Lecture Notes (11 page)

But I sense Sinclair is not a man who will stand for
my squeamishness. I will have to bite the bullet…or rather the gun. Well, not
bite
as such… Christ, my nerves.

I kneel between his legs and start just behind his sacs, running a soapy finger over his perineum, which is an insta
nt hit, rather to my surprise. I’ll have to remember that. I cup his balls with my foamy hands, exerting gentle pressure while he shuts his eyes and hisses. And I haven’t even got to the main event yet, which is pointing up at the shower head by now, inviting me to slide slippily up and down, to caressingly attend to every inch of the steely blue-veined flesh, even pushing back the foreskin as gently as I can to clean the underside and the smooth purplish head.

“Good, Beth, good….but
I don’t want to peak too soon. You’d better get out and leave me to, ah, calm myself down.”

He almost pushes me out to wrap
myself in a vast fluffy towel. I tie it up, toga-style, and head to the kitchen to make a start on breakfast. Coffee is percolating and eggs are in the pan by the time Sinclair sashays in, towel around waist, one hand plucking at his damp hair. Oh, I can’t believe all this is mine. It is like looking at a big plate of your favourite food, knowing you are going to savour every last morsel.

“Seizing the initiative,” he comments, pushing the eggs around with a spatula
. He takes over, placing the eggs, toast and coffee on the table while we sit opposite each other. I am slightly strung up, cutting up the food unnecessarily small, casting around my suddenly fluffy mind for things to say and finding none, heatedly conscious of Sinclair’s eyes following my every move.

In an evil conversational pounce, he says, “We shall have to discu
ss your punishment, Beth. For trespassing into my private office.”

“Oh.”
I stop, fork halfway to mouth, shaking in my fingers. “But I thought…”

“I believe you were made well aware that serious consequences would
ensue from any such intrusion. Weren’t you?”

“Oh…yes.”

“Very well; we’ll deal with it this afternoon.”

“What are you going to…?”

“This afternoon,” he says firmly.

Having killed my appetite stone dead, he goes on to sip slowly at his coffee, watching my every move with narrowed eyes, as if making calculations.

“Professor, is this…” I begin tentatively, “I mean, er, is this…you and me….like…a relationship then?”

“Of course,” he says. “A relationship
between us has always existed. That of teacher and student, mentor and disciple, disciplinarian and wrongdoer, landlord and tenant. Just for starters.”

“You know what I mean.”

He nods, giving me an inch of leeway. “We will be sexual partners. Lovers, if you like.”

“Will we be…exclusive?”

“Yes. You have made a commitment to me, Beth, and its nature is such that I feel responsibility for you. What I am asking of you in the bedroom is more than simple sex. It requires sensitivity and maturity on my part; trust and faith on yours. It is more complicated than a…casual shag, for certain.”

Although what he is saying is slightly unn
erving, it is also reassuring. It sounds as if he cares for me on some level, even if that level is only to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill me in bed. For the first time, strangely enough, I seriously question what I am doing. Sinclair, from the sound of it, means to take me deep into his dark desires, crossing limits and boundaries en route. Am I psychologically robust enough to handle this? Or will he crush me in the process? 

I give him a tremulous-neophyte look, which seems to turn him on
to the extent that he swoops around the table, takes me by the wrist and impels me along to the bedroom again. After kissing me until I have so little breath I feel like a fish flapping its gills on a slab he unrolls me from the towel and places it in the centre of the bed. 

“Lie down, Beth, with your bottom on the towel please.”

“Oh.  Right.” I do so and he leaves the room, reappearing with a bowl of warm water, a can of foam and a razor. 

I sit up.
“You aren’t going to…”

“I’ll do the honours,” he drawls, placing his accessories beside my hip on the bed.

“But why?” I wail. I’m not comfortable with this at all.

“It’s my personal preference,” he says unbendingly.

“Must you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you threatened by adult women?”

“Of course not, you silly girl. I just like to see clearly what I
’m getting into, so to speak.” Rude bastard! I gasp at him. He smirks.

“It makes me
feel like a child,” I object. “I don’t like it.”

“Get used to it.”

“I…”

“Do you think it’s wise to argue with a man who is wielding a razorblade right next to your intimate parts, Beth?”

“
What?
”

He
rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Joke,” he sighs.

“Not funny.”

“The issue is closed, Beth,” he says firmly. “I prefer you shaved, so shaved you will be and will remain. I expect this to be maintained on a daily basis, or you will be punished. Is that clear?”

Again the lurch of dread; the inner cry of
What am I getting into?
But I lie back and let him loose on me nonetheless.

I stare at the ceiling as he lathers my pubes up into creamy peaks, then I screw up my eyes against the cold steel of the razor, feeling a ticklish feathering as he scrapes the trian
gle in downward strokes. I clench my fists when he descends into the dangerous territory of my labia and heed his advice to keep very, very still. One false move…it doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Perhaps you would prefer to wax,” he murmurs, “or use some kind of depilation cream.
Sharp blades are not for beginners.” One final careful inward sweep at the base of my buttocks and he declares himself finished.

  He rinses off the foam and surveys his han
diwork with detached approval. “Much better,” he opines. He leans down and breathes on it, making my skin pucker into goosepimples. “Now you cannot hide from me.” He prises my thighs wider with his hands and continues to drift warm breath over the area, until I can’t avoid squirming and trying to close my thighs. But his hands are firm and there is no chance of that. He uses his thumbs to spread the newly-nude lips and his face is coming closer, closer until the tip of his rather long nose is almost touching the glistening pink insides, and now his breath is hot and intrusive, inescapable, and I have to let loose a shuddering giggle. He takes a theatrically deep breath and then…aaaah….his tongue, so delicately, so teasingly, maps the nooks and crannies of my hidden valley. It curls up and down, hither and thither, gently over my clitoris, which he slips in between his lips and hums on…oh CHRIST!...

