Over Her Knee… and Beyond

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Waiting For It

After last night, it promises to be a long day. At his desk in the office, catching up with the overnight emails, Stephen Ashby can’t get what happened out of his mind.

The previous evening, at 20.27 precisely – and he could be exact because he had just inserted a new battery in the wall clock and thus adjusted its time – his wife Caroline had spanked him. There had been a silly altercation. He hadn’t removed a frozen carton of milk from the freezer that morning for defrosting. As with so many differences it escalated into a grand affair – encompassing the sort of foolishness married couples dwell on for no particular reason.

Stephen initiated the incursion:

I am a partner in a publishing company with a thousand and one things on my mind. I can’t always be relied upon to remember trivia.

If it’s only trivia, why all the fuss?

Because there is no milk for my coffee.

How dreadful! Stop the clocks! My husband has no milk for his evening cup of coffee!

How is that my fault?

I told you to take the milk from the freezer only minutes before you left for the office. Don’t you remember? I shouted down from the bedroom. How could it just pop out of your head in such a short space of time?

It popped out of my head because it was never in it!

My mistake! Why didn’t you say you were just too important to bother with anything so inconsequential? I’ll have to remember your brain can only handle momentous matters in future: the shifting tectonic plates, the ozone layer, whether there’s life after death, that sort of thing.

And I’ll have to remember your life is so full you can’t take a carton of milk from the freezer.

I made it your responsibility. You failed. There’s no point in complaining now.

But you were the one at home. Why didn’t you notice the milk wasn’t on the draining board?

I wasn’t at home any more than you were. I told you I was going out for the day. You see you never listen. If it isn’t work-related it isn’t important to you. I have a life too. Or do you think it should revolve solely around you?

A sensible person might have withdrawn at this juncture – conceded ground, admitted liability, expressed an element of regret and taken his coffee black (which for Stephen was no great hardship). Had he elected for all or any of these options a minor domestic would have concluded with a few well-chosen words. In which case, it would have been our loss as there would be no story to tell here. Irrespective of our entertainment, instead of following the wise course of action, Stephen harped on long after he had made his point – whatever that was.

Caroline went quiet. Without saying a word, she walked over to where Stephen sat. Casually, interrupting him in mid-flow, she took him by the arm. At first Stephen had no idea what was about to happen as Caroline calmly but firmly led him to an upright chair – always a significant object for those aware of its alternative use. Still without speaking, she took a seat and by increasing the pressure on his arm, drew him to her knees. The shock of her action took Stephen by total surprise to such an extent he said or did nothing to prevent her. He witnessed the room slant at a crazy angle as he descended, then came her knees breaking his fall and the rotating floor beneath him. Yes, just like that and with total confidence, Caroline tossed him over her knee, turning him into the equivalent of a tartan rug designed to keep the winter chill at bay. And she did it with the sort of alacrity that suggested to the casual viewer that it was a regular occurrence.

Caroline had positioned him perfectly. As he had landed dead centre over her lap, there was no need to shuffle him forward or backward. Without an obvious punishment instrument to call upon, she employed her open hand to start with, but later resorted to reaching for a magazine which she rolled into a tube. To say the spanking hurt would be an overstatement. Still wearing his suit trousers, in truth, for Stephen – who hadn’t indulged in physical contact with his wife in some time – the warm tingle it brought about was highly pleasurable if not a little erotic.

Afterwards there was another period of silence. Once it was plain the episode was over, Stephen scrabbled to his feet and tucked his flapping shirt back into his trousers. Like a governess that had finished governing, his wife sat with her hands in her lap and cleared her throat.

There was no mention of the spanking. Stephen reached out to Caroline, helped her to her feet and impulsively took her in his arms. He kissed her and she kissed him back. Then they jointly detonated the equivalent of a passionate hand-grenade.

Their hands were all over each other. Caroline drew back her lips like a snarling wolf as she kissed him, biting his lips, driving her tongue deep into his mouth. In between urgent gulps of breath, they continued kissing, stuttering and stumbling their way up the stairs to the bedroom where they clawed at each other’s clothes. In a fevered rush to remove them, Stephen tore Caroline’s underwear; she sent buttons flying from his shirt ...

