Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Also in the Nexus Enthusiast Series

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Afterword

Notes & Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Book

‘Over my knee,’

I started at her lap, watching her skirt rise slightly tautening against her long, firm legs. The chill of erotic fear overwhelmed me as I stretched out across her shapely thighs.

“Naughty little girls need discipline. Don’t they?’

‘Yes, miss,’ I whispered.

Her hand rested lightly on my botton and gave it a gentle pat. Then she lifted my tartan skirt. She slipped my knickers down and a delicious shiver ran down the stepping-stones of my spine.

Her cool hand caressed my cheeks in slow circles, savouring its smooth whiteness.

‘Now,’ she said. ‘I’m going to give you a spanking you’ll never forget.’

All her life Angie has been haunted by one compelling and painful obsession: she wants to be punished. Specifically, she wants to be spanked. At first she found the yearning confusing. Then it was tantalising. Now it is all-consuming. Soon Angie finds herself immersed in the world of corporal punishment and its enthusiasts. Her new friends expose her to every aspect: sexual, disciplinary, role-play …

About the Author

Fiona Locke is a popular short story author from the Black Lace Wicked Words series, now transferring her talents to the novel.

Other titles available in the Nexus Enthusiast series:

LEG LOVER

DERRIÈRE

BUSTY

UNDER MY MASTER’S WINGS

THE SECRET SELF

For the Professor

My homework, sir.

Prologue

Standing in the corner, I place my trembling hands on top of my head. The movement causes the punishment gown to lift and the flaps fall to either side, revealing the pale tender cheeks of my bottom. The air is cool against the unprotected skin, heightening the feeling of exposure. I lace my fingers tightly together to still the tremors. Behind me, on the edge of the school desk where I have placed it, the birch rod waits. I feel its presence like a ghostly chill in the room.

Soon I will hear the slow purposeful tread on the stairs. It might be five minutes or fifteen. But I must be in position when he comes to punish me. In the corner, he wants me to reflect on what I have done. Or rather, not done.

Downstairs in the entrance hall, the grandfather clock ticks away the seconds. I try to count them, to mark the passing time. But it’s impossible to concentrate on anything but my impending punishment. The burning stripes he will paint across my bottom.

I had to make my own rod. It’s part of the punishment. It’s a short walk out to the small stand of trees in the woods behind the house, but the reason for my visit makes it seem much longer. I know what he expects and I dare not return with switches that are too flimsy. I’ve learnt that lesson.

I cut thirteen slender sappy switches, the straightest I could find. I took them back to the house and bound them into a bundle. I’m always afraid of meeting someone on the way back, but so far I’ve been lucky. I don’t know what I’d say.

I presented the rod to him for inspection and he nodded his approval and told me quietly to change and wait for him in the schoolroom. I took the rod back upstairs, staring at it with frightened eyes, knowing that in a short time it would be in pieces on the floor while I cried and atoned for my misdeeds.

Finally, I hear his footsteps. The agony of waiting is almost over. The floorboards creak as he enters the room and stands behind me. The flaps of my gown sway slightly at the displacement of air, tickling my thighs. I can feel his eyes on me and I try hard not to fidget.

‘Angie,’ he says softly. ‘Come here.’

He doesn’t raise his voice. Authority never shouts.

I creep from the corner and stand before him, ashamed and apprehensive. My unfocused gaze rests on the oak floorboards, chilly beneath my bare feet. But he waits until I raise my eyes to his face.

‘Fetch the rod.’

My fingers feel glued together, but I pry them apart. My arms ache from the position they’ve been in. How long has it been? I cannot tell.

I pick up the rod. Individually, each switch is almost weightless, but bound together they are capable of astonishing pain. It’s like a hybrid of cane and whip and I fear it above all other implements. My respect for it borders on awe. With shaking hands and downcast eyes, I present it to him.

He swishes it through the air and I flinch. With the rod he indicates the birching block against the wall. I implore him with my eyes, knowing it will do no good. He waits. The silence is intolerable. I fetch the block and place it in the centre of the room. Then, reluctantly, I kneel on the lower step. Bending right forward over the upper step, I place both hands flat on the floor. The position raises my bottom high in the air, with my head much lower. The gown parts even further and my sense of exposure is complete. A deep flush spreads over my body and I close my eyes in dread.

