On the Bare
Authors: Fiona Locke
CONTENTS
About the Book
Following the success of
Over the Knee
, Fiona Locke returns with a collection of short stories that explores every aspect of corporal punishment and discipline. A pop star lookalike devises the ultimate revenge for a spoilt diva. A haughty southern belle gets her comeuppance from a rakish suitor. An ambitious historian gets more than she bargained for when she goes treasure-hunting in a haunted house. And Angie earns a trip to the woodshed for acting like a brat in public. And whether it’s six of the best from the schoolmaster’s cane or a sound smacking over the knee, the stories are told from the perspective of a true enthusiast who knows what a spanking feels like.
Also by Fiona Locke
OVER THE KNEE
ON THE BARE
Fiona Locke
For Chris
Constant reader
,
long-time friend
Aaron sits on the edge of the bed and beckons me to his right side. And I realise what he has in mind. A hot flush covers my entire body and I clasp my hands beseechingly, like a silent movie heroine.
He lowers his voice. ‘Come here, Delaney. Over my knee.’
My own knees threaten to buckle and I do as he says, turning my back to the open door and the two guards outside it, watching.
Aaron guides me over his lap and I stare ahead at the peeling paint on the wall at the back of the cell. A tiny ancient sink juts from the wall and the cell is so cramped I could reach out and touch it if I wanted.
I flinch when I feel his hand on my bottom. Just a pat, but it makes me jump. He gives each cheek a firm squeeze and I feel his hand lift away. I’ve never been spanked before in my life and I have no idea what to expect. I hold my breath.
With a resounding slap he brings his palm down on my right cheek. I arch my back with a yelp. He smacks my left cheek almost immediately and I writhe on his lap, clutching the edge of the bed. His hand imparts a wicked sting, covering each cheek completely.
The Woodshed
‘
IF YOU DO
that again, Angie …’ Peter’s threat hung in the air like a storm about to break.
‘You’ll what?’ I was foolish enough to blurt out.
I saw his face darken and I looked down at my school shoes, instantly regretting my cheek.
‘I’ll put you over my knee and give your bare bottom a sound smacking,’ he announced loudly.
I cringed at his words, turning scarlet and peering out from under my hair, wondering how many people were listening. The garden centre was bustling with activity and it was inconceivable that no one had heard. The Japanese man in the grey business suit must have. He’d watched me stamp through the puddle, looking startled by my behaviour. Yes, I was rather old to be acting so childishly, but in my school uniform I could easily pass for a sixth-former.
‘Well, young lady?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I babbled in a hasty placating whisper. ‘I’ll be good.’
Peter was completely unembarrassable and he had no qualms about making good on his threats, no matter where we were or how many people were around.
‘See that you are,’ he said. ‘This is your final warning.’
I heaved a giant sigh of relief. It amazed me how often I felt the need to test him. Especially as I so often regretted it. But it was hard not to be a little bratty when he insisted on dragging me out in public dressed like a schoolgirl. What schoolgirl
wouldn’t
be restless and fidgety at a garden centre?
We were there on such an unpleasant errand: Peter wanted a birch tree of his own so that we didn’t have to go into the woods to cut switches whenever he needed a rod. I had tried unsuccessfully to convince him that it would be years and years before the trees were big enough for proper switches.
‘Young trees are the best,’ Peter had said coolly, ‘but while they grow we’ll continue to harvest the ones in the woods.’
My response to that was a sullen look and the first stamp of my feet in the puddles from last night’s torrential rain.
We made our way towards the back of the enclosure where juvenile trees stood in neat rows, like orphans waiting to be adopted. As we reached the mini-orchard I suddenly noticed the Japanese businessman behind us. He stopped abruptly when I turned and he pretended to be engrossed in the care label of a rhododendron. What he was really doing was ogling me.
I grinned and tugged Peter’s sleeve. ‘Hey!’ I whispered. ‘That guy’s stalking me!’
‘Well, you do look rather fetching,’ he said, giving my bottom a lecherous pinch that made me yelp. A few heads turned and I blushed, ducking into the rows of trees.
‘Ah yes, here we are,’ he said. ‘
Betula pendula
. Silver birch.’
I rolled my eyes, still sulking over the idea of home-grown disciplinary implements. Peter inspected each tree carefully, as if trying to decide which would yield the most effective switches.
I quickly grew bored and wandered away from the plants and the people onto the giant patio scattered with lawn furniture and garden gnomes. Beyond that were the sheds and children’s playhouses, and with a childish sense of fun I skipped over to have a look. I’d always wanted a playhouse as a little girl – a place to hide and to hold secret meetings with my pets. Some of the tiny houses were amazingly elaborate and I felt a little stab of envy for all the fun I’d missed out on.
I crept inside one small wooden structure and peered out through the window. My stalker was loitering conspicuously by the sundials. He stood in profile to me, but I could see him casting sidelong glances my way.
Bloody perv
, I thought.
It was then that I had my great idea. As I emerged from the playhouse he feigned interest in the nearest birdbath. Perfect. The entire area was wet and muddy and there was no one else around. I sidled past him nonchalantly, waiting for him to turn and follow my arse with his eyes. When he did I jumped as high as I could and came down with a terrific splash in the muddy water, soaking both of us.
