Fifty Days of Sin (17 page)

And then he starts. The first
slap makes a resounding noise and knocks the air out of my lungs. I
cry out. Then, panting to get my breath back, I start to count.
“One!”

More blows follow relentlessly
onto my naked bottom. “Two,” I count, “Three,” and then “Four,”
“Five,” “Six,” each time the pain of the paddle hitting my tender
flesh sending heat coursing through my body.

But then I realise he was just
warming up. The blows become more vicious, and I realise that he’s
using one hand to hold one of the chairs steady as he brings the
paddle hard into contact with my behind every time. Again and again
I cry out, and I start to wonder whether I’m going to be able to
take this punishment, the harshest Adam has ever meted out to me.
“Fifteen,” I pant, my head drooping. I can feel sweat beads on my
forehead, travelling down my face with the exertion of withstanding
the blows.

That’s when he stops.

I feel him touch me between my
legs, stretched open over the chasm between the chairs, and I feel
a blush creep over my face as I realise how wet he’s made me. He
moves around the chairs so I can see him.

“Look how wet you are,” he says,
showing me my own juices glistening on his fingers. “Justine,
you’re so turned on.”

I look him in the eye, trembling
at the thought of the fifteen further blows that he’s still due to
inflict. Although I could use my safeword, the evidence of how
aroused his mistreatment is making me is right there on his
fingers. I can feel my own juices trickling down the top of my
thighs. In truth, I don’t want this to stop.

So I drop my eyes, no longer
able to meet his gaze. Then I notice the telltale bulge in his
jeans. Oh, yes, Adam is just as aroused as I am by this game. The
realisation and the knowledge of the desire I’m creating in him by
submitting to his will sends a thrill of pleasure through me. “Yes,
sir, I am,” I agree.

“Tell me what it does to you
when I beat you, Justine.” He puts out his hand and touches my
erect nipple, making me gasp again.

“It turns me on, sir,” I breathe
and look back into his eyes, the atmosphere between us crackling
with electric desire.

Then to my surprise he puts the
paddle down on the kitchen table and opens another drawer. He pulls
out the riding crop that he punished me with the day he made me
hold onto the doorframe.

Adam crosses back to stand
behind me. “Time to start counting again, Justine.”

Then he delivers a stinging blow
to my upper right thigh. “Aagh! Sixteen.”

The next blow comes stinging
down in the same place. I cry out again and count the number out
loud. He follows up quickly with more lashes to my right thigh and
then further blows on the left. “Twenty-five,” I count.

Then he hits me again, and I
scream loudly this time as I feel him angle the tip of the crop
between my legs, close to most intimate parts, just like last time.
“Twenty-six.”

Again he hits me, closer to my
sex again this time. “Twenty-seven,” I pant.

And then for the last three
blows he has no mercy on me at all. I scream as the lash makes
contact with my sex, sending a shockwave of pain so acute through
my body that I feel the chair rock underneath me. Adam is holding
it steady and keeps it upright, but the fear that I might fall only
adds to the adrenaline coursing through my body. I strain against
the bonds, feeling the thin string bite into my arms and legs where
he’s secured me. “Twenty-eight,” I manage and then immediately he
does it again, and I scream out loud again. “Twenty-nine!”

The last lash elicits the
loudest scream of all, and if it wasn’t for the fact that my brain
is hardly functioning now, I would be worried about the neighbours.
The crop cruelly hits my clitoris, in an agonising stinging blow.
“Thirty,” I hear myself say in a strangled voice, and then I know
it’s over. My head slumps forward and I wait for him to release me.
“Thank you, sir,” I somehow remember to mumble.

But he doesn’t release me. He
moves around to my front, still holding the crop. I watch him put
out his hand and touch the tops of my thighs, still stretched open
above the hard chairs. And I can feel him rubbing my juices into my
skin, the wetness betraying me as my traitorous body shows Adam
just how turned on I am from the chastisement he’s given me, the
most brutal he’s seen fit to administer yet. I’m still completely
at his mercy, punished and debased in front of him. And I’m more
desperate for him to touch my aching clitoris, to push me to the
edge and over, to give me the orgasm I’m longing for, than I’ve
ever been in my life.

