Lecture Notes (18 page)

“One more try,” he says
. I make a dramatic sobbing sound, but to be honest, I don’t think I’ll be able to come again. My clit feels worn to a nubbin already.  But….oh god…he flicks the switch again, so the buzzing increases in volume and frequency. Oh God. What did I just say? I begin to thrash wildly and mindlessly, pulling at my restraints, rubbing my hot backside against the sheets, finding that the stinging there creeps up and around my throbbing sex, adding another flavour to the feast of sensation already in progress there. The long shaft presses mercilessly against my slippery walls, round and round. Sinclair stands up by the side of the bed, staring down at me, arms folded, so intimidating that I have to shut my eyes again.

I can’t believe I’m having to ask already, but I f
eel the tremor beginning and I wail, “Please, sir, please let me come.”

“Again?
So soon, Beth?” is all he will say. Bastard!

“Please…please…”
But I cannot wait for his reply; however hard I try to clamp down on every nerve ending, my climax will not be denied and out it roars, thumbing its nose at Sinclair, who watches impassively from the sidelines. I keep my eyes closed again, my tongue lolling uselessly in my mouth as I feel Sinclair return to the bed, lift my legs once more, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, six more in rapid succession, cutting into my bum with heartless precision, then the vibrator is pulled out with a soft slicking sound and tossed aside, and before I can open my eyes, my heels are on Sinclair’s shoulders and he is ploughing straight into me, hard and fast, hands on my hips. Despite my multi-orgasmic malaise, I sigh with pleasure at the feel of
him
, his warm, human flesh on mine, his thick rod slipping up and down my well-used slopes, and after about ten minutes of this joyful primal coupling he growls, “You may come, Beth,” and…I do. Just like that. Just his voice, his words, are enough now. He fills me up and comes down to rest on top of me, his hands on my silk-strapped wrists, his mouth over mine. Our tongues dart and flick lazily against each other. I am in another place now, a place far away from the world I once knew. I am in Sinclair’s possession.

Chapter Nine

Now that I am Possessed, there has been a shift in my perspective on life. Nothing else matters except the higher will of Sinclair. I don’t have to chew my fingernails with worry, fend off my bank manager or do any of that tedious decision-making stuff because Sinclair does it all for me. Even chewing my fingernails. OK, I made that last part up.

My priorities have altered beyond imaginati
on. Where before they might have been listed thus:

1)
                  
Don’t get thrown out of University

2)
                 
Don’t get thrown out of accommodation

3)
                 
Don’t get taken to court by bank

4)
                 
Opera practice

…they can now be listed quite differently:

1)
                  
Do what Sinclair says

2)
                 
Do what Sinclair says

3)
                 
Do what Sinclair says

4)
                 
Opera practice

We spend most of the time in bed or studying, together or independently. Nothing and nobody intrudes into our perfect cocoon. By Thursday Sinclair has introduced me to sexual positions even the Kama Sutra doesn’t recognise; I have been taught how to deep-throat (tricky) and how to insert ben wa balls (easier); I have been spanked innumerably, paddled (twice) and tied down to the coffee table with a dildo inside me and a strap applied to me while the curtains of the picture windows hung wide open so (admittedly very eagle-eyed) passers-by could see the tableau.

I am
learning to be what he wants. If I can be what he wants, then he will never leave.

But on this Thu
rsday, Sinclair has to go out. He has a meeting with the TV company. I am left with instructions to spend forty five minutes on the gym equipment, take a shower and then wait for him, on my knees, naked on the living room carpet with the riding crop between my teeth. If he is satisfied with my pose on his return, I will only get six. If not, he will double the total. Or treble it, if he is really very dissatisfied.

I do spend the allotted forty five minutes in the spare room, though I spend most of it at a dawdling pace on the running machine, daydreaming about Sinclair and I holidaying on the French Riviera, sipping café noir at pavement ca
fes and shagging on the beach. Will he take me abroad? Will he still want me, come the summer?

I shower, carefully depilate, then when I am completely oiled up and perfumed as he desires, I m
ake my way to the living room. On the way, some errant impulse makes me stop by the office door and turn the handle. It is unlocked. Nothing more to conceal from me here then.

I tiptoe in, shivering slightly at the sight of his canes – I’m still faintly marked from that experience – and look for a lurid novel to read while I’m stuck in slave-ready mode.
There are plenty to choose from, many of historical interest and quite a few in French. But as I slip
The History of the Human Heart
out of the shelf, I notice something lodged behind it. A videotape.