He lays the birch against the vulnerable flesh of my bottom, tapping it lightly to measure the first stroke. ‘Two dozen,’ he says. ‘Count them.’

One

Spanking (noun)

A traditional form of punishment in which a series of slaps or smacks are delivered to the buttocks, usually with the open hand.

EVEN THE DEFINITION was enough to make me squirm. I couldn’t pick up a dictionary without looking it up. And all the attendant words: whip, thrash, flog, paddle, strap, cane, punish, discipline. For as long as I could remember they had held a special power for me.

I’d never been spanked in my life, so I had no idea where my strange fantasies came from. My parents were permissive and inattentive. And while corporal punishment technically still existed at my school, I didn’t know anyone who had actually received it. The cane was little more than an urban legend. Instead, my teachers assigned detention and made us write lines. I hated both. And yet the very concept of punishment and someone authorised to administer it tickled something deep inside.

I often wondered if I’d have felt the same if the cane had been a real threat. And if I’d been bad enough to earn it, would the cane have reformed me? Or would it only have left me wanting more?

Mr Ellis, the history master, was fond of reminiscing about ‘the good old days’, when teachers used the cane and slipper. ‘Pupils knew the meaning of discipline back then, by God,’ he would rant. But he was a blustering ex-army power tripper. A bully with no true authority. No one took him seriously.

The headmaster, Mr Chancellor, was another matter. Soft-spoken and eloquent, his old-world features and public-school education seemed out of place at Ravenscroft School. I hung on his every word in assembly, lost in the sound of his voice, no matter how dull the subject. I never confided my schoolgirl crush to anyone; my friends would only have teased me.

Only the headmaster had authority to cane. And while I’d never heard of Mr Chancellor caning anyone in my time, he must have done it in the past. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It led me into fantasies. Internal re-enactments of scenes I’d read in vintage school stories and Victorian novels.

Before long, the images began to preoccupy me. They became intrusive, dominating my thoughts. I couldn’t rid myself of the confusing feelings they evoked. If I saw a picture of an actor or a musician I liked, I would picture myself being spanked by him.

Then, one day in assembly, Mr Chancellor brought the flat of his hand down sharply on the lectern to emphasise a point. My pulse quickened as I imagined his hand coming down like that on my bare bottom. The image consumed me with shame and embarrassment. But for the first time I understood the source of my confusion. I glanced furtively at my classmates, certain that they could see the disgusting thoughts in my mind, certain that the word ‘pervert’ was emblazoned on my forehead.

That one moment marked a definite sexual awakening for me. A revelation. I suddenly understood exactly what I was into. No wonder candlelit romance stories left me cold. I didn’t want to be a pampered princess. I wanted to be dominated. I wanted a man who would punish me.

And right then I wanted Mr Chancellor to punish me.

There was only one problem: I was a good girl. Despite my parents’ disinterest, I went to my lessons and did my homework diligently. My record and my character were unblemished. So my decision to play truant one day was a hard one to make. But I had no choice. It was a serious offence – one that would warrant a visit to the headmaster.

Most girls would have enjoyed their day off, but I spent mine in guilty paranoia. Several times I regretted my decision and was on the verge of going back to school, concocting whatever flimsy excuse I could to explain my tardiness. Tardiness was nowhere near as serious as truancy. But I managed to screw up my courage and stay away. I had to do this.

The next morning my hands shook so much I could barely knot my tie. And I felt faint when the English master read the note he’d been given and announced brusquely, ‘Angela Harker, you’re to report to the headmaster’s office immediately.’

A collective gasp reinforced my sense of having crossed the line. My fellow pupils were aghast. Swotty had been summoned to the headmaster! What could I possibly have done? Their expressions of stunned disbelief stayed with me all the way down the long corridor.

Smartly turned out in my crisp white shirt and striped tie, I pictured myself submitting to physical chastisement. Would Mr Chancellor order me to lift my dutifully ironed skirt? Or would he do it himself?

My stomach churned with anxiety. I was a bold but reckless explorer taking my first steps in an unknown hostile land. Armed with an all-consuming desire to confront my obsession, I knew the experience would change me forever.

After an eternity, I reached my destination. The headmaster’s secretary, Mrs Willis, eyed me with cold disdain and waved me towards the row of hard plastic chairs outside Mr Chancellor’s office. On the wall opposite a bland monochrome clock loudly counted the seconds as its bent second hand lurched from one number to the next.

