Over the Knee (8 page)

Six

I LOOKED AT
the clock and sighed. I’d been chatting with Peter for nearly two hours. Reality was calling. My mum’s birthday was approaching and I hadn’t got a present yet. She had very upmarket tastes and I’d forgotten her completely the year before. This year I knew I had to make amends and the simple high-street shops just wouldn’t cut it. Reluctantly, I explained the situation to Peter and said I had to go. I wanted to get to Selfridges before it closed. He wished me luck and I set off for Oxford Street.

I meandered around the immense store, unable to focus on the task at hand. I’d been unable to focus on much of anything since getting online and connecting with kindred spirits. I couldn’t resist a stroll through the lingerie department, where I managed to talk myself out of a criminally expensive pair of designer silk pyjamas. But then my eye fell on a display of frilly panties and before I knew it I was digging for my credit card. As if I really needed another pair of French knickers. But these were blue. I didn’t have any in blue. I was good at rationalising: I wanted to be wearing something new when I met Peter. That was only one day away. The red ones tempted me as well, but at the last minute I found the willpower to put them back.

I wandered around the rest of the departments for nearly an hour, feeling intimidated by the price of most of the merchandise. But at last I found a pashmina that wouldn’t
plunge
me into too much debt. It was the usual fall-back gift, like ties and socks for my dad, but it was something she could show off to her class-conscious friends.

It was dark outside by the time I was finished. A tall redheaded woman almost knocked me down as I left the store, shoving between me and the door frame. Her attention was riveted on her mobile phone and she seemed totally oblivious to me. Appalled at her rudeness, I stood staring after her for several seconds before shaking my head in disgust. Then I continued on my way, heading for the Tube station at Bond Street.

Just as I rounded the corner a man stepped out in front of me, startling me. I gasped, almost dropping my bag.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.’ He wore a dark-blue uniform with a peaked cap. There was a slight London twang in his voice, but he had the authoritative bearing of one who was accustomed to being obeyed.

I blinked in confusion. ‘What?’

‘Store security.’

I just gaped at him.

‘I’m sure you know what this is about,’ he said with cool confidence.

Utterly baffled, I shook my head. ‘I have no idea.’

But the guard wasn’t having it. He took me firmly by the arm and guided me back in the direction of Selfridges. ‘Then we’ll have to discuss it with the manager.’

In shock, I allowed myself to be led a few steps before digging my heels in. ‘Look, I really think you ought to tell me what this is about.’

‘Very well,’ he said. He had a nice face with finely carved features. Bright hazel eyes. He was probably a handsome man when he relaxed his fascist demeanour. ‘Would you mind telling me what you bought in the store, Miss …?’

‘Harker,’ I said, a hint of indignation creeping into my tone. I wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘If you must know, I bought a pashmina and some underwear.’

‘What kind of underwear?’

Now he was trying to embarrass me. Well, it wouldn’t
work
. ‘Sexy little things,’ I said brazenly. ‘French knickers, if you must know.’

‘What colour?’

God, he was unflappable. ‘Blue.’

‘Not red?’

The question took me aback and I shook my head slowly.

‘Would you mind showing me?’

I hesitated, then reached into the bag and took out the knickers I had bought. I waved them in front of him like a flag and several passers-by paused to watch the display. ‘See? Blue. Like I said. Would you like to touch them?’

‘That won’t be necessary, Miss Harker,’ he said, completely unruffled. ‘Would you mind showing me what you have in your coat pockets?’

My eyes flashed. ‘Oh, now this is going too far.’

‘If you have nothing to hide …’ he began reasonably.

He had accosted me on the street, where people were watching and making the obvious assumptions. It was humiliating. Galling. Fuelled by the fury of the wrongly accused, I snapped, ‘Right. You want to see?’ I plunged my hands into both pockets, intending to find my Underground pass and nothing else. But, to my surprise, my left hand met something soft and lacy. Slowly, I drew out an incriminating scrap of scarlet material.

The guard raised his eyebrows at me.

I could scarcely get the words out. ‘Those – those aren’t mine,’ I protested feebly. ‘I mean, I looked at them. I considered getting them –
buying
them – but I didn’t!’

