Over the Knee

by Fiona Locke

  ‘Rent boys get buggered, lad. Ever done it before?’

  I moaned something I hoped he would take for ‘No’, clutching the edges of the cushion at his soft laughter.

  He withdrew his finger and positioned himself behind me. ‘Come on, legs apart,’ he said, gently smacking the insides of my thighs.

  I wanted it. But I also wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I spread my legs obediently, as much as the trousers around my ankles would allow.

  His cock pressed against the tiny opening and I tightened up involuntarily.

  ‘Relax,’ he said, placing a warm hand on my lower back to hold me down. ‘Don’t clench.’

  I forced myself to do as he said, whimpering at the intrusive pressure. He pushed cautiously, with soft little thrusts, until at last the head was inside. I cried out, more out of fear than pain.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, pleased at my surrender.

  I dug my fingers into the cushion, shuddering as he slid the length of his cock up inside the virgin passageway. The sensation was completely alien to me and impossible to process. I couldn’t decide if it was pleasure or pain or both. I trembled with shame and exhilaration at the invasion.

  He thrust himself in up to the hilt, his pelvis smacking against my welted backside. I yelped as he began to fuck me in earnest.

  I tried to imagine having a cock, feeling it rub against the arm of the sofa as he thrust himself in and out of me. Would he reach round and grab it? Squeeze it and fondle it to bring his little rent boy off as well?

  Peter wasn’t tender at all. He twisted a hand roughly in my hair, shoving my face down even further into the cushion. ‘Dirty boy,’ he said with perverse affection. ‘So tight inside.’

  I was grateful for the position, as I would have died had he made me face him. My bottom stung with each thrust, as his skin met my skin. I cried out at the pain, but they mutated into muffled animal sounds through the cushion.

  He slid in and out of me with ease, pounding against my punished flesh. Over and over. The friction against the sofa was stimulating me as well and I adjusted myself to get the maximum benefit from it. But Peter sensed my movement and he reached round with his hand to pleasure me himself, all the while talking to me as a boy.

  At last I felt the spasm of his climax and he clutched at my sex. Within seconds, he forced me to my own shattering orgasm. Spasm after spasm battered me from within and for a moment it seemed like the pleasure would overwhelm me. It was almost more than I could take. I screamed into the cushion, liberated by the primal release.

  I sagged over the arm of the sofa, panting and spent, unable to move.

  Peter withdrew himself and I heard him doing up his trousers. I lifted my face from the cushion, but I still couldn’t get up. Dazed, I stared at the stitching in the upholstery of the sofa.

  I reached around and gingerly touched my bottom. ‘Oww,’ I groaned.

  Peter was still standing over me and eventually I lifted my eyes from the cushion to look at him. He placed a handful of twenty-pound notes on the sofa in front of me.

  ‘Worth every penny,’ he said.

  Eighteen

  Dear Angela,

  I understand that Dr Morrison has become increasingly concerned about the progress of your research, and that despite repeated requests you have failed to provide satisfactory evidence of the data that you have gathered for at least three months.

  As you know, your supervisor is required to make regular progress reports to the funding body, and the present situation jeopardises both your own project and the Department’s prospects of securing funding for other students in future. At this point in your research, you should be collecting your results into final form for presentation in your thesis. If you are to remain in good standing, we need you to present drafts of at least two chapters of your thesis within the next four weeks.

  This letter is the final warning stage before we will need to report your lack of progress to the Dean for disciplinary action.

  Yours sincerely,

  Prof. Richard Chalcroft

  Head of Department

  I FOLDED THE letter with trembling hands and slid it back inside the torn envelope. I felt an awful sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. Thank God Peter hadn’t intercepted the letter. It was incontrovertible evidence of a crime, laying out my guilt in cold impersonal writing. Like a bad report card you knew that you would have to show your parents eventually. The longer you put it off, the more worked up you got and the worse you knew it would be. And as the anxiety began to spiral out of control you had to ask yourself whether it wouldn’t be better just to face the music and have it done.