I sat down, imagining myself as the last girl in a long queue of miscreants sent here to be dealt with. I fancied I could even hear the terrifying swish of the cane from within. The headmaster didn’t enjoy it, of course. He was just doing his duty. His motivation was purely disciplinary. And that was the element that obsessed me the most. I didn’t want it for sexual reasons; it had to be punishment. The fact that I did really want it was my little secret.

My train of thought was making me feel dizzy and overheated. My lungs felt too weak to expand fully. And the interminable ticking was beginning to wear on my already ragged nerves. I shook my head to banish the images, afraid he would sense the true motive behind my misdeed. My shoes scuffed back and forth on the floor as I swung my legs nervously.

Mrs Willis raised her head and glowered at me, completely unsympathetic to the fear anyone would feel in my position.

Another agonising minute crawled by and then, at last, Mrs Willis told me I could go in.

I raised my clammy fist to the door and knocked timidly.

‘Come in.’

I took a deep breath, held it in for three seconds and let it out slowly. Showtime. I entered and stood before his desk like a criminal in the dock. He studied me, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

‘What were you thinking, Harker?’ he asked gently. ‘That you wouldn’t be missed?’

‘No, sir, I just …’ It was hard for me to lie, but I forced the words out hastily. I’d rehearsed them the day before, saying them over and over to the mirror in as flippant a tone as I could manage. ‘I just couldn’t be bothered.’

He frowned and sat back a little in his chair. ‘I beg your pardon?’

With an audible swallow, I pressed on. ‘I didn’t feel like coming to school yesterday. I had better things to do.’ He raised his eyebrows expectantly and I added, ‘Sir.’

‘I see.’ He stood up and walked round to the front of the desk.

I began to tremble, already regretting my foolish endeavour. I was terrified, yet dying of curiosity at the same time. Even so, I remembered that no one – not even Dale Grisham, who’d thrown stones at the school windows and broken one – had ever been caned. I wasn’t a known offender, a troublemaker who was always being sent to the headmaster. This was my first offence, after all. My first ever. There was no real chance that he would cane me. But perhaps he would at least threaten …

Mr Chancellor crossed his arms and leant back against the edge of his desk. ‘I’m surprised at you, Harker. This isn’t like you.’

I was surprised he knew what I was like at all. Good girls never got noticed. They blended into the scenery while the bad girls took centre stage and got all the attention.

His expression softened. ‘Now, I know you’re a good student and I can only hope this is an isolated incident. But I want you to know that I’m very disappointed in you. I rely on girls like you to set an example for the other pupils.’

It was the killer. My eyes filled with tears and I looked forlornly at my shoes. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to be nice to me!

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I heard myself say.

The rest of the interview was a disaster and I was thoroughly ashamed of myself by the time he handed me a tissue and told me I could go. Detention. No caning.

Disgusted with myself, I resolved to repeat my adventure. And this time I would be merciless. I wouldn’t break down and I wouldn’t apologise. I would give him a reason to raise his voice, to reprimand me severely, to tell me what I really deserved – and, with any luck, administer it.

Cruising the high street in my uniform, I boldly met the eyes of nosy passers-by who knew I was playing truant. Being bad was exciting. It was liberating. I could definitely get used to this. The disapproving looks gave me a cheap thrill, but no one said anything to me.

I loosened my top button and pulled my tie askew. I untucked my shirt. But I kept my blazer on so everyone could see the badge and know which school I was profaning. Representing the school so disgracefully was a grave offence as well. Someone was certain to report me. The pinch-faced old lady with the yappy Yorkshire terriers, perhaps. She glared at me, the delinquent schoolgirl. I offered her a sneer in return, silently daring her to ask me why I wasn’t at school. I would catch it the next day. Oh, yes.

Sure enough, Mr Chancellor didn’t coddle me this time.

‘Would you care to explain yourself, Harker?’ he asked severely.

‘Not really.’

‘Sir,’ he prompted.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Sir.’

He was unfazed. ‘I was told about your little display in town yesterday. And I’m shocked at your behaviour.’

He wasn’t even bothering with the guilt trip this time. He was really affronted.

‘I had trusted that you wouldn’t abuse my lenience, girl. But, as you clearly didn’t learn your lesson last time, you leave me little choice. I’m forced to adopt sterner measures.’

