Lecture Notes (27 page)

“Go to the bathroom and fetch the razor and shaving f
oam, with a towel,” he orders. I trot off and back, placing the items on the bed as directed. This is not too bad. I know he has a steady hand.

“Thank you, now go to my offic
e and fetch the strap. The two-tailed one; it’s in the right hand drawer.” Oh shit! I give him my most tragic look, but his expression is unyielding. I trudge away again and lift the supple leather from amongst its companions in evil, counting my blessings that he did not send me for the cane at least.

He nods that I am to put it on the bedside table, then he unfolds the tow
el and spreads it on the bed. “Come on, then, lie down and prepare yourself.”

I do as I am told – I’m keeping my nose clean today, believe me – scrunching my eyes shut and clenching my hands all the time that he is lathering me up and scraping the cold metal blade against my fuzzy regrowth.  I concentrate on not moving a muscle, conscious of Sinclair’s shadow over me, his measured breathing,
his skilled hands. He mops up the excess foam with a corner of the towel, then he slathers some kind of lotion on me, cool and moisturising, slicking it over my mons and down to my labia, behind to my perineum, massaging it with pleasurable firmness of touch.

“Much better,” he judges, standing back up and throwing a quartet of pillows down near the foot of the bed.
“Now then, Beth, up and over. I want to see that bottom nice and high and ready for me.”

Dazedly I sit back up, the room unblurring before m
y eyes. “Will it be many?” I ask meekly, crawling reluctantly down to where the pillows wait for me to drape myself across them.

“You will count them and find out,” says Sinclair, predictably.

With a weighty sigh I bend over the cushions, thrusting my arse up as much as I can, the way he likes me to. I have the duvet to clench and bite into; much better than being over the desk for the cane really.

“Legs further apart, Beth,” he tut
s, disappointed in me already. I spread them wider, flushing as always at the knowledge that I can hide nothing from him. “Now this will be a lesson to you, my love, in the wisdom of always following my instructions, both to the letter, and in spirit. I will not accept backsliding and laziness from you, Beth; what you are about to receive will serve as a reminder on this point. Do you feel that you deserve this reminder?”

“Yes, s
ir, I do,” I sigh, slotting sweetly into my sorely-missed disciplinary headspace.

“Good.
Then you should ask me for it.”

“Please, s
ir, will you punish me for my disobedience?”

“Indeed I will.” 

I take a breath, hold it high up in my lungs, teeth together, then…the heavy crack of leather against flesh…the breath whooshes out, I pluck at the duvet, wriggle my bottom furiously to try and dissipate some of the sting. Remember to count.  “One, sir.”

Repet
ition, repetition, repetition. No deviation. As the count moves inexorably on, past five, past six, past seven, my behind is beginning to burn in earnest and the temptation to move aside, to beg for relief is intense. “Is this getting through to you, Beth?” he asks with polite steeliness and I manage a gasped, “Yes, sir,” before he raises the strap to strike again.

On
again, past ten, past twelve. Oh God, how many? I am rocking back and forth on my knees, trying to keep my backside high and in the line of fire, wailing almost continuously between counts. The heat is all over me, inescapable, unbearable, searing every particle of skin on my rear and upper thighs. After fifteen he stops and I take a breath, but all he does is move across to the other side, ensuring equal coverage of both cheeks. Argh! This means another fifteen minimum. For the first five I struggle and yell, but after twenty all the resistance leaves my body, the way it does sometimes and I just flop acceptantly over the pillows, keeping my position, swimming sweetly around the scorching pain as if it is a fiery sea, flipping over, doing backstroke through the strokes. My voice comes out somehow, through the roar of the painwaves, and my mantra sweeps through my head… “I want this…I need this…I want this…I need this…”

And then it is over. “Thirty, s
ir.” The waves are still fanning out through my nerve endings, a burning glow. Sinclair is standing silently behind me and I dimly recall some point of etiquette that may have eluded me... “Thank you, sir.”

