Lecture Notes (14 page)

“Do you understand now, Miss Newland?”  he murmurs into my ear, and I think I know what he is asking me. “Do you appreciate the true and serious consequences of your actions?”

I pause. I can say no.
If I say no, he will let me go. It will all be over. I stand, swaying slightly, under his hands, my head leaning back into his shoulder, feeling his heat, his breath, almost his heartbeat. He is hanging on my answer.

“I do, sir,” I whisper.
“I will behave better in future.”

He turns me round to face him, an eyebrow ra
ised. “Honestly, Beth? You think you can live with me? Live like this?”

A strong flame of love burns fiercer th
an the throb of my sorry arse. I nod. He runs a hand down the side of my face, slowly and consideringly. “Thank you,” he says, barely audibly. Then he moves the hand down to my ridged, roasted backside and tests it for heat, appearing well-pleased with the results he finds. “How does that feel, Beth?” he asks, running a finger wincily across each welt.

“Oooh, it’s very sore, s
ir,” I whimper, tensing my face against the sting.

“Hm, I daresay you’ll have difficulty sitt
ing tonight,” he says thickly. Christ!  That’s a point. Unless the dining chairs at the Gourmet Boat are padded in the manner of the bed in the Princess and the Pea story, I am going to have to hover half an inch off the seat all evening. How sophisticated. Could I get away with saying that it’s what everyone is doing in London these days? The thought is chased from my mind when Sinclair pulls me suddenly and roughly against him and…helloooo…something
very
big and
extremely
hard is making a cock-shaped dent in my stomach.

“Get into the bedroom,” he whispers, his te
eth nipping lightly at my ear. “I want you on all fours on the bed.”

I catch my breath.
“Should I undress?”

“No
, keep the uniform on. Though you can lose the knickers. Go on. Now.”

I kick the unwanted underwear off on the floor
and make haste to the bedroom. I can hear Sinclair tutting behind me, picking the knickers up. “Not on the bloody
floor
,” he grouses under his breath. Oops, forgot – compulsive neatnik, even in the heat of passion.

I must say, even with the throbbing in my bum to keep me warm, this is shaping up to be one
of the better days of my life. Sex, shopping, egg sandwiches, more sex…OK, caning, but that wasn’t sooo bad, I suppose. These are a few of my favourite things – forget whiskers on kittens and warm woollen mittens.

I hum the classic Sound of Music track as I
prepare to offer myself once more to my lash-happy lover. I am quite conscious of the dull internal ache below from this morning’s session and worry that he is going to hurt me, but when he enters the room, murmuring approbation at my submissive position, it seems he has plans other than the immediate conjunction of our sex organs. 

He kneels beside my prostrated form and begins to rub a divinely cooling gel into my welted posterior…oh, it feels so good…oh, those fingers should win an award….

“Don’t get used to this, Beth,” he warns. “I’m only doing it because it’s your first time with the cane. If I have occasion to punish you in this manner again, I will not offer you any kind of salve.”

His words melt like kisses into my ears
as he soothes on and now the sting has abated to manageable proportions and instead of feeling uncomfortable I merely feel supremely horny.

“Of course, only a very foolish and heedless young lady would misbehave seriously enough to merit a second dose of the cane, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir,” I sigh, feeling the cold gel warmed by my hot backside and absorbed almost immediately into its furnacelike embrace.

“Good.
Some arnica to avoid bruising now….and then….” Sinclair is breathing heavily through his nose. I’m pretty sure that erection hasn’t gone anywhere. He moves a couple of fingers down to the puffy entrance of my sex. “How are you feeling down here?” he asks solicitously. “Sore at all?”

“A little,” I admit, trying to move away and prevented by his hand on my back.

“Hm, well, you’re quite wet,” he observes, circling a fingertip around and around. “Perhaps a little pain on entry, but you can get through that, can’t you, Beth?”

