a schoolboy cap. Or an Eton suit. There was no shortage of corporal punishment accounts about the elite public school. I’d gone to the Eton museum once to see the famous birching block. Imagining myself as a boy during Dr Keate’s reign of terror, trembling before the rod, stretching myself across the block …

‘Hey, Angie.’

I gasped and slammed the dictionary shut, startling several students near by. They raised their heads and looked at me reproachfully before returning to their studies.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’ It was Karen, the librarian’s assistant.

I blushed as though I’d been caught with a pornographic book instead of the
OED
.

‘Thought you’d like to know that this is back in,’ she said, handing me
A History of the Rod
. Again.

It was a curious little book, written in the late 1800s by the Reverend William M. Cooper, BA. Subtitled
Flagellation and the Flagellants
, the cover displayed an embossed gold-leaf etching of the Eton birching block, complete with birch rod. The spine bore etchings of other instruments of correction. Not a masterpiece of subtlety, but a potent wellspring for those in the know.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I just needed to check some references in this chapter.’

I tried to act nonchalant, but I could see her puzzled expression. She’d probably flipped through it and seen the delights on offer. She must have wondered what all the fuss was about – why two people were fighting over it, recalling it back and forth.

She raised her eyebrows, as though waiting for me to let her in on the joke. ‘I expect it will be recalled again next week?’

‘I expect so.’ I refused to elaborate.

Shaking her head, she left.

It was an odd but alluring little game of cat and mouse. I didn’t actually need the book at all. I’d already read it. But I did want to know who else was borrowing it. He – and I was convinced it was a man – had to be a kindred spirit.

He wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind.

Two

‘LIFT YOUR SKIRT.’

I heard the direction clearly, but my response came unbidden. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. Lift. Your. Skirt.’

My skin felt chilled as my tremulous fingers crept down to the hem of my kilt. I hesitated, glancing up at him with pleading eyes.

‘Would you like me to do it for you?’ he asked, squarely in control.

‘No!’ Slowly, I dragged the fabric up until he could see my knickers.

‘Very good. Now turn around.’

Closing my eyes, I obeyed.

I was the one who had started this. I was the one who kept recalling
A History of the Rod
so that he had to do the same. It was like a possessive game between children. ‘Mine.’ ‘Mine!’ ‘No,
mine
!’

So, when he recalled the book again, as I knew he would, I returned it. Then I staked out the circulation desk, waiting for him to come in and reclaim it. I wondered who he could be. Did I know him? If not, would I recognise him as a fellow pervert? Would it be obvious? All my life I had felt like the last of my kind. I assumed they had all died out after the golden age of Victorian prudery. I was not going to miss the chance to meet another like me.

The sturdy little volume sat in a stack on the desk with a slip of paper inserted halfway into it. I knew it must have
his
name on it and it was all I could do to resist darting behind the counter and snatching it.

I stationed myself where I could see everyone who approached the desk. I could hardly concentrate on my work. I was delighted by a
Family Herald
letter from a lady who disapproved of the word ‘flog’ when referring to the chastisement of young ladies. She offered instead ‘the elegant and soft English expression, “chasten”’, administered – of course – with all due affection and gentleness. But even this titillating bit of trivia couldn’t distract me from my quarry. I skulked about all day, waiting.

At last, I saw the librarian take the book from the stack. At the desk was a young guy, clearly a student. He was tall, with longish dark hair and a goatee. Strong arms and muscular legs. I didn’t much like the Bohemian scruffiness, but he would clean up nicely. The baggy trousers would have to go.

He was at the desk for a long time, talking to the librarian. She nodded in my direction and he turned, following her gaze. I ducked my head, pretending to be engrossed in my writing. I casually put my head in my hand and watched out of the corner of my eye. He was coming towards me.

‘Excuse me,’ said a slightly terse voice.

I looked up. ‘Hmm?’

He gave me a tight little smile. ‘Pardon my asking, but are you the person who keeps recalling the Cooper book?’ He had a strong northern accent, but it lent him a certain boyish charm. He was a long way from home.

‘Yes,’ I said, refusing to elaborate.

He stared at me for a few seconds and his eyes flicked down to my tartan skirt. He clearly liked what he saw and it must have confirmed my own fascination. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘We – ah – seem to have some shared interests.’

‘Oh?’ I tried to play it cool, but inside I was ecstatic. No, there were no obvious signs that he was kinky. I never would have picked him out of a lineup. But the fact that he had come to
me
was exciting.

He slid into the chair next to me, a grin spreading over his face. The discovery must have been as exhilarating for him as it was for me. My stomach fluttered and I coyly shifted my papers to hide what I was working on. He set the book down on the table between us, like a challenge to a dual.

I looked at it, then back up at him.

‘You need it for research?’ he asked.

‘Research,’ I confirmed.

He nodded knowingly, still grinning. ‘Perhaps you’d like to compare notes.’

I pretended to consider. ‘That might be … instructive.’

‘Well, my flatmates are going to a concert tonight,’ he said slowly. ‘So if you’d like to stop by …’

The offer was irresistible and it was all I could do to restrain my glee. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’d love to. Just give me your address.’

He took the pen from my hand and wrote the address on the page I’d been working on. He also wrote his name: Paul Milburn.

I smiled. ‘Angie Harker.’

‘A pleasure. I’ll see you around eight, then.’

Not eight sharp, just ‘around eight’. He was no authority figure, but he was kinky. That was the important thing. He got up, leaving the book on the table.

‘Bring the book,’ he said.

