Lecture Notes (13 page)

“Thank you
so much
,” she enthuses at the till, packing away the purchases and validating Sinclair’s credit card. “We really
value
your custom.” She flashes me a bitchy smile and, while my sugar daddy is busy punching numbers into the machine thingy, she takes advantage of his inattention to slip me a card with her mobile number on, winking hugely as she does so. Yeah, right, Mags. Dream on.

“You can’t begin to imagine how embarrassing that was for me,” I complain o
nce we are back on the street. He chuckles and links my arm with his.

“I know a good cure for
embarrassment,” he says. “Tea and sandwiches. It works for hunger too.” He leads me into a very unSinclairian tea shop, all frothy net curtains and bone china, and sits us down at a secluded table near the window. 

“Why embarrassing?” he asks, having ordered for both of us.

“Well…” I splutter, astonished that he even has to ask. “I know that girl….and…it’s obvious that you and me….you know….and having to get undressed and all that…” I trail off, overwhelmed by the memory.

“Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

“No! It’s not that! It’s the way…you make it clear…how things are…” I can’t seem to explain any better than this. How did I get three grade As at A-Level? It’s a mystery.

“You think people look at us and realise immediately that I like to put you over my knee and give you a good spanking before I ravish you to the point of multiple orgasm?”

I blink. He is just too frightening sometimes.

“Yeah,” I mumble.
“That kind of thing.”

“That’s good,” he smirks.
“That’s what I want people to think. Because it’s true. Why would you deny it?”

“I’m not denying it.”

“It sounds as if you are. You have difficulty coming to terms with your own needs and desires, don’t you? Well, you’re young, I suppose. Did you have a religious upbringing?”

“I….kind of.”

“Hm, thought so. Classic case. You aren’t comfortable with your sexual feelings. You aren’t even comfortable with your body, are you?”

A plate of assorted sandwiches materialises on the
table along with a pot of tea. The waitress is riveted, I can tell. Sigh. I might as well wear a flashing hat – ‘Yes, he is my lover not my dad.’

“I am,” I refute, futilely.

“Really? You don’t even know your body.”

“Yes I do!
I’ve known it all my life!”

“How often do you masturbate?”

“I…that’s…I’m not answering that! You’re so rude!”

“Not such a prissy Miss when you’
re in my bed, though, are you? Come on. Answer me. How often?”

“Ab
out…I dunno. Fairly often. Now and again.”

He sighs.
“Daily?”

“Pretty much.
Why do you want to know?”

“How do you do it?”

“
What?”

“Describe it for me.
When you are quite alone and the urge strikes you…how do you go about it?”

I stare at him.
He is tearing into a sandwich as if this is just any old conversation about house prices.

“Better still…show me.
Put your hands down your knickers and give me a commentary.”

“I’m NOT going to…”

“Yes you are. Go on. No-one’s looking. Put your fingers down inside your knickers, and tell me how you do it.”

“You’re a really horrible man.”

“I know. Now do as you’re told, Beth, or I’ll put you over the table and smack your arse in front of all these people.”

Surely he’s bluffing!
But…oh God…it’s impossible to tell with Sinclair. And he certainly looks serious. I drape the heavy linen tablecloth over my lap as far as I can and lean forward over the table, toying with a sandwich with the one visible hand to distract attention from the other. The invisible counterpart finds the top of my tights and glides down over my stomach until it locates my knicker elastic.

“You aren’t telling me what you’re
doing,” Sinclair points out. “You selfish little self-pleasurer.”

“I’m….moving my hand down i
nside my knickers,” I whisper. “I can feel how smooth it is where it used to be hairy…it’s a bit weird…and now I’m, er, underneath and I’m just sort of pushing my fingers inside….”

“Inside where?”

“The, er, the sides…”

“The labia.”

“The labia. Yeah. And, er, it’s a bit slippery. I’m just kind of er bringing my fingertips back and forth over my…you know…”

“I don’t know.
Say it.”

