Over the Knee (5 page)

But Hollywood spankings were, by and large, unfulfilling. What really pushed my buttons were the longer and more elaborate scenes in novels. Even ones that the author cruelly skimmed over gave me a place to start. My imagination could supply the rest.

To this day I can’t be sure if my memory of a certain TV adaptation of
Tom Sawyer
was real or not. Mark Twain only hints at the scene in the book. But I can remember every detail with vivid clarity. The angry schoolmaster demanding to know who was responsible for the prank. Lovely red-headed Becky Thatcher quaking in terror. Tom leaping valiantly from his desk – ‘I done it!’ – and taking Becky’s whipping in her place. I even remember him having to select the switch from the rack on the wall.

But on the whole books were better. Classic school stories naturally yielded the richest harvest and historical fiction was consistently reliable as well. I couldn’t bring myself to read romance novels, but skimming one once rewarded me with a scene where a dashing highwayman kidnapped and spanked the haughty lady he accosted on the road.

There was even a horror author who could always be depended on to include a spanking or a caning in nearly every book. In one he described a movie called
The Battle of the Villa Fiorita
and I promptly went out and got it. The father–daughter spanking in it struck the right chord, but the scene was nowhere near as enticing as the psychically altered version watched by the character in his novel. It was a talent I fantasised about cultivating.

I had to know what a real spanking felt like, but there was no one who could help me. Not that I could have asked anyway. So, one day when my parents left me alone in the house, the inevitable happened. I stood in front of the mirror, pulled down my pants and, feeling like a right fool, I spanked myself.

It was just a few tentative little slaps at first. It felt strange. Slightly stingy, but not unpleasant. However, I couldn’t tune out the ridiculousness of what I was doing. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. I tried to pretend that someone else was spanking me. But it wasn’t just pain I was after; I needed to feel punished. It had to be harder. It had to hurt.

Emboldened, I drew my arm back a little farther and brought the flat of my hand down harder on my right cheek. It stung a bit more, but it was impossible to hit myself hard enough to feel like a proper spanking.

Looking around the room I spied an electrical cord. I doubled it over and swung it round to hit my bottom. I didn’t measure it out, though, and the cord wrapped all the way around my hips, landing across my abdomen. I cursed and rubbed the angry red welt.

I wasn’t about to try that again, so I grabbed a book instead.
David Copperfield
, as it happened – a hefty hardback. I barely felt it.

Frustrated, I went to the kitchen, where I dug through the cupboards and drawers. I came across a wooden spoon and I returned to the mirror. I drew it back and landed a good sharp swat right in the centre of my right cheek. That did it. With a yelp of surprise and pain I dropped the spoon and clutched my cheek, massaging away the sting. I
retrieved
the spoon and smacked the other cheek even harder. Then I watched, mesmerised, as two bright-red ovals with white centres deepened against my pale skin.

I smacked each cheek several more times, wincing and hissing at the pain. I didn’t like the actual sensation when the spoon landed, but I enjoyed the warm tingling as the sharpness began to fade. And I loved the marks that decorated my bottom. I imagined that having someone else doing the smacking would make all the difference.

I set myself a number: twenty. I would give each cheek ten hard whacks, not letting up when it hurt and not cutting it short. I owed it to myself not to wimp out. And I didn’t. There were several rings of tender bruises when I was done and I hoped none of the other girls would see when I changed for gym. Though there was a perverse appeal in the idea that they might think I got spanked at home. They might share their own stories with me then.

It was soon after that that Mr Chancellor began to invade my fantasies.

Four

I TREMBLED AS
I knelt in the confessional, intimidated by the shadowy silhouette of the priest on the other side of the grille. I had no idea what to say. Was I supposed to speak first? Was he?

The sound of his voice made me jump. He offered some sort of blessing, but all I heard was a low murmur.