“Let’s hope that you will not forget the standard of conduct required of you in future,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse, the way it goes when he i
s almost too aroused to speak. “Now hold that position, Beth.”

I’m not sure I could move anyway, and I hear the tearing of a foil packet, the cringe-inducing snap of rubber and a slight ouchy sound from Sinclair, who is presumably unused to this form of prophylactic.
Then I am speared, stretched open for him, pushing back on to the invasive prong that splits me, welcoming it all the way up, even welcoming the additional sting of his skin against my hot, sore bum, welcoming him back, back for good.

“Mmm, I love you,” I rave, his hands on my shoulders, his thumb pressing down
in the middle of my neck. “I’m yours.”

“Always min
e,” he grunts, thrusting hard. And afterwards, he tells me again that he loves me.

Chapter Fifteen

“Today I am going to take you every way, in every position conceivable. You are going to come so hard and so often that you will temporarily lose the use of your legs. I am going to tie you up and blindfold you and take you on a journey of unbearable pleasure. I am going to mark you as mine, mark you with my scent and my insignia upon the soft flesh of your neck. Everyone who sees you will know that you are the property of Sinclair.”

I would reply – something along that lines of ‘that’s nice, dear’ – but my mouth is in
conveniently full of his cock. I make a breathy little noise of approval and continue to bob carefully up and down the saliva-coated rod of his erection. Today’s itinerary is sounding good…except there’s something…a nagging something at the back of my mind….something I should be doing….

“Shit!!”
I pop off the end of my lewd lollipop, staring in horror. Sinclair is disgruntled and tries to push my head back down but I babble, “Sir, I should have been on stage last night!” He lets go of my hair, sighs and sits back. “The opera.  I missed it. It was our last night!”

“You have an understudy, I take it?” he snaps

“Well, yes, I do. Emily. But I didn’t even let them know. Oh God, I feel awful.” I clap my hands over my face. Everybody must know now.  Everybody…fuck, will I be in the paper? What about my mum and dad? 

My heart starts to race, not so much a steeplechase as a full-on Ben-Hur-style chariot job.
“Sinclair, would you mind if I looked up the newspaper websites? I need to know if I’m in the news.”

He takes my flapping han
ds and stills them in his own. “Beth, you are going nowhere until this does.” He nods significantly down at his unassuaged hard-on. “The websites will still be there in ten minutes time. Don’t let the hysteria outside creep into our bedroom.”

“No, no, OK. You’re right. I’m sorry.
I’m going to calm down. I’m going to be calm. It’s all fine, it’s all fine…”

“Could you stop blethering
and finish what you started!” Sinclair is beginning to lose what little patience he has. It’s fine, it’s good. Sinclair will know what to do.

I bend my spinal column back into position, achieve optimal lip suction and continue with my morning fellatio.

Ten minutes later, I race to the kitchen in Sinclair’s (lovely sheeny satin) bathrobe, wash his special breakfast juice down with a glass of water and head straight for the computer in his office. Peering through the blinds, I can still make out a few lingering photographers, though it seems the majority have given up and gone to tear stringy bits of meat off some other carcass. Sinclair, barefoot but in trousers and half-buttoned shirt, lurks over my shoulder, frowning at the screen.

I G
oogle myself.

Then I really wish I hadn’t.

His hands appear on my shoulders as I click dementedly from result to result, rubbing the jumping knots as they pop up.  “19 year old Beth Newland is a first year student in the department run by Professor Sinclair, European Studies. A friend commented, ‘Everyone knew they were together; he was even seen buying underwear for her’.” A friend, eh? A sidebar is devoted to James Winthrop’s lamenting: ‘Sinclair’s student lover dumped me for him’. Dumped? As if we were ever in a relationship. Under the heading ‘Sickening four in a bed romp’, Rob and Mel speculate that Sinclair would probably have invited them over for a good old orgy at some point in the near future. And then there is a picture of me singing a solo at the school carol concert six years ago, wearing a horrible spangly dress and my heart sinks to my boots. They have to have got that from my parents. ‘Sack monster who seduced my baby’ is the paragraph heading. Not exactly the kind of thing either mum or dad would say but… oh God. I can’t read any more.