He nodded grimly. ‘Yes, I can see you didn’t buy them.’

‘No, you don’t understand!’ Desperately, I cast back in my mind. Was it possible I could have been so absent-minded? That I had just shoved them into my pocket instead of putting them back? No. It
wasn’t
possible; in fact, it was inconceivable.

But, all the while, the security guard was watching me impassively, his face betraying nothing, not even triumphant glee over this turn of events.

A nervous laugh escaped. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘This is clearly a misunderstanding. I’m sure the girl at the lingerie counter
will
remember me. I’m happy to pay for these, but you have to understand I didn’t steal them.’

‘Do you know how many times I hear shoplifters say that?’ the guard asked wearily.

‘But I’m not a shoplifter!’

‘No, I’m sure you’re not,’ he said with patient condescension, as though I’d claimed to be Joan of Arc and was now insisting I wasn’t mad.

Several people had stopped to watch our little drama. I wanted to scream at them that I hadn’t done it.

The guard took my arm again. ‘You can explain it all to the manager. Now, come along.’

Dread began to gnaw in my stomach like a hungry rat. My eyes burnt with tears of shame and my legs felt too weak to carry me. A sour-faced woman with two little kids stood watching me with righteous gratification as I passed them in disgrace, the contraband knickers dangling from my hand. For a crazy instant I pictured myself collapsing on the street. I’d wake up in hospital to find the whole mess sorted. A simple misunderstanding and good-natured apologies all round. No hard feelings.

Suddenly, I remembered. ‘Wait! That woman at the front door …’

‘Come along, Miss Harker,’ he repeated, this time more firmly. ‘Fifteen years ago I might have dealt with this on my own, but nowadays I’m afraid that’s beyond my authority. So it’s a matter for the police.’

I knew full well what would happen if the police got involved. There was no way they’d believe such a ludicrous story. A strange woman came from outside the store and shoved something into my coat pocket as I left? Why? It had happened so fast I doubted if I could even identify her.

But what had the guard said? If he had the authority? The police hadn’t been called. The manager didn’t even know yet. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked cautiously. ‘Deal with it on your own?’

The guard stopped. We had almost reached the front of the store. He gave me a long considering look. ‘I suppose it depends,’ he said.

‘On what?’

‘On how sorry you are.’

‘But I didn’t –’

He held up his hand, silencing me. ‘I might be persuaded to let the matter drop if I felt you’d been sufficiently punished for it.’

He’d looked me straight in the eye as he said it. There was no mistaking his words or his intent. My face and ears burnt so intensely I felt feverish.

‘Well?’

‘What – what do you mean?’

His hand dropped to his belt buckle. ‘I think you know what I mean. This. Across your bottom.’

This couldn’t be happening. I hesitated and, when he made as if to drag me into the store, I capitulated. ‘All right, all right.’

The guard nodded curtly and led me back the way we’d come, back down the street. I could hardly believe this was happening. It didn’t seem real. But there was no other way. I had no idea where he was taking me, but as long as it was away from Selfridges I would go without complaint.

He led me down a private street, a narrow alley somewhere beyond the Tube station. I supposed I should be relieved he wasn’t going to do it in the middle of Hyde Park. I stood trembling beside a scattering of rubbish, waiting for him to make the first move.

The guard held out his hand and I realised I was still holding the red knickers. I’d forgotten all about them. The two of us must have been quite a picture as we strolled by. I surrendered them to him, along with the bag of things I’d legitimately paid for.

‘Your coat as well.’

I hesitated, but when he sighed and made as if to take my arm again I hurriedly slipped it off and passed it to him. He set the shopping bag down on the ground and folded my coat, before tucking it carefully into the bag. Then he tore the price tag from the knickers.

Holding them back out to me, he said, ‘Put them on.’

I took them and lifted one leg to step into them, but he stopped me.

‘No. Take off the ones you’re wearing first.’

There was nothing lecherous in his tone. He wasn’t here for cheap thrills. In a way, that would have been easier. If he had demanded sexual favours in exchange for his silence I’d have felt empowered. I could have insisted on seeing the manager then, to report his indecency. Perhaps my outrage would get me off the hook. But he wasn’t interested in a blow job or a quick shag in a stairwell.