Here it was! A hot flush covered my face and throat. I raised my eyebrows, mimicking the look he had given me last time. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yes, Harker. You would normally be given a third chance, but your flagrant insolence leaves me no choice.’

I heard the last two words as a portentous echo. No choice. Was I mad? The cane would hurt. Terribly. It was meant to. But there was no way out now. Backing out was not an option. I held my breath as I waited for him to pass sentence.

‘I’m suspending you for a week.’

I froze. ‘What?’

Mr Chancellor looked slightly bemused. ‘What did you expect to happen, girl? Anyone would think you were deliberately provoking me. Were you trying to get expelled?’

I gaped at him. ‘No, sir, not that, I just …’

‘Yes?’

Flustered, I shook my head. ‘Nothing. I’m … not myself. Sir.’

‘I can see that. So I suggest you make good use of your time away. Reflect on your actions and their consequences and see if you can get back in my good books when you return.’

I was shell-shocked. I didn’t know what to say. Not only had I failed to elicit the desired result; I’d earned a black mark on my record. And my parents would hear all about it. Not the imagined caning, six strokes of agony and no one the wiser.

‘You’re dismissed, Harker.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Disaster. Absolute bloody catastrophe. No survivors.

I winced at the memory. No, that hadn’t been my finest hour. I still thought about Mr Chancellor from time to time, wondering if he was still at Ravenscroft. I’d been tempted many times to go back and see him, to confess the real reason for my failed offensive. There would be no question of ethics or professional misconduct; we were no longer teacher and pupil. This time he could cane me without fear of the consequences. Or would he see it as a vulgar seduction attempt?

I was confident enough about my looks. I had a willowy frame with long athletic legs and small breasts. I had wide brown eyes and soft full lips. These feminine features were offset by the short pageboy cut of my gingery brown hair.

I knew how to dress to flatter my grown-up charms, but I had a penchant for girlish tartan skirts. An independent uniform fetish, I suspect. I rarely wore anything else. When people asked, I simply shrugged and confided that it made me feel more studious. They laughed it off as a charming eccentricity. They had no idea.

But, though I fantasised about it often, I never got up the courage to go back to Ravenscroft. And as the years passed, the preoccupation lost its urgency. University kept me busy and before I knew it I was buried in my thesis: ‘The Victorian Chat Room: Covert Sadomasochism in Nineteenth-Century Family Magazines’.

Victorian England was alive with deviant undertones. The sexual repression coupled with the harsh discipline of the period created an ideal environment for fetishes to flourish. There was a wealth of flagellant literature and I was certain that if I had lived then I’d have been writing my own as well. But the obsession with corporal punishment went beyond overt pornography. The ‘English vice’, it was called.

A group of enthusiasts infiltrated mainstream periodicals like The Family Herald and The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, publishing spurious accounts of spanking and birching, rendered in obsessive fetishistic detail. There were accounts of the birching of young ladies by schoolmistresses. Floggings in monasteries and nunneries. Whippings administered by strict governesses. Discussions of whether it was decent for gentlemen to whip girls, ladies to whip boys. The disciplinary merits of such chastisement. And on and on.

But the most enticing aspect was the fact that these detailed letters were to be found sprinkled amongst the commonplace crises of etiquette. The moral implications of kissing before marriage. How to break off a tender acquaintanceship. Where one may purchase birch rods for the chastisement of unruly daughters.

Ah, the glorious hypocrisy of Victorian sexuality. The lengths to which they went to repress their urges. They staunchly refused to acknowledge that there was anything inherently erotic underlying their obsession with corporal punishment. Heavens, no – that would be perverse!

Many of the letters were obvious hoaxes, pornography masquerading as morality. Some of them purported to condemn the practice of corporal punishment. The moral outrage only lent further credence to the discourse, however.

