“I’m sorry,” I gasp, pulling the opaque tights off my feet with some effort. “I don’t do this very often. I’m not very good at it.”
“You’ll learn,” he says equably, keeping his eyes trained directly on my face as I kneel up in my pedestrian white cotton underwear. I try to contort my arms behind my back to unclasp my bra, but he takes hold of a wrist. “Allow me,” he offers, moving around behind me and unfastening the hook before sliding the straps down my arms and off. His mouth is on the back of my neck, nuzzling it and his hands return to cup my freed breasts, exploring them in an effort to get a sense of their weight, shape and nipple hardness. The feel of Sinclair’s hard, clothed body pressing into my back, his fingers working on my sensitive mounds and his lips and teeth nipping around my ear combine to force a long moan from me, at which he increases the pressure on my painfully stiff nipples and starts sucking down in earnest, popping back up when he is satisfied I am well-marked and saying, “Get those knickers off,” with savagely crisp enunciation.
I hesitate, my brain addled somewhat by the divine conjunction of sensations across my body, and am paid for my moment of indecision with a sharp slap to my bottom. “I gave an order, Beth; I expect to be obeyed in my own bed.”
I yank them down so hard that the elastic snaps, feeling weightless and in limbo, having no idea what Sinclair plans to do to me, and knowing that I am not going to be consulted, whatever it is.
“Good.” He pushes me down on to my back and positions himself between my knees, looming over my vulnerable naked form while his eyes consume me. His hands drift over the curve of my breasts again and he nods with what appears to be approval. Then they move deliberately down, brushing my stomach and hips, pinching gently at the flesh of my thighs and then spreading them wider with a sudden flourish, bending his head lower to examine his brand new possession. His uncompromising scrutiny mortifies me and I move my head to the side, screwing my eyes shut as I feel his breath warm my quivering quim.
“No, Beth, you may not look away,” he says firmly. “Look at me. Watch what I do to you.”
Reluctantly, eyes still shut, I return my face to an upwards facing position. He pinches my thigh and my eyelids fly open.
“Better,” he growls. “Do that again and I’ll turn you over and give you a sore bottom, understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” I meep meekly.
His face is still with concentration, only his eyes flickering, as he studies my exposed sex in excruciating detail. Fingers trace the outline, first of my fleecy outer lips and then my more sensitive inner ones. He tweaks a curl of pubic hair and says, “This’ll have to go.” Then he introduces more fingers, rubbing and stroking and massaging the area in ever-decreasing circles until he finally arrives at the fleshy bud in the centre, by which point I am clutching at the duvet and arching my back. “This is enjoyable for you?” he asks as if he is a scientist conducting an experiment.
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Sir,” he reminds me.
“Yes, sir.”
“What about this?” He begins to thrum lazily at my clitoris with his thumb and forefinger, keeping the surrounding flaps of skin widely stretched with his other hand.
“Oh…yes, sir.”
His pressure on that nexus of nerve endings continues, but he moves two fingers away into the slippery wetness of my hole, massaging its entrance for a minute or two before sliding and wiggling upwards, probing in the dark.
“Hm, not a virgin,” he pronounces, establishing a rhythmic fingerfucking in concert with his frigging of my clit. “How many?”
“How…many?” I repeat foggily, beginning to lose touch with reality.
“Look at me, Beth! How many men have taken you up here?”
“Oh…two,” I moan.
“When was the last time?”
“Christmas…party…drunk…one-night stand.” I begin to kick my legs restlessly, feeling the first stirrings of a mighty orgasm unknot in my stomach.
“Oh yes? I should strap your arse just for that, you little trollop. Are you feeling it now?” He is plying those fingers harder and harder, almost painfully hard and I am clenching my teeth and breathing in short, sharp pants, nearly ready to blow.
“Ah, oh, oh, yes, sir.”
“Come for me, Beth.”
And, just like that, I do, jolting on his fingers as if they connect me to the mains electricity, feeling utterly, humiliatingly at his mercy. Which, I suppose, I am.