  Lowering myself into the nearest chair, I considered my options.

  Over the past few weeks I’d had a succession of concerned emails from Dr Morrison and I’d filed them away, promising myself I’d respond to them later. I never did. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been working at all. I stuck to my schedule. Well, more or less. Naturally, I had lapses and I bore the cost when they caught up with me. Stroke by stroke. Ah, the stories that birching block could tell …

  I winced at a phantom cut of the birch and made my decision. I couldn’t show the letter to Peter. I would have to reply to it; that went without saying. But Peter didn’t have to know about it.

  Except that he would know about it. He didn’t keep such a close eye on me any more; he trusted me now to be honest. I couldn’t lie to him. But was it really lying? A lie of omission, perhaps, but not a complete falsehood. Where was the line?

  I knew that, in not sharing the situation with Peter, I’d be excluding my most powerful ally. He was a professor himself, though at a different university. He knew how these things worked and could give the best advice. He could possibly even plead on my behalf. But would he? I wavered between an awful choice and its awful alternative.

  What could I possibly say to the department head? That my computer had died? My dog ate my homework? He was bound to have heard every lame excuse a student could concoct. All I could do was admit I’d wasted my time and everyone else’s and promise to deliver the drafts of my thesis as soon as possible. It was a substantial document, but it was riddled with holes. There were plenty of chapters, just none that were finished. None that were in any way ready for presentation. It would be a hard letter to write.

  The situation wasn’t hopeless. It would be unpleasant and embarrassing, but a sincere apology should mollify my supervisor and the department head. I could dust myself off, pull my socks up and get to work with a will. It was Peter I was in agony over. I paced the house, vacillating between telling him and not. I knew I had to decide before he got home from work.

  Several times I found myself hovering by the phone, on the brink of calling Courtney for advice. But I didn’t want to make her an accomplice. I had no one to turn to and I was beginning to feel wretchedly, crushingly alone when the solution came to me like a breath of cool air on a sweltering day. There was a compromise. I would hide the letter for now and make my apologies to the funding body. I would apply myself and submit the required drafts and once I was out of the woods I would show the letter to Peter. He would be cross and I didn’t doubt that he would punish me. But by then I would be out of academic danger. Surely that would be mitigating.

  I took the letter out and read it again. ‘Final warning stage before disciplinary action.’ In spite of the sickening dread it triggered, the key phrase still made my stomach swoop with excitement. My face felt hot and for one crazy moment I entertained the idea of going to Professor Chalcroft and making not-so-subtle innuendos about ‘disciplinary action’ I’d accept in exchange for more time.

  Shaking my head, I slipped the letter into a drawer of the nightstand. Then I went to the schoolroom with my laptop and spent an hour staring at the cursor as it blinked and blinked and blinked.

  Nineteen

  ‘I HAVE A surprise for you,’ said Peter. He was wearing a white shirt and tie, looking very smart.

 
I smiled warily. I didn’t know if it was the kind of surprise that was a treat for him or for me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ he repeated, as though that explained everything. But he wasn’t smiling. ‘First I want you to put on a school shirt and school knickers. Nothing else.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, puzzled and a little apprehensive.

  When I’d done that he told me to close my eyes. His arms reached around me and I felt him fastening a skirt around my waist. The tie was next. Then the blazer. He guided me a few paces to where I knew the mirror was and told me I could open my eyes.

  My breath caught in my throat. Staring back at me from the mirror was the girl I’d been at Ravenscroft. Nostalgia closed my throat as I looked at the uniform I’d worn for so many years. I stepped closer, admiring the green striped tie and school crest.

  I stroked the badge fondly, tracing the soft embroidery with my finger. A green shield with two black ravens in profile in a silver circle. A silver scroll unfurled beneath, displaying the Latin motto. My finger stopped its caress abruptly.