“Look at me, Justine,” he tells
me. I raise my head and open my eyes.

“Taste,” he instructs, and I
open my mouth to let him put in his finger, glistening with the
evidence of my own arousal.

Withdrawing his finger, he
touches my breasts, making me shiver, and then lets his hand travel
downwards. “You took your punishment like a good girl, and good
girls get a reward.” He makes contact with my sensitive clitoris
and I shut my eyes and moan incoherently.

“Oh yes, you want to come,” I
hear him breathe. “And I’m going to make you.”

He starts to rub, and the aching
little bud that he caresses with his fingers responds, sending
shafts of pure delight coursing through me. I push my hips forward,
shutting my eyes and giving myself up to pleasure, rising and
rising into a crescendo of delight as Adam’s skilful touch sends me
inexorably climbing to my climax, and then I come with such force
that I feel the chairs rock beneath me again and I’m literally
seeing stars behind my eyelids, my orgasm coursing through me
powerfully until I whimper and pull away from his hand, panting
again and at last satisfied, glowing with pleasure and still warm
and stinging from the blows that he delivered with the paddle and
the crop.

And then at last Adam unties me.
He picks up my naked, trembling body in his arms and carries me
upstairs, and tenderly lays me on his bed. He tucks the duvet
around me, and then he climbs in beside me to hold me gently,
stroking my hair tenderly until I drift into an exhausted
sleep.

Saturday, 2 June

“IT’S GREAT TO MEET YOU,
JUSTINE,” says George, kissing me lightly on the cheek. Adam and
his eldest brother look so alike, but somehow Adam is by far the
better looking of the two. I’m not sure what it is, since their
features are so similar; perhaps it’s the charisma and intelligence
which shine out of Adam’s face. Or maybe it’s just the chemistry
between us. Perhaps it’s as simple as his pheromones being just the
right mix to attract me.

Whatever the reason, whilst I
can recognise that George is a very good-looking man, for me he
can’t hold a candle to Adam.

It’s a Saturday, and Adam
arranged to meet his brothers for a meal in London. George and his
wife Christine live in Wandsworth, and Clive had to come to the
capital for a job interview. Clive’s staying with George, and slept
at his house last night, but he went off to visit some friends in
the morning and now he’s late returning. The brothers tell me this
is exactly what they expect from Clive and we’ll be lucky if we see
him at all. So for the moment the four of us seat ourselves in the
bar area waiting to see if he turns up. Adam orders drinks and gets
me a large glass of red wine, while he and George both have bottles
of beer and Christine sips a glass of iced water.

Christine is a sweet-looking
redhead with the pale freckly skin that so often goes with that
hair colour. She’s expecting their first baby, and has a huge bump.
After we’ve been introduced I ask her about the pregnancy.

“Oh, it’s been absolutely fine,”
she says. “When I hear how affects other people I realise how lucky
I am. Not a moment’s morning sickness. Of course, the baby’s
already keeping me awake at night – it sleeps all day while I’m up
and about and then wakes up when I lie down in bed. Then it’s party
time for baby! But I guess I’ll need to get used to being kept
awake half the night soon enough anyway, so it’s not a massive
problem.”

“You’re very philosophical,” I
comment, smiling. “How many months are you?”

“Five, would you believe?” she
laughs. “I know, I look about eight months pregnant. My bump just
grew straight away. You know how you can’t tell with some women
until they’re about four months gone. Well, not me – you could tell
with me at four weeks! People were offering me seats on the train
at twelve weeks. It was so obvious.”

“It’s because you’ve got such a
slim build,” George tells her. “It’s only fat people who don’t show
to start with.”

“George, don’t be so awful!” She
playfully punches him in the arm and shakes her head at his
comment. “There’s lots of slim women who don’t show for a long
time. I must just have a lot of fluid in there with baby, I
suppose. It can’t all have been the baby sticking out so far, not
when I had only just become pregnant.”

“You don’t know whether it’s a
girl or a boy then?” I ask. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice
Adam raising his eyebrows at me as I take a large drink of my wine
and realise I’m getting through my drink rather fast. Although
Christine and George couldn’t be more friendly, I’ve been nervous
about meeting them.