I changed in and out of several outfits over the course of an hour. My bed was a giant discard pile. At last I settled on a short black and green tartan skirt with a white blouse and matching crossover tie, white knee socks and low-heeled black shoes. It wasn’t exactly a school uniform, but it had the look. Finding the right pair of knickers took me almost as long. In the end I decided I couldn’t afford to be subtle. If he got that far I didn’t want any mistake. I wore the white boyshorts with ‘naughty’ scrawled across the bottom in girlish purple letters.

I arrived at the dreary little house at ten past eight. I wanted him to have an easy excuse. My knickers were already embarrassingly wet.

When he answered the door he looked slightly anxious. I guessed that he’d been watching the clock for the past half-hour, wondering if I was really coming.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said.

Paul closed the door and looked me up and down admiringly. ‘That’s all right.’

He was probably grateful I hadn’t been more punctual. The flat was much tidier than I had been expecting and I was touched that he would go to the trouble. It was unlikely he’d been cracking the whip over his flatmates to get them to help. He looked a lot neater as well. He was wearing smart black trousers and a dark-blue collared shirt.

He gestured for me to walk ahead of him – either politeness or so that he could get a look at my bottom. I obliged him and found myself in a cramped but cosy living room. A well-worn sofa stood against one wall, but I was too keyed up to sit. I produced the book and gave it to him.

‘Here it is,’ I said. ‘Which bits do you like best?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ he said, flipping through it. ‘I’ve only just started it.’

‘You’ve recalled it three times!’

‘And so have you,’ he said carefully, his eyes glinting. ‘But we both know this isn’t really about the book, don’t we?’

I blushed and looked down, listening to the soft slicing noise as he turned the pages.

‘But, since you asked, I rather like the chapter, “On the Whipping of Young Ladies”.’

The title alone made me blush.

‘What about you?’ he asked pointedly.

The question didn’t come out of the blue, but it still put me on the spot. ‘Well …’

All at once I felt nervous and unsure of myself. I’d played teasing games with a complete stranger simply because he’d checked out a book on corporal punishment. I’d gone to his house dressed like a tart. Up to now nothing had been decided. But, once I’d told him what I
liked
, I’d be committed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it. But the recklessness of it struck me. His flatmates were away. No one knew where I was.

I swallowed.

My sudden unease seemed to give Paul even more self-assurance. Like a dangerous animal sensing fear. ‘Well?’ he prompted.

Blushing deeply, I tried to regain some pluck. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

He looked at me hungrily. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

The tables had turned dramatically. There was no trace of reticence now. I hadn’t realised just how devilish the goatee made him look. Standing a little straighter, a little taller, he stepped back for a better view of the girl who had delivered herself to him.

‘Lift it higher,’ he said. ‘Let me see. I can’t quite make out what that says.’

My eyes flew open. I’d forgotten all about the knickers. The obvious amusement in his voice made me feel even more exposed as I complied.

‘Well, well.’ He chuckled. ‘Hardly regulation issue, are they?’

I smoothed the skirt back down, squeezing my legs together.

Behind me I heard a schussing noise and I glanced over my shoulder to see him pulling the coffee table aside, away from the sofa. He sat down.

My stomach was tying itself in knots.

‘Come here,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper.

My feet felt rooted to the floor and it was several seconds before I was able to summon the willpower to move. For one panicky moment I thought of calling it off. But calling
what
off? Nothing had been explicitly discussed or agreed. It was all insinuation. And yet unequivocal messages had been exchanged.

I stood in front of him, unable to meet his eyes.

Paul took me by the hand and guided me to his right side. Then, without a word, he patted his knee.

My face burning, I hesitated. The moment had arrived. I couldn’t move. But he was in control now and my hesitation only gave him courage. He waited. When I couldn’t bear the standoff any longer, I stretched myself across his lap. I rested my arms on the sofa and buried my face in my hands. The position wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. His muscular thighs felt strong and solid beneath my hips.

When he lifted my skirt it was with excruciating deliberation, as though he was unveiling a work of art. He traced the outline of the word on my backside with his finger, spelling it out. ‘Yes, “naughty” is exactly the word I would use.’

Involuntarily I clenched my buttocks, stimulated by his touch. I held my breath as he rested his hand on my right cheek. He was going to spank me. I’d known since he spoke to me in the library that he would, but still the imminence of it was overwhelming. All my life I had fantasised about it, imagined what it would be like and how it would feel. Now I was about to find out, and the reality of it seemed more unreal than any of my fantasies.

I felt his hand lift away from my cheek and hover in the air, like a bird of prey about to dive. He brought it down sharply across the fullest part of my bottom and I made a tiny sound, muffled by my hands.
My first ever smack
. He did it again and my cheeks clenched as his palm made contact. He was barely hitting me and yet the position was so belittling that I imagined it stung intolerably.

I cried out at the next smack and continued to whimper as he increased the tempo of the spanking. His hand rained brisk little slaps on my bottom and I drummed my feet on the floor in petulant protest.

I heard him laugh and he began to smack me a little harder. It still wasn’t painful, but it did make me writhe over his lap.

After a few more smacks he stopped. His finger explored the outline of my knickers again and then he said, ‘We’ll have these down now.’

I moaned as he peeled them over my cheeks. He slid them all the way down to my ankles. They offered precious little cover anyway, but now I was in danger of kicking them right off if I moved too much. And the only way I could keep them around my ankles was to spread my legs. That was too much exposure.

Paul spanked me again, harder now. And when he stopped he caressed my pinkened cheeks. I sighed and relaxed at the gentle treatment as his fingers trailed over the inner curves, teasing me. At last the wandering hand slipped along the cleft of my bottom and in between my legs. He drew his fingers along the slick folds of my sex and I felt even more exposed by the treacherous wetness there.