I saw the whole thing in glorious slow motion. My legs tucked under me in midair, the flash of my white cotton panties, his eyes widening at the sight. Then a low protracted ‘Noooooo!’ from him, hands outstretched, as my shoes hit the puddle. Droplets shimmering in a
Matrix
-like freeze-frame all around us. Brilliant.
Time returned to normal and he stepped back, looking down at his suit in dismay. My white school socks – and my legs – were covered in muck and I laughed helplessly as my stalker plucked feebly at the little clumps of mud sticking to his trousers.
My laughter died in my throat as Peter’s hand clapped down on my shoulder.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You were warned, young lady.’
Suddenly thrust back into the here and now, I chewed my lower lip and looked miserably down at my own muddy lower half.
‘But – but –’ I stammered.
‘No buts, young lady. Now you will apologise to this gentleman for your childish behaviour. And then I’m going to take you into that woodshed over there and give you the spanking you deserve for being such a brat.’
My eyes widened in horror. They widened even more at the look of smug satisfaction on the ‘gentleman’s’ face.
‘But he was following me!’ I wailed.
‘That’s as may be. But I’m certainly going to ask him to
witness
your punishment.’ Peter addressed him: ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Not at all,’ he said in perfect cultured English. ‘It would be a pleasure.’
I cast a wretched, pleading look at Peter, though I knew it would do no good. He had spanked me once on a crowded Underground platform, oblivious to the astonishment of the waiting passengers; a private woodshed wasn’t going to faze him. At least he hadn’t threatened to birch me in the middle of the garden centre.
Peter took me by the hand and I dug my heels in, turning my sulky face up to his in a last desperate bid for mercy.
‘Pouting won’t get you anywhere but deeper in trouble, young lady. Do you want me to take my belt off?’
I gasped and shook my head frantically, my ears burning. The suit nodded approvingly. He probably thought Peter was my father.
‘Are you going to apologise?’ Peter asked.
I hung my head and mumbled, ‘I’m sorry.’
Peter tutted. ‘Did that sound sincere?’ he asked his new friend.
‘No, not very.’
‘All right, I’m
very
sorry!’
My words fell into a heavy silence and I saw Peter shake his head. ‘I’m afraid the apology may have to wait until she has something to be sorry
about
.’
He tilted my chin up so I had to face him. ‘And you’ve only made it worse for yourself with your insolence.’
I had too much pride to beg, especially when punishment was inevitable. I couldn’t take back what I had done and I suffered the same bout of second-guessing that I always did in such circumstances. If I could only hit the ‘back’ button and start over …
‘Right,’ Peter said. ‘In you go. Let’s get this over with.’
The woodshed smelled of fresh-cut pine. Though it was only about eight feet square, it felt like a cavern to me. There was ample room for the three of us.
‘Stand here, Angie. Bend forward and put your hands on the wall.’
I knew that if I refused he could make it worse. Burning with shame, I obeyed. At least the position meant that I didn’t have to look at our guest. He would surely want the view from behind.
I reached forward and pressed my sweaty palms against the rough-sawn wood, lowering my head.
‘Bottom out,’ Peter said. ‘Arch your back.’
I did it without protest, presenting myself. I whimpered a little as Peter raised my navy-blue pleated skirt and tucked it into the waistband. Next I felt him smoothing the tail of my shirt up over my lower back. Now the businessman could have a proper look at the schoolgirl bottom he’d been ogling. I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified by the exposure.
‘You were a very naughty girl, weren’t you?’ Peter asked.
I gave a little moan, resisting the urge to beg him just to get it over with. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what happens to naughty little girls?’
‘They get punished.’
‘How, Angie?’
‘They get spanked.’
‘Mm-hmm. And do they get spanked over their panties?’
I blushed to the roots of my hair, but I knew what I had to say. ‘No, sir. On the bare.’
‘On the bare,’ Peter echoed, and I squirmed in embarrassed misery as he slowly peeled down my white cotton school knickers.
‘A good sound smacking,’ he said, ‘to teach you a lesson.’
I held my breath and waited for the first smack. It wasn’t gentle. It was terrifyingly loud in the confined space and I squealed with pain. I could feel the outline of his fingers burning across my left cheek, glowing as the blood rushed to the surface. I peered back over my shoulder to see the Japanese man nodding appreciatively.
Peter brought his hand down just as hard on my right cheek, eliciting a shriek from me. I danced in place, my hands hovering in the air behind me. I desperately wanted to clutch my bottom, to rub away the sting, but I didn’t
dare
move too far out of position lest I make things worse. Peter was a master at demonstrating that, even at rock bottom, there was still room to fall.
‘Angie …’
It was all the warning I needed. I resumed my position, sucking in my breath as I waited for him to start again.
Peter placed one hand in the small of my back and began to spank me in earnest. No matter how often he did it, it never ceased to embarrass me and it never ceased to hurt. And having an audience made it worse. I yelped and cried out with each swat, pressing my hands into the wall and trying to tune out the probing eyes. The familiar cadence was hard to take, giving me no time to register anything but the pain and the desire to make it stop. In moments like this I would do anything, promise anything, agree to anything.