“No, we could have paid for a
scan to find out but we decided we’d like a surprise.”

“You can’t paint the nursery
blue or pink yet, then?”

The conversation continues on
the subject of George and Christine’s baby and I see Adam checking
his watch.

“Late as usual,” comments
George, who has also noticed.

“That’s Clive for you,” he grins
back at his brother. “Aha - speak of the devil...”

“Can’t believe it!” says George,
as Clive walks towards us. “Thought you’d be on a bender now, and
we wouldn’t see you for the rest of the weekend.”

“You’re getting me mixed up with
yourself, the day you finished your A-Levels,” counters Adam. “All
right,” he says to his brothers, gripping them both in turn by the
hand. Hi, Christine,” he adds, leaning in for a brief kiss.

“Don’t remind me,” George groans
in reply. I look around at all three of them grinning at Clive’s
comment and realise it must be some major misdemeanour known to all
the family that George has never been able to live down.

“Anyway, I have to assume this
is the lovely Justine?” asks Clive and he pulls me in for a hug and
a kiss on the cheek. “You’re not what I was expecting at all!”

“Oh, really? What exactly were
you expecting?”

“Oh, a mortar board, a tweed
skirt and glasses, I suppose, as you’re an Oxford don.”

I give him a wry smile, looking
down at my jeans and cream-coloured blouse. “Is that the sort of
girl you’d expect Adam to go out with then?”

“Absolutely. Just his type,” he
assures me humorously.

“Nice to meet you, anyway,
Clive. How did the interview go?” I ask him.

“Oh, it’s difficult to tell at
this stage,” he replies. “Have to forget about it now and wait and
see.” He sounds like he goes to a lot of interviews and is
accustomed to managing his own expectations about actually landing
a job. I feel a pang of sympathy – the economic climate is
difficult at the moment and it must be disheartening being turned
down.

After the similarity between
Adam and George, Clive is different. Shorter and with fairer hair,
he would be attractive but for a certain hard look about his face.
He lacks the charm and openness of his brothers.

A waiter has spotted that all
five of us are here now, so he takes us through to seat us around a
circular table, and Clive orders himself a beer. I’m in between
Adam and George, opposite Clive and Christine. Adam rests his hand
on my thigh. I can feel the warmth of his skin and the glow of the
alcohol suffusing through me. I put my hand on his and squeeze his
fingers.

Adam takes a sip of his beer and
smiles at me. For once when we’re out together, he’s drinking
alcohol. We arrived here earlier this afternoon on the train into
Paddington station – the fastest services only take about an hour
from Oxford - and when we’ve returned the same way we’ll get a taxi
home.

The brothers are busy catching
up, discussing Adam’s work at Grantham and James, and then George’s
job. He and Christine both work as accountants at another big
multinational, although Christine’s job sounds more interesting.
Whilst George deals with big businesses, Christine’s work is for
individual clients, so it sounds like it has a more personal feel.
Her stories of some of the awkward customers she has to deal with
make me laugh. It sounds, though, like she has a lot on her plate
with some of the demanding clients in her portfolio and I ask her
if she’s going back to work after the baby.

“Probably,” she replies. “I’m
lucky enough to have the choice,” she explains, smiling at George.
“A lot of people need to go back to work for financial reasons. I
just need to decide whether to go back to keep myself sane. I
suspect the answer’s going to be yes, but I don’t need to make a
final decision until after the baby’s born.”

“Will you be able to work more
flexible hours then?” I ask.

“Yes, in actual fact half the
department is female, so it’s in my boss’ interests to be flexible.
There are loads of women in the department who are mums now, on a
four day or a three day week, and even one who returned for a two
day week. One of the secretaries has a contract where she only
works in term time, and when she’s not there they get a temp
in.”

“That sounds brilliant,” I
enthuse. “If only all bosses were like that!”

“Yes, although he can be a right
pain in the neck when he wants to as well. But he’s really good
about that sort of thing. And of course, a lot of the men – and
even the women without children – moan about the part timers. But
you can’t do anything about that. If you’re doing your job properly
I don’t see what people have got to complain about.”