I take it out and inspect it.
“
Mel’s Birthday
” is written on the label. Is this…a sex tape? I check the clock; he will be gone for another hour. I’m going to do this.  No, what if it’s awful? I’m going to do this. What if it really upsets me? I can’t not do this!

There is ye olde
VCR, just above the DVD player on the console. I slip the tape inside, switch on the television and await enlightenment. Should I get some popcorn? I idly debate the wisdom of getting a drink from the kitchen, but my attention is grabbed straightaway when a slightly wavy, discoloured Mel appears before camera, dressed to the nines in a rubber dress and spike heels, grinning up at me brazenly. Her hair is different; this must be a few years ago. When was Sinclair with her? Ten years ago…no, it can’t be as long ago as that. The music playing in the background is by Zero Seven…five years? Roughly.

Lounging on an overstuffed sofa in the background is Rob, wearing only a bathrobe and a lecherous smile.

“Guess what?” says a marginally tipsy Mel. “It’s my birthday. I am 30! Oh my God! 30! Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me then.”

Rob sings a couple
of bars. “Aren’t you going to join in, Sinclair?”

F
uck! Sinclair is behind the camera. What is going on here?

“
Aw, Sinclair, you should sing! Use that lovely voice.” Mel winks to camera. “Sinclair here is my birthday treat. I wanted a proper good old-fashioned birthday arse-whipping, and nobody tops quite like Sinclair. No offence, babe.” She throws her head round at Rob, who waves a hand. “Rob is going to help him out. I’m a bit of a handful and sometimes it takes two. But now I’m going to get this thing off, and I’m not doing it for camera! This rubber is a bugger to get out of.” She shimmies off, humming “You’re the tops” and the film goes grainy for a second.

I feel sick already, but the scene changes so that
the camera is pointing to a sofa set in the middle of the room. Rob, now in an open-necked shirt and smart trousers, strolls into shot and sits down, back straight, looking slightly uncomfortable if truth be told. 

“Mel, I want you he
re now,” he says peremptorily. Mel scurries on screen, now nearly naked but for a cupless leather corset and a pair of hold-up fishnets. “Kneel.” Rob points to the floorspace between his knees. Mel kneels, her back to the camera, so her tight tanned bottom faces the audience. “Now, Mel, as you know, we’ve been having some difficulties with your attitude, haven’t we?”

“Spose so,” says Mel sulkily.
She is not a great actress, so it is clear from the start that this is role-play rather than a genuine disciplinary scenario such as I get from Sinclair.

“You suppose so? I know so. A bit too much backchat.
Staying out late without calling. Sulking when I remind you how you should be behaving. It’s not good enough, Mel, not good enough at all. So I’ve decided that it’s time for a lesson.”

“A lesson?”

“Yes. You don’t seem to have any respect for me, so I’ve called on somebody you do respect. He is going to help me deliver this lesson.”

“What? You’ve done what?
Who?”

“Sinclair.”

“Oh God, please, not Sinclair!” I almost giggle at the corny way she delivers the line, but I remember to be appalled when a pinstriped Sinclair appears at the side of the shot, carrying a briefcase in one hand and some longer implements…a cane, and I think a crop…in the other. They must have stuck the camera on a tripod or something. Unless there’s someone else…bloody hell. Sodom and Gomorrah, right here in my living room.

“Please not Sinclair?” his distinctive voice is low an
d silky, with a definite edge. “Why would that be, young lady?”

“You’re so strict!” wails Mel.
“I can’t negotiate with you like I can with Rob.”

“Inde
ed. Hence his need to call on me. Perhaps this will have the positive effect on your behaviour that is so sorely needed.”

“Very sorely,” grins Rob.
“How do you advise we start this off?”

Sinclair comes to sit on the s
ofa next to his odious friend. “I’d like you to take her over your knee and show me how you discipline her first.”

“Fine.”
Rob motions Mel to her feet and she drops herself sideways over his lap. Sinclair nips up and adjusts the camera so that it zooms into her expectant globes. No fourth person in the room, then; just the fourth wall.

“Begin,” says
Sinclair once he has returned. Rob raises his hand and commences spanking Mel, the slaps raining down fast and moderately hard, though Mel does not even try to move and appears scarcely affected. “Is that your hardest stroke?” asks Sinclair politely.

“Oh
no, I can go harder than this. Would you like to see?” The mild splats turn to earnest smacking sounds and Mel starts to jerk around, voicing the odd complaint beneath Rob’s intransigent palm. Sinclair occasionally offers advice, pointing out areas that seem less reddened, or urging Rob not to slack off when he seems to tire.

