Over the Knee (16 page)

Eleven

Discipline (noun)

1. Training intended to guide development, especially to produce behavioural improvement
.

2. Punishment intended to train or correct
.

‘HOW ARE YOU
getting on with your thesis, Angie?’

‘Erm …’

Peter looked surprised.

I wasn’t sure what to say. We hadn’t talked about my thesis since the night I’d first told him about it – when I’d met him at dinner.

‘Have you done any work at all on it this past week?’

‘Well, not exactly, I –’

‘Not exactly? What is that supposed to mean? I want a straight answer, young lady.’

I was caught. Equivocating wasn’t going to save me. I blushed and looked down at my feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured.

‘I’m sorry what?’

My face burnt as the blood rushed to my cheeks. ‘Sir. I’m sorry, sir.’

‘I expect that you are, but I want to hear what you’re sorry
for
.’

Feeling like a schoolgirl again, I stammered out what he wanted to hear. ‘Sorry for not doing my work, sir.’

‘Look at me, Angie.’

I lifted my head to meet his eyes.

‘I realise you’re settling into a new life,’ he began patiently. ‘And that it’s very exciting. I’m willing to make reasonable allowances for that, but it’s no excuse for neglecting your responsibilities.’

I squirmed a little at his words.

‘I’ve been giving this some thought over the past few days, and it’s clear that you need some encouragement. I need to push you. I am therefore instituting a new schedule for you. Come with me.’

Apprehensive, I followed him up the stairs and into the schoolroom. He indicated one of the desks and I sat obediently.

Peter leant back against the teacher’s desk, his arms crossed. ‘You’re a very bright girl,’ he said. ‘But you lack application. You lack discipline.’

I sucked my lower lip as he scolded me. This would be hot in a roleplay, I thought. But this wasn’t a roleplay.

‘With proper guidance and encouragement you could have achieved far more than you did in school. I think you’d have responded well to corporal punishment, properly administered. And it’s not too late. I know what you’re capable of and I intend to see that you achieve it.’

He reached behind him and retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk. I wondered when he had decided all this.

‘Every weekday morning you’re to put on your school uniform and report here at eight sharp. I will inspect your uniform and if I am satisfied you may start work on your thesis.’

‘In here?’ I asked sheepishly.

‘Yes. I think you will work better in an old-fashioned school environment, where you are subject to punishment for not following the rules.’

My stomach tightened into knots as I registered this new turn of events. This was the true consequence of my rash honesty over the Net. In my desperate eagerness I’d revealed myself entirely without even considering where it could lead. This man knew exactly how to humble and dominate me. More than that: he knew exactly what I needed and even secretly wanted, yet still dreaded.

‘When I come home from work I’ll check what you’ve done that day. If I feel you haven’t applied yourself, I will punish you. If it’s a minor infraction, I will put you over my knee and spank you. I may also set you impositions. However, if I feel you’ve been culpably neglectful, then the punishment will be rather more severe.’

My heart gave a little flutter.

‘I’ve drafted a schedule for you,’ he said, holding the paper out to me.

I took it with trembling hands and read over it. I was allowed a break for lunch, and short breaks for tea, but the rest of the time he expected me to be working. The goal was five hundred words a day, or notes as evidence of seven hours’ work.

Peter removed his glasses and polished them nonchalantly while I read. His utter confidence was both comforting and unnerving.

‘I’m not unreasonable,’ he said. ‘Nor will I look for excuses to punish you. On the contrary, I hope you will make me proud. However, I won’t hesitate to be strict if I feel you need it. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ I felt belittled and frightened, but there was an undeniable frisson of arousal.

‘Very good. Now, in a little while I’m going to spank you. This is less a punishment than a reminder. I have something else in mind for formal punishments. For severe infractions you will be birched.’ He paused to let that sink in before dropping the real bombshell. ‘Do you remember that
Family Herald
letter that intrigued you so much? The one about the ritualised discipline in the school in Edinburgh?’

I nodded, suddenly very worried. He took something else from the desk and held it out to me. It was a folded white garment. I took it with uncertain hands.