“I have to call
mum and dad,” I say miserably. “They’re going to go mad.”

“Call them,” says Sinclair,
his voice low and reassuring. “Tell them you’ll be down to see them tomorrow.”

“Do you think?”
I look up at him queryingly.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Sinclair! You don’t have to! They might try to…I don’t know…get you arrested or something.”

“I’m pretty sure my legal position is quite watertight,” he s
ays with a small smile. “If we’re going to make this work, Beth, we need to deal with this straight away. I don’t want to isolate you from your family.”

“I don’t care what they think; I’m not leaving you.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. But I think damage limitation is in order, don’t you?”

“God.
You’re very brave.”

“I’m just t
rying to find solutions, Beth. Having no family of my own, other people’s don’t particularly worry me.”

“Argh!”
I make an inarticulate noise, retracting all my limbs and huddling on the chair. “I just want to hide. I just want it all to go away and leave us in peace.”

“It will. It will all pass.
And now, my  love, I’m afraid I have to go out and see the VC. Then I’ve various business affairs to see to at the BBC and elsewhere. I may be out for a few hours. Why don’t you have a long, hot bath, make yourself breakfast and have a day of rest? Watch a football match or a black and white film. Do some reading. I do have novels in my shelves as well as historical tracts. Take your mind away from this mess for a little while. Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll try,” I say, peek
ing at him through my fingers. He takes them from my face and kisses them.

“Do as you’re told,” he murmurs, masterful as ever, but in a way that makes me melt w
ith love rather than lust. At last I know he truly cares for me, and this is worth the humoungous storm overhead.

*

After I’ve eaten breakfast I bite the bullet and switch on my mobile. A gazillion missed calls.

My texting finger feels like a lead weight as I punch in my parents’ number
. Pleeeease let the answerphone kick in. Damn, my dad has answered. My DAD. Why not my mum?

“344554,” he says, as he is the kind of old-fashioned dude that always answers th
e phone with the phone number. Indeed, he is probably the only person in the world that still does this.

“Ah, hi, dad,” I say uneasily. There is a clatter.
He has dropped the phone, then picked it up.

His voice is wobbling as he starts to talk at
a far faster pace than normal. “Beth, what’s going on? Surely you aren’t mixed up with that professor? Please tell me it’s all a mistake.”

“Dad…dad…calm down.
Listen, I don’t want to go into much on the phone. Is it OK if I come down tomorrow?”

“Of course, Beth, Chr
ist, stay as long as you like. I’m sorry your mum spoke to the press; I don’t think she realised what was going on. They told her it was a local paper feature about your opera. Then they hit her with their real agenda and she was caught in the headlights a bit. Look, Beth, please….”

“Dad.
I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, I promise. I’m sorry about all this; I can’t bear the thought of you being doorstepped like that…but it’s the same for me of course. Take care. See you soon. Bye.”

I am breathing heavily and I have
to take a minute to calm down. I just couldn’t tell him Sinclair was coming too. Perhaps he should stay here…  I don’t know.

I decide to bite a slightly less bitter bullet and dial Emily’s number.

“OHMYFUCKINGGODBETH,” is the approximate interpretation of the scream that greets my ears seconds later.

“Hi.”

“Where the fuck have you been? Where were you last night? You were with Sinclair, weren’t you? You’re back together, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes.
I’m really sorry about last night. What with all the drama and the press it just slipped my mind.”

“No need to apologise.
I got my big break, didn’t I? Went well, as it happens. But…look…there is just too much to discuss!”

“I know.
Listen, if you and Dearbhla are free, and can promise not to neck down all Sinclair’s booze again, do you want to pop round? I’m at Sinclair’s.”

A silence
. “Is he there?”

“No, he’s out, fixing stuff with the VC and the
BBC and the sucker MC on the MIC. Come round. He won’t mind, honestly.” Hm, well…not much anyway.