“Good girl,” he says, watching me subside until my head lolls heavily on my neck, my lips parted to expel ragged breath. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
“Could you tell?” I mutter, still embarrassed by the position of subjection he has put me in. He slaps my thigh sternly so that I wince.
“You will maintain a respectful tone towards me at all times, Beth,” he tells me. “Perhaps I can find a better use for that mouth than spouting smart remarks.”
I watch dumbly as he removes his tie and begins rapidly unbuttoning his shirt. Once it is untucked, he sets to unbuckling his belt – making me cringe slightly at the memory of the two occasions on which he has beaten me with it – and divesting himself of his trousers and underpants.
By the look on his face I can tell he is looking for a reaction to the grand unveiling of Sinclair Jr, but to be honest, I’m a little coy of checking it out blatantly. My eyes flick down quickly…flick back up again…and then I have to look back down just to ascertain that it is real. I don’t remember the last two being that size. I swallow.
“Wow,” I say sincerely. Then I cough.
“There’s really no need to worry,” he says smoothly, obviously used to eye-popping gasps of amazement. “Why don’t you get acquainted?”
He nods sharply downwards, indicating, I imagine, that he wants me to take it in my mouth. I stretch my lips a little on the way down, hoping they won’t crack around the edges. It’s not that I’m new to fellatio – far from it – but I can’t imagine how I’m going to get more than half of this monster in. I give the tip a tentative lick, swirling my tongue around, lollipop-style, before wrapping my mouth around it. I steady the base with my hands, feeling the rubbery hardness of it and marvelling at what I am doing. Sinclair takes a handful of my hair, ostensibly a gesture of affection but with the added advantage of preventing me from moving my head backwards. My elastic lips and lapping tongue move ever lower; I begin to suck in earnest and Sinclair emits a low growling which spurs me on.
“You should see yourself,” he commentates. “Bent over with my cock in your mouth. It’s a truly exquisite sight, Beth. I only wish I could photograph it. I only wish I could have it framed on my office wall.” I make a squeaky noise in the back of my throat at this, half alarmed and half amused at the thought of what Dr Blakey would say if he did. “No, don’t stop!” he cautions, pinching the nape of my neck hard so that I am encouraged to try and take even more of his inordinate length down my oesophagus. My cheek muscles are beginning to spasm and my entire face aches after just a few minutes, so it is a considerable relief when I feel his thrusts build in urgency, and it is rather decent of him to warn me that, “It’s coming, Beth, drink it down”. So I do. All of it. Not the worst tasting specimen I’ve ever swallowed, but it’s not exactly nectar either. I grimace and he takes my chin in his hand, wrenching it up.
“You will accept my seed gratefully, Beth, or be made to drink a cupful every day until you can.”
“Sorry, sir. Thank you, sir,” I say, not sure which of these is the correct response.
“I should think so.” He is mollified and moves both of his hands into my hair, kneading at my scalp so that blissful butterflies are released. “That was good, Beth. For a beginner. I have high hopes of you.”
I smile shyly and say, “Do you?” This is the nicest thing he has ever said to me. My heart swells.
“Oh yes.” He kisses me briefly on my overworked lips. “We should sleep now. I have rather a lot of plans for you tomorrow.”
/> “Oh. What?” I ask curiously, but he refuses to elaborate. “Wash yourself and come to bed, Beth. I need you in tiptop condition."
*
I wake during the night – the digital display on the alarm clock reads 3:17 – and before I can marshal my thoughts I wonder how I have come to be lying on a sheet whose threadcount is far, far higher than any I have ever previously experienced. Then I notice the wrist and hand lying heavily across my stomach, attached to the man I have desired for so long…OK, six months…and I breathe in his sleepy, manly smell and want to groan out loud at the way it fills me with longing. Sinclair, divine Sinclair, dreaming beside me, having plans for me tomorrow….I drift back into sleep, musing with pleasurable fear on what the plans could possibly be…
When I wake up next I register a tickle of lips on my neck before I have a chance to open my eyes. I catch a breath and feel the lips begin to press down, the tip of a tongue pushing into my sensitive flesh, then a suction against it, ooooh, I love that feeling, but never get to indulge it because I don’t want the embarrassment of having to account for love bites. If Sinclair carries on at this rate, though, there will certainly be a substantial mark there… I open my eyes.