Miserably, I reached under my skirt and slipped down the white panties I was wearing, blushing deeply at the damp patch in the gusset. I wadded them into a ball so he wouldn’t notice and relinquished them to his outstretched hand. To my horror, he unfolded them and inspected them closely. I hurriedly stepped into the red lace knickers and yanked them up, then smoothed my skirt down over my bottom. Then I stared at the ground, waiting.

He returned to the Selfridges bag and dropped my panties inside. ‘Right,’ he said.

I clutched my hands behind my back.

Without another word he began unbuckling his belt. It was a wide fearsome leather strap. He pulled it briskly through the loops and it made a sharp flapping noise that set my nerves on edge. He doubled the belt and pulled the ends taut, snapping it. I jumped.

He indicated a spot on the wall to my right. ‘Hands up there, girl,’ he said gruffly. ‘Hands and feet apart.’

Shaking, I turned and pressed my hands against the cold clammy bricks.

He lightly kicked my feet apart until my legs were spread to his satisfaction. Then he lifted my skirt. He took his time tucking it up into the waistband to hold it out of the way.

‘Bottom out.’

I squeezed my eyes shut, but I did as I was told. I expected him to take my knickers down, but he didn’t. Not that they would afford me any protection.

‘How much did the knickers cost?’ he asked.

Too much
, I thought ruefully. ‘Fourteen pounds.’

‘Hmm. Fourteen strokes, then, I think.’

I swallowed hard.

He laid the leather belt across my bottom. It was warm from his body heat and I tensed in anticipation.

‘No screaming, now.’

The belt whipped into me with terrible force, its resounding slap echoing in the closeness of the alley. I gritted my teeth against the slashing pain, just managing to keep quiet. The pain dwindled until the punished skin was a wide throbbing welt. I shuddered to think of thirteen more like that.

Another stroke and I gasped, pushing hard against the wall to keep from flying up and grabbing my bottom. The flesh must have been as red as the knickers.

Another. I threw my head back with a groan, gritting my teeth and digging my nails into the wall as he lashed me again.

The next stroke followed so soon after the previous one that I cried out, writhing and dancing in place.

‘Not a sound,’ he instructed softly, aiming the strap again.

Biting my lip, I nodded frantically, urging him to get it over with.

As the belt painted scorching stripes across my cheeks I did my best to take them without making too much noise. I couldn’t help gasping and hissing through my teeth. And I couldn’t suppress the occasional yelp, especially when the strap licked round into the crease, just catching my sex. Tears sprang to my eyes and I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out.

I lost track somewhere around number eight and had to trust that he was keeping count. It was so much more painful than the spanking from Father Michael and I knew I would be marked from it. And yet the sensation was exhilarating. The sheer terror I had felt over the prospect of being arrested for shoplifting was a rush unlike anything I’d ever experienced. And the pain of the whipping that was saving me from that awful possibility, however terrible to endure, was welcome.

I bent my knees at the impact of each stroke, my fingernails clawing at the wall. But each time I gathered myself and straightened my legs again, arching my back and presenting my bottom for the strap.

‘Last one,’ he said.

I held my breath as the leather slashed into me and this time I didn’t even try to restrain my howl of agony. I sank to a crouch on the cobblestones, clutching my sore bottom. Intense throbbing heat emanated from my rear. I felt like I’d sat on a stove.

At the same time, my body was trying to process the bewildering fusion of pain and arousal. I was flying again. Inexplicable guilt and shame washed over me and I resisted the tide of emotion that threatened to reduce me to a sobbing girlish wreck.

The guard calmly slid his belt back through the loops of his trousers and buckled it. ‘Very well, Miss Harker,’ he said, still adhering to formality. ‘We will consider the matter settled.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, choking back my tears and lowering my head in genuine gratitude. I didn’t blame him or resent what had happened. While he couldn’t claim he’d just been doing his duty, I couldn’t argue that he’d dealt with the situation in a firm but fair manner. My inner turmoil was nothing to do with him.