Fifty Days of Sin

by Serena Dahl

  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.

  Thirteen

  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 Chri
stine 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.”

  “Well, you can see their point,” puts in Clive tactlessly. “If half the workforce have to work five days a week and the other half have days off the full-time people are bound to have to take up the slack for the part-timers.”

  “It’s not quite like that, actually, Clive,” answers Christine, clearly a little annoyed at his comment. “People who are part-time usually end up fielding calls when they’re not supposed to be working, and aren’t getting paid, so it’s not like they’re slacking off or anything. And they always make arrangements so there are other members of each client service team physically at work, and contactable, on the days they’re off. The clients generally seem happy enough.”

  “And how are Mum and Dad?” Adam asks Clive, changing the subject. As Clive tells his brothers how things are going back at the family home, I feel Adam’s hand slide round to reach my inner thigh. The conversation pauses as the waiter takes our orders.

  “And Mum’s still doing your washing and cooking, is she?” resumes George.

  “Well, it makes her happy,” answers Clive with a lazy grin. “Who am I to argue?”

  George shakes his head at his incorrigible younger brother and asks him how his love life’s going. I learn that Clive’s been internet dating but he claims that all the girls he’s met this way have been freaks.

  “What’s so awful about them?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Well, the first was the worst. We met up for a drink, it was all going fine, we agreed to see each other again, and then she started texting me. All the time. If I didn’t text her back within the hour she’d be sending me another message accusing me of using her. She said I was... what was the phrase she used? Picking her up and throwing her away like a toy. Just because I hadn’t texted her for half a day. Anyway, that one didn’t last.”

  “She does sound just a little bit possessive,” I agree. “What about the others?”

  “Oh, the next one had a hair problem,” he says. “I mean, a serious hair problem. Honestly, she had a proper full-on moustache like a bloke. She was quite pretty apart from that... until she took her clothes off. And then I found out that the hair didn’t stop there. Armpits, legs... ugh. And more. If you know what I mean.”

  “Did it not occur to you to not get her clothes off, once you’d seen that she’d got a moustache?” Christine asks him.

  “Well, you don’t look at the mantelpiece when you’re stoking the fire, do you?” he replies. I am so surprised by his outrageously sexist comment that I actually gape. I see Christine’s incredulous expression mirror mine and as we look at each other, we burst out laughing. Unfortunately Clive seems to see this as encouragement, so he goes on to describe his third internet date with a woman who claimed to be twenty-six but he estimates must have been forty-six. I find his stories little difficult to believe, and when he says that he gave up internet dating after this bad experience I have to admit I’m relieved to hear it.

  “Sorry about my brother,” Adam apologises to me, fixing Clive with a hard stare. “He can sometimes be a bit crass, but he seems to be pulling out all the stops today.”

  Our food arrives then, creating a welcome diversion, and I start on my goat’s cheese tart, which is lovely. I ask Christine what she and George have got planned for the rest of the weekend. They’
re going to the cinema with friends tomorrow. As she enthuses about recent films she’s seen and predicts that she won’t be getting to see many movies after the baby is born, I’m glad we’ve returned to more neutral topics. Clive still manages to be argumentative, even on the subject of favourite films, and particularly seems to want to disagree with me at every opportunity; but despite this, I relax a little more as I enjoy the food. The second large glass of wine, which the waiter brought with my starter, helps too.

  We talk about music too, and Adam tells the others about a gig he went to in the week, with Kathy’s brother Matt. “Oh, he went out with his mate, did he, and left you at home on your own? What are you playing at, Adam, don’t you know how to treat a lady?” teases George.

  “Well, since it was an Oasis tribute band, and I absolutely hate the original group, let alone some copycats who can’t write their own songs, I was happy for Matt to fill in for me,” I grin in reply.

  “Hate Oasis?” echoes Clive. “Adam, you have got to sort your woman out. She has no taste in music.”