“You’ll mark me,” I whisper hoarsely, noting the rather unconcealable spot he has chosen for this novel wake-up call. He simply presses fingers down on either side of his ravening mouth. When he finally finishes his wicked work, he gives me a dirty glint and says, “As I fully intend.”
His hands move down to my nipples, pinching them gently at first, then making me ‘Ooh!’ with the sharp twinge his fingers occasion.
“How painful is that?” he wants to know.
“Uh…moderately,” I say, not sure what scale he operates on.
“Right. Come on. Get up. We’re showering, having breakfast and then going back to bed.”
He pulls me out of bed and shepherds me along to the bathroom, turning all the jets on in the shower so that the room rapidly fills with steam. The pressure of the water is pleasantly needly as it falls on my scalp, then Sinclair takes the shampoo bottle and works up a rich lather on my head, massaging it in with skilled fingers, moving downwards to my neck then my shoulders, loosening me perfectly. He swirls the foamy gel around my body, lingering over my breasts and kneeling to ensure he hasn’t missed a millimetre of my lower lips, which are washed very, very thoroughly indeed, even up inside me. Then he turns me round and repeats the process with my back and bottom, cleaning out the cleft of my buttocks with just as forensic care, pressing gently against my rear entrance for a second or two so that I squirm an escape attempt. “Keep still,” he growls, slapping at my rump, its wetness intensifying the sting of his blow. I am slightly uneasy at this – after all, I have no idea how far he will go with me, but I submit to the rest of his ablutions without moving.
When he has finished with me, he sits on the shelf and invites me to return the favour. I start with his hair, which I have always liked, planting fingers deep into the lush growth and mashing at his scalp with a will while I stand between his knees. He fidgets with my nipples while I work, ducking forward to take one in his mouth and flick his tongue over it until I have to still my hands for a minute, giddy at the sensation. I move my hands down his face and neck, like a sculptor assessing a new piece, feeling every tendon, running my thumb over his Adams apple, marvelling at the differences between the composition of a man and a woman. His shoulders are not especially broad, I am quite surprised to note, but he holds himself so erect that one wouldn’t really realise. His frame is taut, sinewy but lithe; there is not an excess ounce on him but he is not skinny, just pleasingly willowy. He stands so that I can see to his back, an inverted isosceles triangle tapering away to his waist and hips and his biteable, beautiful bum. Long, long legs, feet that are big but elegantly so, and then I move back up his front, over his knees until I reach the hallowed apparatus hanging between his thighs.
“Wash it thoroughly,” he instructs me. “Take your time.”
This is going to sound silly, because I’m not a virgin – but I have to confess I have never really looked at a penis before. I have sort of peeked at them from the corner of my eye and then averted my gaze at the first available opportunity, Sylvia Plath’s description of ‘turkey neck and gizzards’ springing depressingly to mind. I would deliberately blur my vision and give a swift hand job or concentrate hard on my breathing while I stuck it in my mouth and hope the fellow concerned was eager enough to just get down to business. Lights out. Tumble in the dark. Put it away now, there’s a love.
But I sense Sinclair is not a man who will stand for my squeamishness. I will have to bite the bullet…or rather the gun. Well, not bite as such… Christ, my nerves.
I kneel between his legs and start just behind his sacs, running a soapy finger over his perineum, which is an instant hit, rather to my surprise. I’ll have to remember that. I cup his balls with my foamy hands, exerting gentle pressure while he shuts his eyes and hisses. And I haven’t even got to the main event yet, which is pointing up at the shower head by now, inviting me to slide slippily up and down, to caressingly attend to every inch of the steely blue-veined flesh, even pushing back the foreskin as gently as I can to clean the underside and the smooth purplish head.
“Good, Beth, good….but I don’t want to peak too soon. You’d better get out and leave me to, ah, calm myself down.”