“Are you sure? I’ll give Dearbhla a knock.
Be with you in half an hour, yeah?”

“Sweet. Bye.”

I smile to myself as I watch them flit past the photographers, who shout questions at them. I wonder if they’ll be in the papers tomorrow. Sinclair’s trio of teen totty. I inhale sharply and clap my hand over my mouth when I see Emily turn round and shout cheerfully, “Sinclair’s a horndog!” Naughty, naughty girl. She might live to regret that.

“Emily!”  I admonish, opening the door and finding myself manhandled against the ample b
osom of Dearbhla. “They’ll print that, you silly mare.”

“I’d love for everyone to think I was shagging Sinclair,” she says sweetly.

“Even your mother?” asks Dearbhla, at which Emily’s face falls. We move on into the sitting room and collapse together on the sofa.

“So then, just what on God’s green earth have you got yourself into this time, Newland?” asks Dearbhla in a
weary, rather matronly, tone. “One minute you’re just like every other hopeless slacker; the next you’re in all the papers for being shacked up with a celebrity sadist.”

“Ha ha,” I chuckle. “Celebrity Sadists.
Good idea for a TV quiz game.”

“Seriously, Beth.”
She raises an eyebrow at me; she could train to be the female Sinclair, I sometimes think. “That sex tape is all over the internet. I watched it last night. Are you sure this is what you want?”

Championship lev
el blushing. I shift on the sofa, still aware of a very tender spot at the junction of buttock and thigh after last night’s strap performance.

“Yes,” I say defiantly.
“And he’s nothing like as hardcore with me as he is in that video, just FYI. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Spare me the details,” she says, to whic
h Emily protests, “No – don’t! Tell us!”

“It’s nothing t
o worry about,” I assure them. “I understand now why Sinclair was so…remote before. We’ve talked about his past and we want to make a future together. That’s not so scandalous, is it?”

“But what kind of a future?”  asks Dearbhla in a c
oncerned mother hennish voice. “Not one where he cracks the whip all the time, surely?”

“Maybe now and again wouldn’t be so bad…,” says Emily yearningly.

“At first he wanted to control me much more than I would be comfortable with,” I admit to them. “But he’s dealt with his reasons for wanting that now. It’s going to work out. I know it.”

I can’t help noticing that Emily’s attention has wandered and she is staring out through the hallway.

“Is that…THE office?” she asks me with a nudge. I sigh.

“Yes.”

“Can I have a look inside?”

“No way! Anyway, it’s locked.
I can’t go in there unless…”  I stop myself short. Too much info.

“Unless what?”  Emily squeals an
d claps her hands. “He…summons you?”

“Shut up!” I moan, squirming with embarrassment.

“Does he have a gown and mortarboard?”

“No, really, SHUT UP!!”
I turn to her and push her back into the sofa cushions so a mock fight ensues, Dearbhla clucking at us indulgently as we struggle. Eventually the girls get the message that I am not doing a kiss and tell, so we busy ourselves watching rubbish TV and talking about boys for the rest of the afternoon, until I am galvanised by shouting from the driveway, indicating that Sinclair is back.

“Oh, God, Sinclair!” I fuss, leaping up. 

“I thought it was OK for us to come over,” says Dearbhla dubiously.

“Well, it probably is, but I didn’t mention it to him
, so….”

“The office awaits you!” chortles Emily gleefully as I push her out of the
door. The pair of them scamper upwards to the second floor landing, intending to lurk there until Sinclair is safely inside the flat. I plump cushions frantically and launch myself full-length on to the sofa just as the door clicks.

“How did it go?” I ask with studied insouciance as he walks into the room, shrugging of
f his jacket as he approaches. He stops and frowns slightly, sniffing at the air.

“Have you had people round?”

Jesus H Christ! How would he know that?

“
Erm…some friends called round. Is that a problem?”

He stares at me, clenching and unclenching his fists for a few seconds until he says, “
No, I suppose it shouldn’t be. I’d appreciate it if you could mention it in future though. I don’t like the idea of strangers in my space without my knowledge or consent.”