  Initium sapientiae timor poenae. Fear of punishment is the beginning of wisdom. The last word had been changed from the original. It should have been ignorantiae, not poenae. Ignorance not punishment.

  Peter straightened my lapels, brushing me off. ‘It was a nice enough motto, but I think this one is more fitting, don’t you?’ He said it so solemnly that I felt my skin prickle. His demeanour unsettled me. What was he playing at?

  ‘Are we going somewhere?’

  ‘I’m taking you to school.’

  Though I knew the answer, I had to ask. ‘To Ravenscroft?’

  His cryptic expression told me all I needed to know.

  ‘It’s the holidays,’ I reminded him. ‘There won’t be anyone there.’

  ‘No one who’ll look askance at the uniform, at any rate. Now come on.’

  As I realised he was serious I began to get nervous. ‘Please,’ I begged, my face colouring. ‘I can’t go out dressed like this!’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you prefer to go with a sore bottom?’

  I bit my lip. ‘No, sir,’ I said, succumbing to his authoritarian tone.

  He held my hand as we crossed the street to the Tube station. It made me feel like an overprotected child and the atmosphere of disquiet intensified. The uniform wasn’t a light-hearted gift; there was something else going on. I glanced around with the paranoid certainty that everyone was watching me. And when we got to the crowded platform I couldn’t stand still.

  Not wanting any of the other passengers to see, I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hide the blazer badge. With its altered motto it felt like a flashing neon pin that screamed, ‘Pervert!’

  In front of us an old man with outdated sideburns leant heavily on a walking stick, staring off into space. Next to him a stout woman with a prematurely aged face was trying to mediate a dispute between her two squabbling sticky-fingered children. An attractive young couple behind us chattered animatedly in French. None of them was paying me any attention, but Peter fixed that.

  ‘Stand up straight, young lady,’ he said loudly. ‘Hands at your sides. I expect better posture than that.’

  Everyone turned to look in our direction. Even the children suspended their argument. I straightened myself, but heat blossomed in my cheeks and I pointedly avoided making eye contact with the watchers. I had never known the platform to be so crowded before. I could almost imagine Peter had arranged for that too.

  I put my arms down and stared at my feet.

  Peter lifted my chin. ‘Head up,’ he continued, like a punctilious deportment teacher. ‘Don’t slouch.’

  My eyes flicked up to the board and noted with dismay that the next train wasn’t due for another six minutes. An eternity. Peter saw it too and his eyes gleamed. There was nothing he enjoyed more than discomfiting me. But again, there was something more than pleasure behind his eyes this time.

  Gradually, my arms drifted back up until they were hiding the badge once more. As soon as I realised I dropped them to my sides again. But Peter had noticed the lapse.

  ‘Do you want a smacked bottom, my girl?’ he asked, again in a much louder voice than necessary.

  Mortified, I pleaded with my eyes. Now even more people were staring. Behind me the French boy sniggered and I heard him translating what Peter had said for his girlfriend. My face burnt so hot it was painful.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘No,’ I whispered, cringing.

  ‘No what?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m not so sure. I think a smacked bottom is just what you need.’ He took me by the hand and led me forcefully to the nearest bench. Still holding my hand, he sat down in front of a giant advertisement for the Royal Ballet.

  ‘Right, young lady,’ he said sternly, enunciating the words with crisp and awful precision. ‘Over my knee.’

  My legs threatened to buckle and I stared at him in abject horror. He couldn’t mean it. He couldn’t be serious. Not here. Surely he wouldn’t …

  He didn’t tell me a second time. He hauled me across his lap and delivered a sharp volley of swats to the seat of my Ravenscroft skirt.

  I buried my face in my hands, desperately praying the train would come early and take everyone on the platform away with it. I strained to hear it over the staccato smacks.

  ‘For propriety’s sake,’ he said loftily, ‘I won’t lift your skirt. But any more misbehaviour will earn you a long hard session on your bare bottom when we get home. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Am I going to have any more trouble from you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Up you get.’