“I can’t.”

“Say it.”

“Oh fuck. Oh, clitoris, there, does that make you happy?”

“Ecstatic. Go on. How does it feel?”

“It
feels…sort of warm and tingly. It’s a little sore from…earlier…but not too much. Mmm. Just moving around…in a circular motion….” My whisper is becoming a little ragged. Sinclair’s face and voice is utterly turning me on, despite my consciousness of the depraved behaviour he is making me exhibit.

“Good, and do you ever move your fingers back into your vagina?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you ever put any other object up there?”

“No,” I pant, stopping before I lose control.

“Did I say you could stop? Keep going.
Tell me what you think about.”

“What I think about?”

“Yes. You know that the brain is the primary sexual organ. What images flash through your mind when you are pleasuring yourself?”

“Oh…er…”
I really don’t want to tell him. I am flicking my nub back and forth, almost bent double over the table now, face flushed, thinking ‘
Surely it must be obvious what I’m doing
’ and being majorly aroused rather than horrified by the thought.

“What do you think about?”

“You,” I wail brokenly. “I think about you. I imagine I’m over your knee and you’re spanking me and afterwards, when my bum is all hot and red, you move your fingers down there to my….clitoris…and my…vagina…and you finger me yourself and you make me come…really hard…ooooooh, ooooooh God, Sinclaaaaair…..” I feel a warm gushing rush and squirm on the seat, my eyes screwed shut, inky blotches of colour splattered on the inside of the lids, glowing, oh, it feels so sweet.

Opening my eyes, I notice that an egg sandwich lies crumpled in my fist, its yellowish paste oozing through my fingers.

“Sit up, Beth, we’ll be thrown out if you can’t conduct yourself with a little more dignity.” He grins at me. All his teeth bared. God, he is sexy. I hate him. I love him.

“That was
very good, Beth,” he tells me. “You did very well. I think we are going to get along famously. Now eat your lunch and tell me about something dull. I have the most painful erection. What do your parents do?”

*

Walking back from the teashop to the flat is like being in a wonderful dream. Sinclair holds my hand (lifting it to his nose to sniff my fingers with a wicked grin before dropping them down again) as we stroll through the Village which is bursting out into blossom and birdsong all over. He talks to me, amusingly, about inter-departmental politics at the university but I am only half-listening, concentrating on capturing every second of this early spring fever and hoping many, many people of my acquaintance see us together.

(
‘Oh my God, is that Beth Newland with Professor Sinclair?’

‘What?
Are you serious?’

‘It fucking is!
Lucky cow!’

‘How did she get her hands o
n him? Oh my God, I’m so jealous I might have to kill myself!’
)

I practically skip along the pavement next to him, glowing
gently. The lark’s on the wing, the snail’s on the thorn etc.

Back at the flat, the mood changes, snap!, just like that.

“I have some work to do this afternoon,” he informs me, ducking into his study and coming out with a paper bag. “So I’ll leave you a little task while I’m busy. I want my CD collection re-organised into the alphabetical order it was in before you and your friends decided to disarrange it. Then I want you to find pen and paper and write me two hundred lines, the line being: ‘I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times.’ At precisely five o’clock, I want you to knock on my office door to present me with your completed script, and I will expect you to be wearing
this
.” He thrusts the paper bag into my hands. “Is that clear?”

I nod dumbly, not daring to unwrap the brown paper parcel.

“Are you sure? Repeat my instructions.”

“Erm.
Put your CDs in alphabetical order. Write lines…”

“How many?”

“Two hundred. Ah…I will not…no, I will obey Professor Sinclair’s orders…”

“Instructions.”

“Instructions. At all times. Then…get changed and knock on your door at five.”

I look up. He nods. “Correct.
Until five then.”

He darts off into his office and shuts the door with an ostentatious (and ominous) bang.

I stare vaguely after him for a minute or two, then set to unwrapping the mystery attire.