A day later. Breakfast. The crunch of cornflakes. The sly looks at each other across the table. The goodbye kiss as he made to leave – deeper than usual? The tremor in Stephen’s hand as he inserted the key in the car ignition.

Now the serene office. The abstract on the wall. The glass desk. The big window and the city skyline beyond. Grey storm clouds scudding overhead, threatening rain.

But Caroline leading him to the chair … Caroline turning him over her knees ... Caroline spanking him … The delightful crack of her hand on his taut bottom ... The thud of the rolled-up magazine … The way she looked … Her shrine-like body afterwards when his shaking hands lunged at her clothes and split a seam on her blouse …

What made her do it? How did she do it with such ease? Why did he allow her to continue?

It doesn’t matter. The sheer poetry of it: the fabric of her skirt; the cushion of her thighs; the warning presented by her wondrous kneecaps. His wife’s magnificently strong and shapely legs beneath him – muscles and sinews rippling ever so slightly. His face skimming over her glassy calf, dipping down to the sweep of her ankle above her shoe; his nose pressed close to the carpet.

If he loved her before – he adores her now. She is all he can think about. Where is the pedestal she so deserves to occupy?

All that belongs somewhere else. Here, now, the phone. A deal. The deal. The one he is working on. Yes, everything is fine. The author is ready to sign. Consider it done!

How to get through the day! How not to think back? Even the merest recollection makes breathing difficult. Craziness in his body; he can feel it creeping like an injected fluid circulating his veins. Lightheaded, weakened, almost sick as if awaiting dreaded news. A temptation to telephone, to speak to Caroline, to hear her voice, to seek assurance she doesn’t regret her actions. To dare to hope she will try something similar.

Ten years of marriage and all of a sudden he discovers he lives with a stranger. Someone capable of leaving him panic-stricken by mere virtue of her existence.

Caroline has strewn a selection of clothes on the bed. They are clothes she had worn in another life. When she had been younger – not much younger in body, but in mind. She tries thigh-boots over her jeans. She parades before her mirror, posing with one foot on the bed, then does the same using the vanity stool. It is a strong look. Emboldened, she changes outfits – opts for something sexier: Purple suede boots that cup her knee slither part-way up her thighs without reaching a scanty skirt – resurrected from a forgotten corner in her wardrobe. She sculpts her shape with hands that flow over her hips and follow the line of her skirt. Her image makes her jubilant and the full-length mirror reciprocates, sparkling back to life after years of dreariness. Becoming a 1930s vamp, she turns the bedroom into a catwalk, strutting in just a faux fur coat and heels. She teases the mirror by twirling the hem of the coat – adds drama when she pulls the black collar tight against the whiteness of her skin. She digs out a blue corset edged with black trim; matches it with stockings and killer heels. And all the while she wonders what has happened during the intervening years to have meant the hibernation of these garments until now.

She thinks back to the previous night and how her husband had reacted after her undeniably bold act of leading him to the chair and bending him over her knee. She had been meaning to shake up Stephen for some time – to snap him out of his lazy-boy malaise in the evenings. She just hadn’t found the remedy until yesterday. But how easily he had capitulated. How swiftly her action had changed the mood. She concluded she could therefore do so again by employing the same or a similar method whenever she chose. It gave her enormous power and she liked the prospect.

This made her a dominatrix, didn’t it? Is that what she would become? A secret dominatrix? It would have to be a secret, because nobody, apart from a professional dominatrix, advertised such a persuasion. Would that be her role? A woman who deferred to her husband in public but bent him to her will in private? But then, didn’t a dominatrix wield a whip? Perhaps she should invest in one. Pay a visit to one of the shops that specialised in that sort of thing. Investigate whips in all their variety along with other utensils such as paddles and straps. Certainly she could consider acquiring one or two items of correction. Or was that premature? It was only a playful spanking. One spatter of rain did not a tempest make! Surely it was sensible to take things steadily – to slowly ratchet up any pressure. In the short term, most households – theirs being no exception – contained a plethora of suitable punishment implements: shoes, slippers, moccasins, a ruler, even a wooden spoon from the kitchen (brittle and unforgiving, but effective) came to mind as articles she could introduce if required. In the garage, to train the roses, there was even a collection of garden canes. Now, there was a thought! And that list – more comprehensive than she might have initially assumed – excluded the use of the most basic of all tools: her hand. On reflection, though, it was preferable she found an alternative to ending up with a hand that smarted more than her husband’s bottom! Perhaps if she removed his trousers and spanked him bare. Would he like that? Something told her he would. If it weren’t for the fact it threatened to rain at any moment, she might have taken an explorative jaunt into town to one of those s*x shops with blackened windows she so often passed. There again, rain or no rain, life being what it was, she couldn’t guarantee someone she knew wouldn’t see her going in, coming out, or even inside such an establishment.