He almost pushes me out to wrap myself in a vast fluffy towel. I tie it up, toga-style, and head to the kitchen to make a start on breakfast. Coffee is percolating and eggs are in the pan by the time Sinclair sashays in, towel around waist, one hand plucking at his damp hair. Oh, I can’t believe all this is mine. It is like looking at a big plate of your favourite food, knowing you are going to savour every last morsel.
“Seizing the initiative,” he comments, pushing the eggs around with a spatula. He takes over, placing the eggs, toast and coffee on the table while we sit opposite each other. I am slightly strung up, cutting up the food unnecessarily small, casting around my suddenly fluffy mind for things to say and finding none, heatedly conscious of Sinclair’s eyes following my every move.
In an evil conversational pounce, he says, “We shall have to discuss your punishment, Beth. For trespassing into my private office.”
“Oh.” I stop, fork halfway to mouth, shaking in my fingers. “But I thought…”
“I believe you were made well aware that serious consequences would ensue from any such intrusion. Weren’t you?”
“Oh…yes.”
“Very well; we’ll deal with it this afternoon.”
“What are you going to…?”
“This afternoon,” he says firmly.
Having killed my appetite stone dead, he goes on to sip slowly at his coffee, watching my every move with narrowed eyes, as if making calculations.
“Professor, is this…” I begin tentatively, “I mean, er, is this…you and me….like…a relationship then?”
“Of course,” he says. “A relationship between us has always existed. That of teacher and student, mentor and disciple, disciplinarian and wrongdoer, landlord and tenant. Just for starters.”
“You know what I mean.”
He nods, giving me an inch of leeway. “We will be sexual partners. Lovers, if you like.”
“Will we be…exclusive?”
“Yes. You have made a commitment to me, Beth, and its nature is such that I feel responsibility for you. What I am asking of you in the bedroom is more than simple sex. It requires sensitivity and maturity on my part; trust and faith on yours. It is more complicated than a…casual shag, for certain.”
Although what he is saying is slightly unnerving, it is also reassuring. It sounds as if he cares for me on some level, even if that level is only to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill me in bed. For the first time, strangely enough, I seriously question what I am doing. Sinclair, from the sound of it, means to take me deep into his dark desires, crossing limits and boundaries en route.
Am I psychologically robust enough to handle this? Or will he crush me in the process?
I give him a tremulous-neophyte look, which seems to turn him on to the extent that he swoops around the table, takes me by the wrist and impels me along to the bedroom again. After kissing me until I have so little breath I feel like a fish flapping its gills on a slab he unrolls me from the towel and places it in the centre of the bed.
“Lie down, Beth, with your bottom on the towel please.”
“Oh. Right.” I do so and he leaves the room, reappearing with a bowl of warm water, a can of foam and a razor.
I sit up. “You aren’t going to…”
“I’ll do the honours,” he drawls, placing his accessories beside my hip on the bed.
“But why?” I wail. I’m not comfortable with this at all.
“It’s my personal preference,” he says unbendingly.
“Must you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you threatened by adult women?”
“Of course not, you silly girl. I just like to see clearly what I’m getting into, so to speak.” Rude bastard! I gasp at him. He smirks.
“It makes me feel like a child,” I object. “I don’t like it.”
“Get used to it.”
“I…”
“Do you think it’s wise to argue with a man who is wielding a razorblade right next to your intimate parts, Beth?”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Joke,” he sighs.
“Not funny.”
“The issue is closed, Beth,” he says firmly. “I prefer you shaved, so shaved you will be and will remain. I expect this to be maintained on a daily basis, or you will be punished. Is that clear?”
Again the lurch of dread; the inner cry of What am I getting into? But I lie back and let him loose on me nonetheless.
I stare at the ceiling as he lathers my pubes up into creamy peaks, then I screw up my eyes against the cold steel of the razor, feeling a ticklish feathering as he scrapes the triangle in downward strokes. I clench my fists when he descends into the dangerous territory of my labia and heed his advice to keep very, very still. One false move…it doesn’t bear thinking about.
Lecture Notes Page 8