A horrified giggle escapes my lips and I clap a hand over my mouth when the jumble of material falls
out on to the sofa beside me. A white shirt. A shortish pleated grey skirt. A striped tie. Some bottle green ribbon for my hair and a pair of white knee socks.
School uniform
. I shake my head bemusedly for a while, and then it occurs to me. School uniform. So I’m the naughty schoolgirl…and he’s the stern headmaster…calling me to his study… This can only mean one thing. The cane.

Chapter Seven

I begin to
chew the fingernails of the hand that is stopping my mouth. I can’t quite judge the balance here between turned-on and terrified. Isn’t the cane supposed to be, like, really, really painful? I recall an incident during  my adolescence when, in the spirit of experimentation, I whacked myself across the backside with a wooden strut from a kite. That hurt more than enough, yet the single red line that ensued disappeared within minutes. From the information I’ve gathered from old-fashioned boarding school stories, cane marks linger. For a long time. That’s a scary comparator straight away. But then, those old-fashioned boarding school stories always riveted me; I would go back and revisit the caning scenes endlessly, imagining myself caught in that heartstopping moment between the swipe and the stripe. And always wondering how it would feel….longing to know how it would feel…

And now is my chance.

I glance up at the clock; it is half-past two. I’ll be hard pressed to complete both tasks by five o’clock – I estimate the lines will take two and a half hours by themselves. Best get to work.

*

Although Sinclair’s clock does not have chimes, I can almost hear doom-laden Big Ben style tolling as the big hand reaches the twelve and the little hand shivers on to the five.

I had had to abandon the lines at 161 ten minutes earlier so that I would be appropriately dressed for the occasion, and now I have my hair in two silly little bunches, the white shirt not-quite-buttoned all the way, due to it being a flipping size eight, so the tie is hanging in a slovenly m
anner around my undone collar. The horrible knife pleats of the grey flannel skirt brush against my thighs in a way that brings back memories of dull school assemblies, though I suspect the upcoming experience will maintain my attention rather more effectively than those drear-fests.

My fingers are flapping as I pick up the uncompleted lines and there is a tightness in my throat that makes me wonder if I will be able to sp
eak once I’m facing the music. I knock three times.

“Enter.”

I edge the door open slowly.  Sinclair, fully suited and booted, turns from his desk, stands and beckons me forward to stand a foot or so away from him. God, he looks fine. For a split second I almost forget to be apprehensive, I so love that disapproving look he has. He folds his arms and glowers. Wow. I like that.

“Ah, the miscreant,” he says, a sardo
nic edge to his words. Well, who was he expecting? Not sure what to say to that, so I just hang my head. He holds his hand out, for the lines I am clutching to my chest, presumably. I hand them over. He peruses them, eyebrow raised. “Incomplete,” he notes, though he must have known I had no hope of finishing them in the time available. I’m sure it’s all part of the plan. “And is that really your idea of an acceptable standard of dress?” He puts forth a hand and tugs at the offending tie.

“The shirt
doesn’t fit, sir,” I object. “And I didn’t have time to do the lines.”

He puts up a hand, indicating that I should zip my lip.
“You’ll have to remind me, Miss Newland, exactly how many of your lame excuses I’ve heard now; I rather fear I have lost count.”

My lips do a kind of stammery thing but no sound issues.

“I would ask you to explain your flagrant breaking of bounds by entering my study regardless of my strict prohibition, but I’m sure nothing enlightening could possibly result from such a line of enquiry, so I will refrain. The facts of the case are clear; I forbade you to come in here and you chose to disobey me. It only remains to administer the necessary deterrent to your pursuing further infractions of my rules in future. Do you have anything to say, Miss Newland, before I commence with your punishment?”

I could try, but my mouth still appears to be made of jelly, so I leave it for now.

“Not even an apology?” His hushed indignation causes the jelly-feeling to spread across my whole face and down the line of my torso.

“I…er…sorry, s
ir,” I whisper.