“It’s all very
well, Sinclair,” protests Rob. “But don’t you ever find that this hurts your hand? I can’t seem to go for longer than five minutes or so.”

“You need to stif
fen your palm,” says Sinclair. “Although it’s probable that your skin is more sensitive than mine. I find I can spank very hard for twenty minutes before I feel an adverse effect. Perhaps you should move on now.” He takes his briefcase, snaps it open and removes an oval-backed wooden hairbrush. “This will spare your precious palms.”

“Thanks.”
Rob takes the hairbrush and spends another five minutes achieving full coverage of Mel’s rear. By now she is starting to suffer, her breath coming in short gasps, though she does nothing like pleading or crying out, like I would.

“Good,” says Sinclair. “Nice and red all over.
Put her in the corner and I’ll take over from here.” He lays one hand on Mel’s bottom, seeming pleased with the heat that transfers from it. Mel jumps up and allows Rob to escort her to the corner of the room. He comes back and picks up the camera, moving it closer to Mel’s humiliating billet. Sinclair moves out of shot for a second or two, then returns, swishing his riding crop through the air. Ah, I feel a slight thrill of recognition. It’s the same one he uses on me; the one I’m supposed to have between my teeth right now. Oh, weirdness, weirdness. This is not like recognising someone you were at school with on the local news – this is a SEX FILM and the star is YOUR BOYFRIEND. Heh heh. Boyfriend. That sounds so wrong. Look, I should be getting worked up and hysterical. I should stop drifting off into silly mental alleyways. Though I suspect this is all a coping mechanism. Anyway, he is up behind Mel now and he is going to say something.

“How
does this feel, Mel?” he says. “To know that your behaviour has been so unsatisfactory that Rob has had to call in a disciplinarian for you?”

“
Uh…” Mel is lost for words. The crop cracks down on her arse. I feel squirmy on her behalf. I imagine it’s me in that corner, taking the stroke. I certainly know how that feels.

“Well?”

“I’m ashamed, sir,” she mumbles. The crop lashes once more.

“I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I’m ashamed, sir.”

“As you should be.” Another stroke.
“We are going to rectify the situation so that Rob can be proud of you rather than ashamed. What do you say to that?”

Another stroke.

“That’s good, sir.” Another stroke.

“You won’t be forgetting t
his lesson in a hurry.” Another stroke and she jumps slightly to the left; the first real physical reaction I have seen from her. Sinclair moves her back into place with a stroke to the thigh, the cruelty of which makes me protest on her behalf. “Ooh, you bastard,” I say under my breath.

“Now then, Mel, you will be bending over the arm of the sofa and receiving thirty strokes of the cane.”

Thirty?!
And Mel echoes my thought, yelping “Thirty!?” Swit swat, on the nasty spot between thigh and buttock.

“That’s rig
ht. Thirty.” One final smack of the crop and he throws it aside (but not before he is sure it will land on the sofa rather than the floor). “I have to make sure you are going to take this seriously. Now take your place over the arm of the sofa, legs apart at shoulder-width, if you please.”

“I’m not sure I can do thirty
with the cane,” mopes Mel, possibly regretting her choice of birthday entertainment now. “Can’t you use the strap instead?”

“As you mentioned yourself earlier on, Mel, I am not a man you
negotiate with. Now bend over.”

I am
agog as the caning commences. I cannot even imagine what thirty strokes would be like. Eight was barely tolerable; after thirty I doubt I’d have any arse left to speak of. Mel grits her teeth and rolls around on the balls of her feet as Sinclair swipes on, having her count each stroke. Her voice gets weaker and weaker, her fingers scratch the upholstery and clutch, but somehow she keeps position. She must be very experienced. Will I ever be that experienced with caning? Fuck, what a thought. If I really want Sinclair, I suppose I’ll have to be.

She makes it to thirty, her bo
ttom a clutter of red stripes. “Thirty, sir,” she whispers faintly.

“One to grow on,” prompts Rob from behind the camera, and Sinclair gives the most savage stroke yet, through which
Mel can no longer keep still. She leaps to her feet, shrieking and clutching at her bum. I can see it is on the tip of her tongue to swear at Sinclair, but even she does not dare. He places his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers pressing into the flesh there.

“I should bend you back down and give you six more,” he says in a voice that makes me, and presumably Mel, shiver.
“However, since it’s your birthday….”