Free Over the Knee by Fiona Locke Page B

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.
    Like a gentleman he helped me into my coat, only making the moment seem more unreal. He held the Selfridges bag out to me and I took it with shaky hands. Dazed, I glanced around at my surroundings.
    ‘I can escort you back to Bond Street if you like,’ he said. ‘That’s where you were heading, wasn’t it?’
    I nodded meekly, reduced to a submissive little girl in need of guidance. ‘Yes. Thank you. I don’t know where I am.’
    He offered me the barest hint of a smile. ‘No, I don’t expect you do.’
    I stood for most of the Tube ride. And I was right about the marks. I had several wide red welts to show for the evening’s adventure. The individual stripes were about two inches wide, overlapping in a curious fan shape. Pink in the centre and a colour approaching burgundy along the edges. They shaded towards purple where the doubled end of the belt had struck my right