I felt like a bad undercover spy. I didn’t know the proper response. Now that I was here, what was I supposed to do? My mind was spinning. Finally, I took a deep breath and plunged ahead with the one bit I knew.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

I tried not to think about my adventure with Paul, but I kept circling back to it. It had been fun, but the untimely interruption of Paul’s girlfriend had rather spoilt it. I did feel sorry for him, though, and I was in no position to claim the moral high ground. If I had been faced with a similar opportunity and a vanilla partner conveniently out of the way for the evening …

Still, there was something left wanting in the scene. It was too loving and gentle. Too sensual. Too
nice
. In my fantasies the focus was on discipline, not sexual pleasure. I wouldn’t deny that punishment turned me on, but somehow it was the very non-sexual nature of it that was so hot. Just like the Victorian letters. The game was pretending it was one thing while knowing that underneath it was something else entirely.

I didn’t regret the sexual play. But, in retrospect, I wished it had happened independently of the spanking. Especially if I could have pretended it was against my will. It made me feel guilty, but there was a strong non-consensual component to my kink. Spanking was a vehicle for intimacy, yes, but it still had to be punishment. Otherwise I retained some control. And much of the appeal lay in being
out
of control.

The Royal Oak was crowded, but not overly noisy. I settled in with some notes and picked at my food while I studied them. I needed to put Paul out of my mind so I could concentrate on my thesis.

‘And then he …’ The voice came from my left.

‘What? Tell me!’

The girl lowered her voice. ‘He spanked me.’

The word got my attention instantly and I nearly choked on the leathery haddock I’d been trying to force down. No, that couldn’t be what she had said. Surely not.

I shifted in my seat to get a sidelong look at the two girls at the table next to me. They were on the other side of an oak pillar and they probably thought they had privacy.

The one who had said the magic word was a young blonde, probably no more than eighteen. Busty and wearing too much makeup. Her friend was a mousy redhead with glasses. I inched closer to the beam so I could hear the details.

‘Oh my God, you are
so
not serious!’

‘No, I swear it. He told me to see him in his office after confession and he’d – well, he’d give me a different kind of penance.’

My heart was in my throat as I listened.

The friend seemed just as hungry for details. ‘So how did it happen?’

‘Well …’ Now the girl seemed embarrassed. ‘I told him what happened at the hen party with Jose and Maurice.’

‘You told him about that?’ The redhead sounded incredulous. ‘No way! Even the part about Sarah’s mum?’

I stifled a laugh. It must have been one hell of a hen night.

‘Of course. You, like, have to confess everything or you can’t be absolved,’ the blonde explained impatiently.

‘Well?’

She had clearly been bursting to share the details and the words came in a rush. ‘Well, he’s, like, really strict. So when I told him what I did he goes, “You’re acting like a spoilt teenager, Gemma. You’ve always been wilful and deep down you only want attention.” Then he’s like: “What you need is a good spanking.”’

The redhead gasped.

‘Yeah, I know! I couldn’t believe it. I mean, he’s, like, been a friend of the family for years, so he’s known me since I was a little girl. He knows what a brat I was. So I’m like: “Well, go on, then!” You know, never thinking he’s gonna really
do
it!’

‘And he actually did it? He spanked you? Promise you’re not taking the piss?’

Shut up
, I thought.
Let her tell the bloody story
!

Gemma took a big gulp of her pint. ‘Uh-huh. He said, if I’m gonna act like a child, I’ll be treated like one and have my bottom smacked. Then he, you know, pulled me over his lap and spanked me.’

‘What, over your clothes?’

‘Yes. Well, over my knickers.’

Disappointed, I readjusted the image in my mind. I’d been imagining a bare-bottom spanking. But still the picture made my pulse race.

‘Wow! Did it hurt?’

Gemma laughed. ‘Absolutely! But here’s the weird bit: there was something sort of comforting about it too. I mean, I really did feel guilty about what happened at the party. I guess that’s why I went to confession in the first place. But, omigod, I hope Brandon never finds out. He’d go totally mental. But I did feel, you know, absolved. I can’t really describe it. It was so much more intense than just saying a few Hail Marys. You know?’

‘I can imagine.’

I could as well. My face felt warm and flushed and I stared at my plate, suddenly no longer hungry. My mind
was
racing. How many Catholic churches were there in the area? I was desperate to know which church, which priest.