A HATER OF THE SYSTEM (our old friend) writes to inform us that even she does not disapprove of flogging, but only indecent flogging; and she says that in the most aristocratic schools flogging is of daily occurrence. She describes the system pursued in one near Edinburgh, where the terms are 120 guineas per annum. ‘A book of offences is kept by one of the young ladies, in which every fault is regularly entered. There is a graduated scale of punishments, the highest of which is corporal. When an offence of sufficient magnitude takes place, the culprit enters it in the book herself, and carries the report to the lady superintendent, who writes under it the amount of punishment. For the first offence, the delinquent is prepared for punishment, but generally pardoned. For the second, she is whipped privately. For all subsequent delinquencies the punishment takes place in the schoolroom, on ‘the horse’; and, in addition to the pain it inflicts, it costs in money about 1s., paid in fees. The system is as follows: 1st. She proceeds to the housekeeper, to procure the rod, a leathern thong. She pays 2d. for the use of it. 2nd. She has then to be partly undressed by the maid, and this costs 2d. 3rd. The culprit has then to walk barefooted to another part of the house, to be robed for punishment, a peculiar dress being used, to add to the disgrace. It is a long linen blouse, short cotton socks, and list slippers, all of which each offender has to provide for herself. The young lady, thus costumed, now proceeds to the drawing-room, to be exhibited to the lady superintendent. Having been approved, she is then conducted to the schoolroom, when she has to pay 6d. to the governess, who inflicts the amount of punishment awarded. A wooden horse, covered with soft leather, is the medium of castigation. The delinquent subsequently thanks the governess! kisses the rod!! then thanks the superintendent, and retires to her own room, to appear no more until prayer-time the next morning.’ Our correspondent says the ceremony has more effect than the punishment. The young ladies are in other respects tenderly dealt with. Even the horse has a soft cushion.

The letter had the same effect on me as on my predecessors. The extravagant ritual was a form of protracted foreplay and the detached mannerly voice only heightened its eroticism. It was all perfectly proper and above board. And all in the name of old-fashioned English discipline.

My supervisor hadn’t batted an eye when I’d proposed my thesis title. Dr Morrison was a humourless, asexual pedagogue who was oblivious to my personal interest in the subject. The irony was delicious; the vanilla readers of The Family Herald didn’t realise they were watching fetishists at play either.

My academic life was steeped in erotica, but my reality remained steadfastly bland and boring. At twenty-four, I was getting desperate for sympathetic company. I’d had boyfriends, of course. But none of the guys I went out with could measure up to my fantasy of Mr Chancellor. They completely missed the hints I dropped. But I couldn’t spell it out for them. They had to be the ones to initiate it.

I had no trouble attracting vanilla boys; the trick was finding the kinky ones. There was the Net, of course. But I was wary of visiting dubious sites from the university library’s computers. There were strict regulations about that. If I were caught, the humiliation would be too much to handle. Then again, perhaps it would be worth it.

There was a wealth of material about the spanking fetish – so much that I could never hope to read it all. But I tried. Naturally, the Victorian offerings were my favourites. I was fascinated by the harsh class division and the wicked things the upper classes could do to the lower. Power was hot, but power abused … well, that was something very special indeed.

One of my fondest fantasies cast me as a maid for a prurient gentleman who punished me when I didn’t perform my duties as he expected. I had no option but to submit to his touch as well as his correction. It was that or be cast out on to the streets. No choice. No responsibility. No guilt.

My favourite book was the Victorian classic Frank & I, the story of a girl who disguises herself as a boy and lives with a strict guardian. When the guardian orders ‘Frank’ to take down his trousers for a birching, he discovers her secret, but keeps it to himself. Frank must continue being a boy, unaware that her guardian knows full well she is a girl. And her guardian, a self-proclaimed ‘lover of the rod’, delights in finding fault with his young charge and administering sound punishments for every offence.

Of course, there is nothing more traditional, more quintessentially English, than the cane. A short sharp shock. Skirt up, knickers down. Six of the best in the headmaster’s study. But, even more than the implement, it was the ritual that obsessed me. There were prescribed conventions that I saw played out compulsively in both my fantasies and the stories I read. The English had made an art of discipline.

But all things considered, I couldn’t imagine anything more intimate and humbling than an old-fashioned bare-bottom, over-the-knee spanking. The exquisite embarrassment of being treated like a child, my clothing adjusted just enough to expose my bottom for smacking. My ears would burn as my disciplinarian scolded me, telling me what a naughty girl I’d been and how I deserved punishment. He would bring his palm down on my pale cheeks, turning them pink and red while I kicked and squirmed over his lap. Perhaps then he would move on to the hairbrush, the most domestic implement of all. The polished ebony would elicit cries of pain and promises of better behaviour from me.

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.