“No you aren’t,” he says matte
r-of-factly. “But you will be. I intend to ensure that you will be feeling sorry for some days to come.” He holds my eye while he removes his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Although I know exactly what this signifies I can’t resist a tiny tingle at the sight of his strong forearms and his absolute firmness of purpose. However much it hurts…and I know it will hurt a lot…this is still an illicit dream made flesh.

He turns to his bucket of implements in the corner and selects a
long, thin round-handled cane. Aha, I was right. What’s the bonus question? He taps it in the palm of his hand, demonstrating its flexibility and strength. My blood coalesces. 

“The cane,” he says, h
is tone low, almost seductive. “A last resort for the truly incorrigible. The ne plus ultra of disciplinary tools; it can make even a strong man buckle. I don’t use it lightly, Miss Newland, in any sense of the word, but you have earned it today. My prediction is that, by the end of this session, you will take every precaution to make sure you don’t earn it again.”

He caresses its whippy rattan length, then uses it to point to the desk, rapping it
down sharply on the aged wood. Eek. I startle and jump slightly.

“Palms flat on the desk, Miss Newlan
d, bent at the waist, please.” I scurry to comply, now having the sincere wish to get this over with. “Feet further apart.” I feel an unwelcome tap on the inside of my knees and reposition so that suitable triangularity is attained. He places the cane on the desk in front of my nose and I have to avert my eyes. I am craning my neck up at one of Sinclair’s fat-bottomed-girl prints on the wall when he prowls up behind me and raises my skirt to the waist, resting his hand on my cotton knickers, patting them slightly as if assessing my flesh’s level of resistance. This is a truly sinister gesture and I squirm beneath it.

“Now then, Miss Newland,” he into
nes to my presented posterior. “You will receive six strokes of the cane for your disobedience, and a further two for incorrect uniform.” Not fair! I gasp, but sense that resistance will be futile. “But first, I need to address your incomplete lines. Thirty nine short. Shall we make it a round forty?”

“Forty?!” I shriek, and he chuckles slightly at the misunderstanding.

“Oh, not with the cane,” he reassures. “Just as a little entrée…a warm-up if you like. With my hand.”

My shoulders drop with relief, but not for long, because he tugs at my waistband and before I have time to think, my knickers are around my knees, stretched as tight as they will go.

“After each stroke, Miss Newland, I will require you to repeat the line. Can you remember what it is?”

Duh, can I remember?
I’ve just written the bleeding thing 161 times. “I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times,” I parrot.

“That’s right.
Very well, we will begin.”

I feel erroneously blasé about the process before it begins; erroneously because my little chorus of ‘yeah, yeah, hand spanking, how bad can it be?’ shatters into a cacophony of outraged shrieks once the first mighty crack of palm agains
t skin jolts me into the desk. I mean, ouch! I always forget how hard the man can spank without recourse to any man-made assistance.

“Oh!
I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times.” Brace, grit teeth, screw eyes tight shut. I’m going to be here for some time.

By the time the full forty have been absorbed into the heated flesh of my rump, I am presumably well-reddened and I really feel that I
am suitably chastened already. Is that cane
really
necessary?

“I’m sorry, sir,” I pipe up hopefully. “Truly.
I won’t do it again, I swear.” His hands are slowly travelling across the warm globes and I wriggle them into his touch, figuring that perhaps I can divert him into a nice desktop shag instead. He laughs and pinches the sizzling surface so that I wince.

“Nice try, Miss Newland, but brazenness will not spare you.”
Abruptly his hands are withdrawn and the cane is swiped up into the air away from my face. The next thing I feel is its cold wooden length against my buttocks, pressing into the sore heat that is throbbing there already. He places it consideringly against various points along the cleft, perhaps measuring angles and distances. He seems very thorough in his task. At length his scientific study appears to be complete and he takes up position to my left, just beyond my line of vision.

