Free Over the Knee by Fiona Locke Page A

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