No, all things considered, anything she needed was closer to hand for the moment.

There is a meeting. Speakers drone on endlessly. Their self-importance obstructs any central message. Stephen listens but remembers nothing – he can’t even begin to recall any of the salient details.

Caroline is there again! The ghostly touch of her hand on his wrist. The touch that started it all. The slightest, gentlest pressure urging him to follow her to the chair. Could he ever view that chair in the same light again? She sits. The pressure, different now, pulling him down, tugging at him with her slender arm that he could have wrested free from at any time. Did she speak? He can’t remember. There might have been a word or two ...

A director calls upon him to address those present. He has figures about book sales to hand. He delivers words on autopilot. They are about to retain sole rights to Ice Cream from Antarctic. Greenfields Publishing stands poised to enjoy its best year.

He has no sooner returned to his seat than he sees her again. Unruffled, Caroline rolls the magazine as she would a poster she intends to mail. She does so with composure as he lies prostrate and helpless across her knee, clinging to her ankle, his face squashed by its proximity to her lower leg.

Caroline: how can he ever look at her without recalling this night? Could he ever not think back as he sees her gracefully sweep her skirt about her before taking her place at a dining table, or before lowering into a seat in the gallery at the theatre or the opera. And what about when she crosses her knees when relaxing at home, or sits primly with them pressed together like a nun in church?

The drum that is his heart increases its beat as images of his wife, real and imagined, flood his brain.

He has lunch at his desk. Just a sandwich and a coffee, both brought to him by his secretary, who is suitably middle-aged and, apart from her impeccable suits, is no distraction. Outside the sky grumbles whilst clouds shape and reshape to form a purple menace. They take their place in the sky like an advancing fleet. But they merely assemble. The forecast rain holds back.

Caroline as he hasn’t known her for at least ten years has greedily torn the shirt from his back. At first she grimaces then she moans. Her teeth are fangs, her slender fingers are talons, her eyes beacons of fire. She breathes brimstone into his mouth as she kisses him. They fall onto the bed. He is on top. She arches her back, inviting him into her very soul. Their bodies almost float together then become limp.

Caroline reawakes in his arms. She rolls over so they change places. Hair flung across her face, she is serious, intense, focused. She is a Greek goddess – take your pick which one – whipping a team of four milky-white horses into a frenzy so they may drag her and her chariot across the heavens. She thrusts his erect p***s inside her and draws up her knees – those knees! Her thighs are mirror-smooth; her breasts dangle and sway lightly above him as she rodeo-rides him to the sunset and beyond.

This is not choreographed, movie-style erotica. They are not particularly stylish. Bones clash and creak, muscles twinge, they ricochet off one another, knock over a bedside lamp, wriggle in and out of position. Urgency means discomfort. Immediate, unrestrained, fiery and savage discomfort. Yet, they writhe in joint ecstasy. How many times in a life is s*x as good as this?

After the delirium of their wild impulse, the silence in the room is deafening. Aching bodies unlock from petrified positions. Abashed eyes meet as Caroline dismounts. They hardly speak. There is an air of embarrassment meaning neither quite know what to say. They find it awkward to look each other in the eye. After what has happened, fragility hamstrings each gesture; each secret contains an eggshell-bound kernel.