“This is all new to you, isn’t it?” he murmurs, preparing to dust his tongue across its supersensitive surface again and al
l I can do is ‘aaah’ brokenly. He laps and licks as if presented with an unending banquet of his favourite foods and I can feel my clit swelling and stiffening until it must be about twice its usual size, whereupon he begins to suck on it, his fingers massaging the surrounding area in sympathy and I lose the plot, lose my head, lose consciousness of everything except his wicked, wicked tongue.

I expect him to kneel up on his heels and change tempo once I have finished bucking into his mouth, but on the contrary, he just says, “I could eat y
ou all day, Beth. Such sweet juices,” and starts right back in, only this time his fingers are digging up inside my slick canal and he nudges at the higher ground of the mons veneris with his
bloody nose
. It is almost – no, not almost, it
is –
too intense to be borne and I feel myself slide and drown in the swirling, whirling laving of his voracious tongue and the insistent probing of his fingers. Every iota of my being is concentrated on that inferno at my core and I feel reduced to a primal essence of femininity, as if he is reminding me of my place and his sexual power over me. Three fingers curve against my front vaginal wall at the same time as his tongue flicks pitilessly at my little fleshy jewel and I almost expire with the force of the orgasm, jerking my hips and arching my back animalistically, howling my surrender to the four corners of the room.

He moves back an inch or so, breathing again over the steam-damp nexus between my legs
and chuckling at my undone state. “We’ve barely begun, Beth, and you’ve already got that begging-for-mercy look in your eyes. Dear, dear, this won’t do at all. I suppose I shall have to break you in gently.”

I struggle to master my breathing and stop my limbs from shaking so much while he slides up my body to give me a taste of myself, wrapping his scented tongue around mine and sucking at it lusciously.
His fingers continue to knead betwixt my thighs, lest I should be allowed to forget his works down there, and I press my eager nipples against his chest, wanting to merge my softness with his masculine hardness. I had never imagined a man could feel this good against my skin or seem to fit so well with my body.

I am still marvelling at this when he nudges my legs further
into a wide V-shape with his own, braces himself above me and introduces the broad tip of his cock to the seemingly resistant flesh of my entrance. I expect it to hurt for some reason, so I grit my teeth and tense my body up. Sinclair pauses to tut at me.

“Relax, Beth, I don’t want to fuck an ironing board.”

Really! How rude! He takes my wrists and pins them above my head as if he is anticipating a fight and circles the opening for a while, rubbing lubriciously while he murmurs broken words in my ear to calm my skittishness. “Hush, I won’t hurt you, Beth…just go with me…trust me…open up to me…that’s it…open up to me….” His low beguiling words, together with the yeomanlike preparation he has given me combine to let him ease sweetly into the passage with a wet slicking sound. “Oh, Beth, that’s tight,” he informs me shudderingly, and I can certainly second that emotion, given the sensation of stretching and near-splitting I am experiencing. It is far from unpleasant, if a little alarming. I cannot imagine it will be possible for him to fit all the way in, but I wriggle against his remorseless penetration and he seems to slide on and on and on and then, just as I think I will certainly break, he stops. “You are mine now,” he states, as a simple fait accompli. My response is not required, though I think I say something like ‘uh’ before he begins a deliciously slow and luxurious back and forth stroke.

“How does it feel?” he wants to know, twisting and ploughing into me, always that tiny bit faster and harder with each thrust.

“It feels…like proper sex,” I say, then I want to kill myself for expressing such a gauche sentiment. What an idiot he must think me. But it does – it feels as if finally I have found out how it should be done, what all the fuss is about.

“Good, then?”

“How it should be,” I gasp, starting to pound into the mattress in earnest, struggling to bring my wrists up from his tight pinion and failing. I want to touch him, but he isn’t having it. He moves his free forearm under the base of my spine and angles me roughly upwards so that his cock begins to rub deliriously against all my hotspots at once. They feel overstimulated to the point of madness, I feel completely adrift of my senses, adrift of my identity now. I am just…Sinclair’s…and he is going to make me….

“I’m going to ma
ke you come now, Beth. Very, very hard,” he growls and I am made of sweat, made of juices, made of sex and he makes it happen….oh fuck, yes, yes, YES.

The steam whistle in the room seems to be
coming from between my lips. There is some sort of accompanying animal noise from Sinclair; he holds himself perfectly still for a second then crashes down, his head beside mine, his fingers uncurling from my now-bruising wrists, our bodies mixed up and conjoined and slippery with mutual exertion. The power of it is such that I feel tears leak from my eyes. It is all too much, too much. I love him. Oh God.

After a few minutes have passed, we reconnect with reality and he props himself up to stroke damp
hair from my brow. “No turning back now,” he muses. “Now I’ve had you. You seemed to enjoy yourself.” His voice is sticky and dark and redolent of the sex we just had.

“I did,” I say. “It was amazing. You were.
Amazing.”

He kisses me on the forehead,
then the nose, then the lips. “I hope I can live up to the high expectations I’ve set then,” he says. “Seriously, Beth, this is what you want, isn’t it?”

I look up at him.
He looks as if he cares what I say, which makes my heart constrict. “Yes, I think so. Though I’ve no idea why you would choose me.”

He smi
les. “No, you haven’t, have you?” He seems satisfied with that, and lays his head back down beside mine, keeping his hand possessively on my stomach and pulling me further into the crook of his shoulder. We lie there like that for almost an hour, wordlessly. I’m thinking that that wasn’t entirely what I expected. Though he was ferociously controlling, he was also somewhat tender. Nothing painful or kinky was involved. Is this all he wanted?