  I scrambled to my feet and clung to him, hiding my face in his chest, determined not to emerge from hiding until the train came rattling into the station. I would die if I had to look anyone in the eye.

  But Peter wasn’t having that. He made me stand and face him. ‘Now, apologise for your behaviour,’ he said.

  I didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, my voice a pale ghost of itself.

  I could feel the eyes of the children on me. They had to be shocked that someone my age was subject to such discipline. Their mother clucked her tongue, making an object lesson of me. The French couple was thoroughly enjoying my shame as well. I caught their superior smiles and I had to wonder if they were into une bonne fessée themselves.

  The noisy arrival of the train had never been so welcome. The witnesses to my disgrace climbed aboard and I rooted my feet to the ground, hoping Peter wouldn’t make me board the same train. Silly me.

  I suffered the children’s vulgar staring as I stood clutching the stanchion and stared through the doors at the rushing blur of the concrete tunnel. I felt the cool air on my bare thighs above my knee socks. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the old man watching me with smug satisfaction. Probably glad to see that there were still some parents who believed in old-fashioned discipline. The French couple was still eyeing me when we reached our stop.

  Though I knew the way, Peter kept hold of my hand and led me to the school. His childish treatment regressed me. It was no roleplay; I was a Ravenscroft pupil again. And as the familiar asymmetrical roofline hove into view a thousand memories came swarming back. We rounded the corner and I noted with a little sadness that the immense oak tree was no longer there. It had dominated the front courtyard, partially obscuring the building. Without its cover, the Victorian gothic façade was less imposing than I remembered. Bays of arched triptych windows sparkled in the sunlight, surrounded by multicoloured brickwork. Clusters of brick chimney stacks soared above richly carved gables. It was hard to believe the fussy over-decorated school had ever felt like a prison.

  I expected to find the doors locked, and was surprised when they swung open at my touch. I remembered my very first day and the terror I had felt on entering the place. The strange new faces and the grownup responsibilities that
awaited me within the massive walls were overwhelming. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend the trauma I would have experienced if I’d been left on my own as a boarder.

  The corridor was dark and I stepped hesitantly inside. My low-heeled shoes clacked conspicuously on the parquet floor and the noise startled me. Self-conscious, I shifted my weight to my toes. A few paces down on the right was the headmaster’s office, where twice I had failed to be caned.

  ‘Where was Mr Chancellor’s office?’ Peter asked.

  I nodded towards the heavy door. ‘Just there.’

  ‘The scene of the crime,’ he mused.

  I couldn’t resist going up to the door. Again, I was sure it would be locked. But it gave when I twisted the knob and I smiled delightedly at Peter. He didn’t return my smile.

  The anteroom brought back another flood of memories. I thought of the time I had sat under the watchful eye of Mrs Willis, swinging my legs and nervously waiting to be called in. My chagrin at the outcome of that meeting had cast a pall over the rest of my school career.

  Somehow I found myself drifting to the big oak door of the inner sanctum.

  ‘Knock,’ Peter said.

  My hand seemed to remember the anxiety as well. The unique sense of dread at requesting entrance to the place of punishment. But there was no one there. Peter was just playing with me. Willing to play along, I raised my hand and rapped softly, obediently.

  ‘Come in.’

  The voice jolted me. I stared at Peter, wide eyed, convinced I’d heard a ghost.

  ‘Don’t keep him waiting,’ said Peter.

  As if in a dream, I turned the handle and quietly pushed the door open. My heart stopped. Mr Chancellor sat behind his desk, just as in my dreams, regarding me solemnly. I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, girl,’ said the headmaster sharply. ‘Come in.’

  In slow motion, I did as I was told. Peter slipped in behind me and stood by the door.

  I gaped at Mr Chancellor. It had only been a few years, but they had wrought their changes. He was more distinguished; his hair was greyer, his face more lined. And he no longer wore the kindly look I had found so frustrating in the past. He looked at me with narrowed eyes and I felt a rush of fear and excitement.