Midway through the afternoon there is a text from Caroline and his heart leaps. But she only wants to know what he would like for dinner. He wants to tell her food is the last thing on his mind right now. As far as dinner goes, nothing much, except maybe a cracker and a square of cheese with a glass of wine. After all, he doesn’t want it to interfere with any other plans she might have. Why can’t he say that? Why can’t he go a step further and be honest: admit he loved the way she spanked him last night and ask if there any chance she could repeat the performance this evening? She’s his wife for God’s sake. What’s stopping him?

It’s not that straightforward. Caroline is a slender, dainty woman, not some female truck-driver he picked up at a motorway service station. A man cannot easily admit to his wife how he wants her to break all the rules of evolution. To punish him – to turn him over her knee and spank him. And even when you succumb to such an act, until you establish it as something you both enjoy equally, you must be casual, pretend it is only a joke – a bit of fun; you cannot appear to be too willing, too subservient. To maintain yours and your partner’s respect, propriety is essential.

He sets about constructing a truncated reply, expending more energy on it than on anything since he arrived at work that morning. Eventually he composes a text, concentrating on the entirety of his original sentiment. What he sends is suitably vague: light dinner – wine, cheese and crackers, in case you have other plans for me! That covers it. He can always claim Caroline has misinterpreted its meaning if necessary. He sits at his desk, staring at his mobile, willing it to blink back into life.

Five, ten, fifteen, then over twenty minutes pass before the return text: Ha-Ha! I’ll see. xx

That’s all! No details, no real encouragement, but concealed in four words an insinuation – the glimmer of a promise. And those all-important kisses at the end. His heart is beating wildly again and his mouth is dry.

Caroline hums to herself as she replaces her clothes in the wardrobe. Once done, she moves downstairs and folds herself into the sofa’s fabric. Outside the clouds advance in battleship formation, planning their attack. She looks at the text from her husband again. Before replying she had thought it all through.

Stephen had fallen into her trap. It wasn’t a trap she set deliberately. Like many things in life it evolved by accident. Irked by his childishness, Caroline had reacted like an angry mother about to scold her child. Except in this instance her ‘child’ was a grown man and her remedy for dealing with his childishness was to put him across her knee and give him a grown-up spanking. It wasn’t much of a spanking – she knew that. He probably barely felt it. But it was symbolic. And clearly it affected Stephen greatly. She could tell that by his reaction each time she lowered her hand to meet his bottom. Not to mention what had happened to them both afterwards; how they had tumbled on the bed and devoured one another like newlyweds. And now, his veiled reference by text seemed to suggest he was eager for more of the same. She would have to see what she could do …

The day has been interminable! There is nothing else for it! Stephen concludes it early. The author he wants to sign remains eager. It is merely a question of the details. The law department is drawing up a contract. He feigns the onset of mild flu and tells his colleagues he should be fighting fit after a night’s sleep. If only they knew! Maybe there will be nothing to know! But he texts Caroline to announce he will be home early – that he is looking forward to seeing her again.

Over the top? No! He is paranoid – it is his wife he is messaging!

She doesn’t reply, but there is nothing to reply to.

He leaves the building, wondering what will happen when he arrives home. Will it be as before? Before last night? Or will it be as it was last night, only more intense, more exciting than ever? Or will there never be a reference to it again? He can’t wait to get home to find out.

He feels like a man on the verge of a new chapter in his life as he slings his briefcase in the back of his BMW in the underground car park.

The drive home should be easier than usual as he misses the worst of the traffic. Although there is the school run to avoid. All those women in their 4X4’s threatening to overrun the city – worse, bring it to a standstill just to ferry their scruffy kids back home for beans on toast or those frozen animal-shaped things they can’t get enough of.

The weather remains gloomy. Thunder rumbles in the distance. It is drizzling. The roads are dark – paths in an overgrown forest. It seems a long drive home. He hits a clear spell but can’t trust himself to put his foot down, so stays on the inside lane on the short stretch of motorway he uses.

He wonders what will await him when he gets home. Possibly nothing. A stony silence. Denial of the previous evening. He prepares for disappointment.

Trying to act normally he parks the car in the drive as always then activates the garage door. He bleeps the alarm. He walks up the path and turns the key in the lock of the front door. As he does so there is a warning roll of thunder – much nearer now – splitting the air with its boom. Then the sky as last cracks open, ripped asunder by a flash of lightning.