‘Dr Clarke’s Desk’, by Elk Vilianni
“Good Lord! How utterly peculiar,” exclaimed Mother, staring at the letter that she had just sliced open with the fruit knife.
I looked up lazily from my breakfast. I had grown quite accustomed to my mother’s increasing histrionics during this visit home, my first return alone since the wedding. “What is it, Mother?”
“Dr Clarke – Uncle Peter – left something to you in his will.”
“Regrettably, no, Catherine. He’s left you his old desk. I seem to remember that it was a rather lovely piece but why on earth would he have thought that you would have the slightest interest in his old desk? … Catherine?”
It was the summer I turned 18, fifteen years ago now. My parents were attending another conference abroad. They had invited me to accompany them, of course, but, particularly as I’d only recently returned from college in Switzerland, I couldn’t imagine anything less dull. So, when Father had mentioned that Dr Clarke was looking for a live-in personal assistant for the summer months, I seized the opportunity.
Dr Clarke – I knew his name was Peter but I never called him that – had been my father’s best friend since they had been at Cambridge together. He was like an uncle to me and I loved him. Unlike my father, he’d always had time for me, to play chess, to teach me German, to play piano duets with me, to suggest books from his library for me to read. He was a very serious man, he could even be quite stern with me at times, but he was gentle and kind, as was Mrs Clarke. I knew that he was something quite high up in government but I’d never taken much interest in that side of him.
I could tell from the moment he met me at the station that he was quite taken aback by how much I’d grown up in the two years since he’d last seen me. I think girls changed a lot more in the years from 15 to 18 in those days than they do now. I suppose the way that I looked at men had changed too. It was not news to me that I was attracted to older men but I hadn’t realised until that moment that Dr Clarke had probably been the subconscious template for all my fantasies of being treated as ‘Daddy’s special little girl’.
I loved being back in that old rambling house. Being there, where I had spent so many happy visits as a child, also encouraged me to regress to my younger self. And this did not seem to displease Dr Clarke, though I was careful to ‘act my age’ when in Mrs Clarke’s company.
On this particular day, Mrs Clarke was spending the day in town with her lady friends and Dr Clarke had asked me to help him to tidy up his study. It was a very hot day. I was wearing just a light cotton, short, sleeveless sundress – I can still remember its green-and-pink-on-white floral pattern. And beneath it, my favourite panties – they were just white cotton but they were so soft and, unlike all my other plain knickers, these had a pretty lace edging. I wasn’t wearing a bra that day. My breasts were still growing, they weren’t as full as they are now but neither were they small. My long brown hair was tied back in a high ponytail, to keep it away from my face while we worked.
Dr Clarke set me to work clearing the papers and books from his desk. It was a large desk of dark wood which, once I had cleared everything off it, Dr Clarke wanted me to polish. He gave me a soft cloth and a tin of special polish – I can still remember the smell of that polish (to my frustration, I’ve never been able to find it in the shops; I’ve looked in vain…).
I liked polishing – I still do – and set to work energetically. I was soon warm and flushed and my vigorous polishing action set my breasts moving, rubbing my budding young nipples against my dress and making me feel funny.
I didn’t understand it when Dr Clarke stopped me from going round the other side of the desk, the window side, but I didn’t question it when he said, “No, my dear,” (he never called me Catherine, always ‘my dear’…), “do it all from this side, please.”
So I had to stretch, going up on my tiptoes, to reach the far side of the desk. I noticed then that Dr Clarke had stopped what he had been doing and had sat down in the leather armchair behind me and was watching me at work. It seems so obvious to me now that, as I stretched and polished, my short dress was riding up, showing my panties. I’d like to pretend that I was so innocent then that I wasn’t even aware that my panties were showing, or that a man like that would be interested in them but, if I’m honest, the truth is that I loved those panties so much that I wanted Dr Clarke to see them!
“Thank you, my dear, you can stop now, that’s lovely”, Dr Clarke said, behind me. I turned and smiled, glad that I had pleased him. What happened next has always puzzled me; not so much what happened – which I remember so vividly – but why I didn’t even seem to think it odd, when Dr Clarke asked me to stretch across the desk again and to grip the edge on the far side. I think I would have done anything he asked of me, so keen was I to please him.
I so clearly remember now being stretched across that desk, my face against the wood, the smell of the polish, my tender breasts pressed down…
I heard Dr Clarke rise from his chair and approach me. I felt the hem of my dress being slowly and gently lifted from behind and raised to my waist, my panties fully revealed. I held my breath, not knowing what to do or say… and not wanting this to stop! I felt confused, embarrassed, but I remember thinking, “Oh, do you like my pretty panties, Dr Clarke? Do you?”.
I got the answer to my unspoken question when I felt Dr Clarke’s hand stroke my bottom and heard him say, “Very pretty, my dear… what a sweet bottom you have…”. And I actually replied, “Thank you, Dr Clarke” – that makes me laugh now; I was so well-brought-up and polite!
Suddenly, I felt a hard, stinging slap on my bottom! I gasped. Then another, and another, and another, on both sides of my bottom. Tears sprang to my eyes, not of sadness or anger, just shame… delicious feelings of shame swept over me. And the pure sharp pain made me cry out as his hand continued to spank me, over and over again…
Then it stopped. I heard Dr Clarke breathing heavily behind me, his hand still resting on my bottom, gently caressing it. “There, there, my dear… it’s over now… you’ve been a good girl”. And, again, I said, through my tears, “Thank you”.
Next, I felt Dr Clarke’s warm fingers touch my skin as they hooked under the waistband of my panties and slowly pulled them down over my bottom and further until they were stretched between my knees. But Dr Clarke didn’t touch my bare bottom, or that place between my legs that I could now feel throbbing and wet, the place that I touched when I went to bed and which now seemed to cry out to feel Dr Clarke’s fingers on it, in it…
But there he left me – I heard his footsteps and the door opening and closing – there he left me, splayed across his desk, my dress hitched up to my waist, my favourite panties down around my knees, my sore bare bottom exposed…”
“Catherine! Are you even, listening to me?”
I came out of my reverie with a start. “Sorry, Mother.”
“I was saying, what on earth will your husband make of it? I don’t imagine he’ll welcome that ancient piece of furniture in your smart new home.”
“Oh, Mother. You really don’t know David at all well, do you,” I replied with a growing smile, “I have no doubt that David and I will put that desk to very good use. And I shall think very fondly of dear Dr Clarke every time we do.”