“Oh…” I whimper as he pushes the finger fur
ther in and wiggles it inside. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll see,” he hisses, and I can hear the sounds of unbuttoning, of divesting.
  “I’ve spent a long time imagining this day, Beth. The day I am finally able to penetrate you after administering a punishment.” The wet tip of his cock rubs against the tender spot and I whimper again. “You can’t begin to understand how frustrating it was for me, all those times I spanked you and had to let you go. All I wanted to do was bend you back over and fuck you hard, but the time wasn’t right. It’s right now though. And I certainly intend to fulfil my modest fantasy.”

He rams himself all the wa
y to the hilt. I squeal at the initial wincey rawness, but once that has passed, he is quite right…it feels fine. More than fine. The luscious fullness cancels out the chafing; he feels thick and wide and inescapable. I grab a handful of duvet and bury my face in its fabric-conditioned softness, pushing back on his shaft, inviting him down deeper and deeper, stretched and slick and almost split with his amazing girth. His hands slap down on my hips and he pummels me hard, fast, furious, his pelvis banging repeatedly into the sensitive sorest part of my bottom where it creases into thigh, never allowing me to forget that I am recently punished and that this is all part of the performance. Fucking at this level of frenzy is pretty hard to sustain for long, and luckily the thickness of Sinclair ensures that he stimulates my g-spot with every stroke so it is a matter of minutes before I start to yell into the cool Egyptian cotton, feeling myself utterly possessed, totally taken and I wail his name…. “Sinclaaaaair,” which – don’t know if it’s coincidence – brings him gushing and roaring and slapping into his own orgasm, his hands landing sharply on my poor bottom as he shoots.

I remain in position, head pressed down, spine sloping, arse in air when he pulls out and watches his rem
nants trickling down my thigh. “Don’t move for a minute,” he says from behind me. “I want to take a photograph.” God. Here I am, spanked and shagged and exhausted, and that’s his idea of a Kodak moment. Pervert. Gorgeous, sexy pervert. I hear the click and flash, then feel the mattress plunge as he throws himself down next to me.

“You aren’t putting that on the internet, are you?” I ask suspiciously.

“Of course not,” he laughs. He forces my face out of the duvet and turns it to him. He is smiling, running a fingertip over the creases left by its submersion in his quilt. 

“Is this the new look, t
hen? The Duvet Facial?”

I giggle.
Oh flip, we’re supposed to be going out in a little over an hour. I just want to stay here, languishing on the bed with my masterful lover.

“Tell me you belong to me,” he purrs, close to my ear.

“I belong to you,” I oblige and his smile broadens.

“Perfect.
Come on, then, my naughty little schoolgirl, up and dressed! You’ve less than an hour to make yourself presentable.”

He jumps up off the bed and commences stalking around opening
wardrobes and unknotting ties. I shut my eyes and try to fall asleep, having no energy left, but am not permitted to drowse for long. I am hustled into the shower, oiled up, perfumed, dressed and made-up according to a schedule of military precision.

“Why don’t you ever do anything with your hair?” he asks me, watching me as I primp in the mirror, adding a final layer of mascara.

“Oh,” I shrug. “I don’t really get hair.”

He sweeps forward and runs his fingers throu
gh it, lifting it off my neck. My hair is somewhat heavy, poker-straight and shoulder-length, of an indeterminate brownish shade.

“You’re quite presentable when you make
the effort,” he says severely. “But you hide underneath this…veil of grunge all the time. Why do young women do that?”

“Perhaps your opinion of our looks isn’t the be-all and end-all of our universe,” I retort, rather daringly, I think.

I watch his eyebrow shoot upward in the mirror. “Feisty,” he says menacingly and a shiver runs through me. Almost unconsciously, he rubs my bottom through the thin fabric of my dress, reminding me of the dynamic of our relationship. As if I could forget. My tiny whimper at the contact brings a smile to his lips.

He begins twisting and manipulating my mane and I am astonished
at his skill in this area. Closet hairdresser; who’d have thought it? 