‘Unfold it.’

I shook it out and held it up. It looked like a hospital gown – closed in the front, with strings to tie it closed in the middle of the back. If I bent forwards in it, the flaps would fall to either side, baring my bottom.

‘You are to keep this punishment gown in your desk. When you are due a severe punishment, I will send you out to cut switches to make a proper birch rod. Once I have approved it, I will send you up here to change. You will put on the gown and stand in the corner to wait for me, hands on your head. I expect the rod to be sitting on your desk when I come up to deal with you.’

My heart was throbbing so hard it was almost painful.

He nodded at the birching block against the wall. ‘When I’m ready you will place the block in the centre of the room and kneel on it, presenting yourself for punishment. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I breathed.

‘I take your education very seriously, Angie. I want you to take full advantage of your opportunities. And I won’t be satisfied with work I feel is beneath your abilities.’

I swallowed. ‘No, sir.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Very well, then. Stand up.’

I got shakily to my feet, clasping my hands behind my back. Peter took the austere straight-backed chair from behind the desk and set it down. He unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it off, arranging it carefully over the back of the chair. Then he began rolling up his right sleeve.

In stories the ritual had always been my favourite part. The spanking itself was often anticlimactic. The telling off and anticipation were what really set my pulse racing. Then the careful positioning, raising of the skirt, taking down of the knickers … There was an art to it. It was a dance with precise choreography. And the moments leading up to the spanking were like the predatory circling before the tango.

Facing a genuine punishment was an entirely different matter. I could neither avoid it nor hurry it along. Mired in ambivalence, I didn’t know whether it was worse to postpone it or get it over with. The preparations heightened my anxiety – a punishment in itself. I could do nothing but wait while he made ready to punish me.

At last he was satisfied and he sat down. ‘Right, young lady,’ he said sternly. ‘Over my knee.’

Though the distance was tiny, I could barely cross it on my trembling legs. Standing powerless beside him, I implored him with my eyes. But I had no choice. I draped myself across his lap.

Without a word he lifted my tartan skirt to reveal my bottom, demurely covered by a pair of powder-blue boyshorts. Instead of taking them down, he smoothed them out over the curves of my unblemished cheeks, carefully arranging them so that they were trim and taut. I knew without being told that the next time this happened I would be in school uniform. White cotton panties would replace my boyshorts and French knickers. And my array of tartan skirts would hang like lonely orphans in the wardrobe, forsaken for the plain navy-blue pleated school skirt he favoured.

Peter lifted his right knee, raising my bottom a little more. My sense of shame increased and I whimpered, wrapping my hands around his leg.

I expected another scolding – his palm describing languid circles over my nervously clenching cheeks while he lectured me further on my negligence. But he didn’t waste any time getting straight to business. He spanked me briskly and vigorously and I squealed and struggled right from the start.

‘I know it hurts,’ he said, not without affection. ‘It needs to hurt if it’s to do any good. And I’m not going to stop until you’ve learnt a lesson.’

Peter’s hands were beguilingly smooth, almost the hands of an artist. It was hard to believe he was capable of the exceptionally hard spankings he could deliver. His arm was tireless and he slapped each tender cheek in turn with a rigorous cadence that made it impossible to hold still. But he didn’t let that deter him. He simply held me down and wrapped his right leg around the backs of my knees, pinning me in position. The spanking continued in earnest and I couldn’t even kick. Gasping for breath, I made my usual frenetic promises that I would be good, that I would work hard and not slack off.

At last his rhythm began to slow and I could breathe again, thinking it was almost over. He stopped and placed
his
hand alternately on each cheek, feeling the warmth. Then he tugged my knickers down to my knees.

Tears welled in my eyes as I braced myself for another onslaught. His hand descended in a steady torrent of slaps that echoed and rebounded in the room, making my ears ring. I was crying long before he was done.

Finally, he let me up and I stumbled to my feet, wiping my tear-streaked face. Peter stood up and folded me in a tight hug. I clung to him, sniffling piteously.