The girls were silent for nearly a minute. At last the redhead spoke. ‘So how were things left?’

The blonde sighed. ‘I told Father Michael I was truly contrite. And I promised never to do it again’

‘Just like that? Did he say he’d spank you again if you did?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

It was maddening! How could the girl be so blasé about it? She didn’t even sound embarrassed. I would have been mortified in the same position.

‘Will you ever go back?’

‘Of course,’ the blonde said, sounding shocked. ‘Why ever not? I’ve always gone to St James’s.’

I made a mental note of the names. St James’s church. Father Michael. I wasn’t Catholic, but it was time to go to confession.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ It was like speaking a foreign language. The cloying silence made the confessional seem even smaller as I waited for him to respond.

‘How long has it been since your last confession?’

I had expected him to call me ‘my child’. But I’d probably just seen too many movies. There was a hint of impatience in his voice and I decided there was no way I could pull off the charade. I was only here for one reason anyway.

‘Um … well, never.’

There was silence from the other side.

‘I should probably tell you I’m not a Catholic.’

More silence. Was he making the sign of the cross at me? Could he see into my sinful little mind?

‘Is that OK?’

‘I’m not sure why you’re here, then,’ he said. His voice was low and sombre. ‘I can’t offer you absolution if you’re not a Catholic.’

‘Oh, I know,’ I said. ‘But I had to tell someone. And they say confession is good for the soul. Even for heathens.’ I gave a nervous little laugh.

The priest didn’t reciprocate. He didn’t seem like a man who laughed easily. But he said, ‘Go on.’

The blonde in the pub had clearly got up to something wildly sexual with two men at a hen party. Perhaps they were male strippers. It followed that Father Michael took a dim view of such promiscuity. I closed my eyes and plunged ahead.

‘I cheated on my husband,’ I said. The word was alien to me and I instantly felt guilty about the lie, certain he could see through it.

The priest prompted me with his silence.

‘More than once. I just couldn’t help myself. There are things he won’t do for me, you know?’ I resisted the urge to take it further. It had to be believable. Otherwise he was likely to think I was just using him to enact some perverse fantasy – baiting a man of the cloth. Besides, while I wasn’t religious, the idea of lying to a priest felt like tempting fate.

He didn’t say anything.

‘Father?’

‘Yes.’

‘I need help. I just have so many dirty thoughts. I can’t control them.’ That certainly
was
the truth.

‘Do you try?’

‘Well, yes. I mean – I try to, but the fantasies just take over. They consume me and it’s all I can think about.’

There was a long pause. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the dark box. My knees were stiff from kneeling and the collected scent of incense and candles made me feel slightly drunk. I wasn’t really lying now. My fantasies certainly did consume me. And the confession was having the opposite effect. In theory it was supposed to unburden me, but it was only making my body respond in what this stern priest would call sinful ways.

At last he spoke. ‘If you have no desire to stop, there is little anyone can do to help you.’

Floundering, I said, ‘I just need a way to cope with the guilt. Some sort of forgiveness. Or catharsis. I don’t want to be bad.’

I waited for him to take the hint. As the silence deepened I began to lose faith. Mr Chancellor hadn’t taken my hints back at school. There was no guarantee this priest would either. And there was always the possibility that I was in the wrong church, that this was the wrong priest. Worst of all – what if the blonde had been making it all up?

‘How old are you, my child?’

There. He’d said it that time. ‘Twenty-four, Father.’

A moment’s silence. Then he said, ‘Perhaps there is a way …’

I couldn’t breathe. The moment was so fragile. Any sound or movement from me could shatter it.

‘It’s a little unorthodox. But, if you truly wish to purge your sins, I could counsel you privately, in my office.’

It was all I could do to keep my voice calm and steady as I said, ‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Very well, then. Come back in an hour. I’ll be waiting.’

My fate was sealed. It was one of the longest hours of my life.

As I knocked on the priest’s door I thought of my failed attempts with Mr Chancellor. Just seeing Father Michael’s name on the door gave me a jolt of adrenaline. It wasn’t the wrong priest or the wrong church. It was going to happen.