“You don’t colour your hair?” he says and I snort.

“Why would I dye it
this
colour? Dull light brown.”

“Plenty of women would like to have this natural colour,” he insists.  “Ca
ramel…or honey…honey-caramel.” Wow, he’s so lyrical. He shoves in a couple of grips and stands back to admire his artistry. “Perfect,” he says, for the second time in an hour. “You’ll do, young lady. Come on; we can’t be late.”

In the taxi on the way, I treat him to a volley of questions.

“Will there be many people there? Who are they? Will they think it’s weird that I’m with you? Will they disapprove?” The answers, respectively: Eight, friends and colleagues, perhaps, who cares? Then a very pertinent, “What should I call you?”

I’v
e been wondering this all day. I can’t call him ‘Sir’ or ‘Professor’ at a social gathering, surely, without raising eyebrows. But then…what can I call him? Not ‘Eliot’ – I just couldn’t!

“What do you want to call me?
Within the bounds of propriety?” He smirks.

“Oh…I don’t know.”

“What was it you said earlier on? While I was making you come so hard you couldn’t move for half an hour afterwards?” I flush furiously and the cabbie tactfully turns up the radio dial.

“Jesus Christ!” I fluster.

“No, that wasn’t it,” he says smoothly. “Though you’d be forgiven…”

“Sinclair!”

“Yes. Call me that. Lots of people do. Most people, in fact. It won’t be remarked upon.”

*

We are exactly punctual – another of Sinclair’s little control-freak quirks – and take our places at an extravagantly dressed table, almost collapsing beneath the weight of all the floral arrangements and fine silverware. Sinclair sits opposite me at the end of the table, and I find myself beside a tall, rangy man with alert brown eyes and a roguish grin. The roguish grin makes its debut appearance as I move to sit and then remember too late how ferociously sore my arse is.

“Good aaaaaaahvening,” I sa
y in response to his greeting. He chuckles and introduces himself as Rob. His wife, Mel, is sitting next to Sinclair across the table, a thin-lipped efficient-looking brunette.

“Very good friends of mine,” nods
Sinclair without elaborating. Good friends in what sense, I’m wondering. Colleagues? Schoolfriends? Ex-lovers?

“How
did you meet?” I ask lightly. There is a beat of silence.

“It was through me,” offers Mel, u
nsmiling. “I was working with Sinclair…we were having a not-very-serious relationship. Then we both met Rob at…a party.”

“Oh.”
I can read between the lines. Was it a ménage? Is it
still?
My eyes must be giving these speculations away, for Rob laughs again and changes the subject, mentioning a meal he and Mel had not enjoyed at a new bistro in town, before we all turn our attention to the menu. Well, partially, at least, because I am very conscious of being the gastronomic centrepiece at
this
table, rather like one of those spit-roast porkers with an apple stuffed in its mouth. I lose count of the number of sidelong glances swiftly diverted that shoot across to me from all directions. The men seem amused, the women equally split between envy and disapproval.

I ignore them, concentrate on my food and Sinclair, who, despite his marginal position at the corner of the table, certainly appear
s to be the focus of the room. It is interesting to watch him among peers. The student’s eye view of him is as this distant god who cannot be known…but he does have friends after all. Although he appears to command a certain level of respect, he gets teased occasionally, even challenged. The conversation is fast-paced, sophisticated, clever – and I realise with a pang that I cannot possibly contribute to it. I have no idea what they are all on about. My mood begins to drop and I become tense and anxious at my inability to shoulder through the barrier of intellectual inadequacy and throw myself into the debate. Sinclair will see me for what I am  - a witless dullard with nothing to say for herself. I so want to dazzle, both him and his circle, yet I’m in a stranglehold of uncharacteristic shyness. He will leave me, for one of these worldly-wise glamourpusses gathered here. What, after all, can we possibly have in common.

My appetite wanes and I drop my fork to my plate, watching Sinclair de
molish somebody’s viewpoint on compulsory identity cards.