‘I don’t enjoy having to do this,’ he said sincerely. ‘I’d rather roleplay a scene with an imagined offence. But I won’t hesitate to discipline you when you need it. Caring punishment can be very effective in the right context and I think you will respond well to it. But remember – this is just a warning. A reminder of what is expected. Serious offences will warrant stricter punishments.’

My eyes strayed fearfully to the birching block and I couldn’t suppress the shudder as a surge of cold fear went through me.

In bed that night, I replayed the scene over and over, caught between dread and arousal. I knew that I would never be able to live up to his exacting standards, however hard I tried. A slide was inevitable. It only heightened my arousal.

Twelve

‘YOU’LL NEVER GUESS
what we did,’ Courtney sang.

‘You’re probably right,’ said Peter drily. ‘So you’ll just have to tell us.’

The waiter had taken our orders and the four of us had relative privacy in our corner of the restaurant. Courtney dug in her handbag and I was surprised when she came up with a handful of phone-box cards.

On the way to dinner she’d been giggling at every phone box we passed.

‘Was it that one?’ she’d asked Shaun at one point.

He shook his head. ‘No, the one in front of Starbucks. On the corner.’

Peter and I just looked at each other quizzically. I guessed that, since she was American, the novelty of tart cards hadn’t worn off yet. She’d only been in London a couple of years.

Courtney spread the cards out across the table like a blackjack dealer. We looked at the cards, then at Courtney and Shaun.

‘Well, go on, pick one,’ Shaun said, enjoying the game as much as Courtney.

Peter and I perused the cards. Some of them were, admittedly, enticing. But most were just silly. There was an implausibly gorgeous Scandinavian blonde named Astrid. She was bending over with her skirt up, revealing what Peter would call a very spankable bottom. ‘Spanking and –’ I peered closer at the typo ‘– Canning. An odd pair of services.’

Peter smirked at another one. ‘I can’t imagine this is the actual girl at the end of the phone line,’ he said. ‘This is some Brazilian supermodel clipped out of
Vogue
.’

We leafed through the cards, chuckling at each unbelievable girl. If they were truly the girls in the pictures they belonged in Hollywood, not turning tricks in a sleazy London brothel.

There was a Young Oriental Beauty with strategically placed stars covering her nipples. Her ad declared she was ‘hot and spicy’, offering ‘unhurried services’. There was an Italian Stunner who did lesbian shows. A Sexy American Transsexual who was New In Town was eager to offer All Services. One girl, calling herself simply New Blonde, specialised in Bubble Baths.

But the corniest one of all said, ‘Czech me out.’ Peter and I groaned in unison at the odious pun. The picture showed a fresh-faced Eastern European girl with a shy smile and dark hair cut in a bob. ‘Lenka. Petite Student from Prague.’ There had to be some pervy joke that Shaun and Courtney wanted us to find.

I had always enjoyed the kinky cards. Some of them even showed girls in school uniform advertising my kind of play. Wide-eyed girls in gymslips, claiming they’d been ever so naughty … I’d once entertained a silly fantasy of making my own card and sticking it in a phone box. But the prospect of sex with a sweaty stranger when all I wanted was a smacked bottom was just too squicky.

When we’d looked at all the cards, I shrugged. ‘OK, I give up. What’s the story?’

Shaun picked out the corny Czech one and handed it to Peter. He blinked at it, turning it over. There was an address written on the back, but nothing illuminating.

He shrugged. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘What are we missing?’

Shaun and Courtney exchanged conspiratorial grins.

Suddenly, we understood.

‘You didn’t,’ I breathed, gaping at the card.

Courtney shrieked with laughter and the other diners in the restaurant frowned at us, startled and annoyed.

Peter handed the cards back to Shaun, shaking his head. ‘OK, this sounds like a good story,’ he said, ‘Let’s hear it.’

‘Well,’ Shaun said, ‘it started out just as a laugh. We never thought we’d actually go through with it.’

For several nights they had been collecting phone-box cards, looking for just the right girl. But neither of them was into vacuous blondes or exotic foreigners. They wanted a girl-next-door who didn’t look like a pro.

‘Let’s keep trying,’ Shaun said. ‘I still don’t think any of these are quite right.’