“You are required to maintain your position throughout, Miss Newland, dif
ficult as this may be. Should you try to jump up or out of the way, or touch your behind, I will have to apply the cane to your hands, which, I assure you, is even more painful. I want you to count each stroke and thank me once all eight have been administered. Do you understand?”

“Yes, s
ir,” I snivel. 

“Are you ready?”

No, of course not! “Yes, sir,” I snivel.

He lays the cane once more in a line against the centre
of my bottom, then raises it. He pauses a while, so I am caught off-guard by the low whooshing behind me and then, with a deadly wrist-flick, the rod snaps across my bum and I…oh, it doesn’t hurt…oh…yes, it bloody DOES! 

“Aaaiiiieeee!” I am appalled at the vicious streak of fire that sears
a line where the cane landed. Man alive! This is intolerable. I can’t possibly take even one more of these, let alone seven. Is there no way I can soften his heart? “Oh please,” I babble, “I can’t…I’m sorry. I won’t do anything like it again.”

“As ever, the first stroke brings forth an outpouring of false contrition,” says Sinclair disdainfu
lly. “Take your punishment with dignity, Miss Newland; there is no escape, so you may as well make the best of it.”

I try to regulate my breathing, but my body will not accept tha
t this ordeal has to continue. “But it really HURTS, Sir,” I wail.

“
I know. I don’t believe I’ve heard your count yet?” He lays the horrible thing against my backside again and I quickly pipe, “One, sir.”

He taps it gently two or three times, then it is swinging upwards and I clench my flat palms into fists, biting down on one of them before the cane paints another incandescent stripe in rivalry with the first, just beneath it.

“Oooooh nooooo,” I waver, swaying and twisting and moving from one foot to the other against the all-pervading sting. “Please, please, please don’t…”

“The count,
Miss Newland. If I have to remind you again, there will be additional strokes.”

“Two, s
ir,” I say miserably.

At the third stroke I can’t keep still any longer and I leap up to rub my poor bottom, shoutin
g “Three, sir,” as I do so.

“Oh dear me, no, Miss Ne
wland,” he reproves. “I warned you there would be consequences for this. This is what it takes, isn’t it, to get the message through to you?”

“I’ve got the message, s
ir, really I have!” I assure him urgently but he shakes his head.

“Hand,” he commands. Oh no.
I hold out a shaky palm; he taps the cane against it then whips it smartly down – not from a great height, but it didn’t need to be. I howl and tuck the wounded palm into my armpit, tears springing to my eyes.

“B
ack down,” he says pitilessly. I begin to sob melodramatically, hoping against hope that I can make him feel guilty and relent. Ha. Fat chance. I resume my position over the desk and resign myself to five more cutting swipes before Sinclair will be satisfied I have paid the price of my misdeeds. “You understand now that disobedience from you will not be tolerated?”

“Yes, s
ir,” I mope.

“Good. Let us continue.”
The fourth stroke catches me at a sensitive spot underneath the curve of my bottom and it takes every speck of willpower I possess not to leap up again, but somehow I succeed.

“Aaaaaaaaaah ffffffour, s
ir.”  I pull myself back and forth over the smooth surface of the desk moaning in a low register.

“I think you’re learning,” says Sinclair sardonically.

After what seems like an age of agony, and two further strokes on the hands for leaping up twice more, Sinclair swishes the final swingeing sizzler and I can say with hysterical relief, “Eight, Sir, thank you, sir.”

My hands are throbbing and seem to have swollen to twice their normal size, my legs are wobbling hopelessly and I cannot even start to describ
e the pulsing pain of my rear. I am too busy shaking and trying to come to earth from a strange floaty place just above my head to think about Sinclair, but eventually I hear his breathing, slightly laboured, behind me and hear him replace the cane with its fellows. Then I remember. “Unapologetic sadist.” Now I think I finally understand what I have let myself in for. This is what Sinclair truly enjoys; the infliction of pain. He is bound to want to do it again.

He leans down over me and places his hands on my shoulders, pulling me upright and keeping hold of me in case I fall over, which is a very real possibility.