“Perhaps you would prefer to wax,” he murmurs, “or use some kind of depilation cream. Sharp blades are not for beginners.” One final careful inward sweep at the base of my buttocks and he declares himself finished.
He rinses off the foam and surveys his handiwork with detached approval. “Much better,” he opines. He leans down and breathes on it, making my skin pucker into goosepimples. “Now you cannot hide from me.” He prises my thighs wider with his hands and continues to drift warm breath over the area, until I can’t avoid squirming and trying to close my thighs. But his hands are firm and there is no chance of that. He uses his thumbs to spread the newly-nude lips and his face is coming closer, closer until the tip of his rather long nose is almost touching the glistening pink insides, and now his breath is hot and intrusive, inescapable, and I have to let loose a shuddering giggle. He takes a theatrically deep breath and then…aaaah….his tongue, so delicately, so teasingly, maps the nooks and crannies of my hidden valley. It curls up and down, hither and thither, gently over my clitoris, which he slips in between his lips and hums on…oh CHRIST!...
“This is all new to you, isn’t it?” he murmurs, preparing to dust his tongue across its supersensitive surface again and all I can do is ‘aaah’ brokenly. He laps and licks as if presented with an unending banquet of his favourite foods and I can feel my clit swelling and stiffening until it must be about twice its usual size, whereupon he begins to suck on it, his fingers massaging the surrounding area in sympathy and I lose the plot, lose my head, lose consciousness of everything except his wicked, wicked tongue.
I expect him to kneel up on his heels and change tempo once I have finished bucking into his mouth, but on the contrary, he just says, “I could eat you all day, Beth. Such sweet juices,” and starts right back in, only this time his fingers are digging up inside my slick canal and he nudges at the higher ground of the mons veneris with his bloody nose. It is almost – no, not almost, it is – too intense to be borne and I feel myself slide and drown in the swirling, whirling laving of his voracious tongue and the insistent probing of his fingers. Every iota of my being is concentrated on that inferno at my core and I feel reduced to a primal essence of femininity, as if he is reminding me of my place and his sexual power over me. Three fingers curve against my front vaginal wall at the same time as his tongue flicks pitilessly at my little fleshy jewel and I almost expire with the force of the orgasm, jerking my hips and arching my back animalistically, howling my surrender to the four corners of the room.
He moves back an inch or so, breathing again over the steam-damp nexus between my legs and chuckling at my undone state. “We’ve barely begun, Beth, and you’ve already got that begging-for-mercy look in your eyes. Dear, dear, this won’t do at all. I suppose I shall have to break you in gently.”
I struggle to master my breathing and stop my limbs from shaking so much while he slides up my body to give me a taste of myself, wrapping his scented tongue around mine and sucking at it lusciously. His fingers continue to knead betwixt my thighs, lest I should be allowed to forget his works down there, and I press my eager nipples against his chest, wanting to merge my softness with his masculine hardness. I had never imagined a man could feel this good against my skin or seem to fit so well with my body.
I am still marvelling at this when he nudges my legs further into a wide V-shape with his own, braces himself above me and introduces the broad tip of his cock to the seemingly resistant flesh of my entrance. I expect it to hurt for some reason, so I grit my teeth and tense my body up. Sinclair pauses to tut at me.
“Relax, Beth, I don’t want to fuck an ironing board.”
Really! How rude! He takes my wrists and pins them above my head as if he is anticipating a fight and circles the opening for a while, rubbing lubriciously while he murmurs broken words in my ear to calm my skittishness. “Hush, I won’t hurt you, Beth…just go with me…trust me…open up to me…that’s it…open up to me….” His low beguiling words, together with the yeomanlike preparation he has given me combine to let him ease sweetly into the passage with a wet slicking sound. “Oh, Beth, that’s tight,” he informs me shudderingly, and I can certainly second that emotion, given the sensation of stretching and near-splitting I am experiencing. It is far from unpleasant, if a little alarming. I cannot imagine it will be possible for him to fit all the way in, but I wriggle against his remorseless penetration and he seems to slide on and on and on and then, just as I think I will certainly break, he stops. “You are mine now,” he states, as a simple fait accompli. My response is not required, though I think I say something like ‘uh’ before he begins a deliciously slow and luxurious back and forth stroke.
“How does it feel?” he wants to know, twisting and ploughing into me, always that tiny bit faster and harder with each thrust.
“It feels…like proper sex,” I say, then I want to kill myself for expressing such a gauche sentiment. What an idiot he must think me. But it does – it feels as if finally I have found out how it should be done, what all the fuss is about.
“Good, then?”
“How it should be,” I gasp, starting to pound into the mattress in earnest, struggling to bring my wrists up from his tight pinion and failing. I want to touch him, but he isn’t having it. He moves his free forearm under the base of my spine and angles me roughly upwards so that his cock begins to rub deliriously against all my hotspots at once. They feel overstimulated to the point of madness, I feel completely adrift of my senses, adrift of my identity now. I am just…Sinclair’s…and he is going to make me….
“I’m going to make you come now, Beth. Very, very hard,” he growls and I am made of sweat, made of juices, made of sex and he makes it happen….oh fuck, yes, yes, YES.
The steam whistle in the room seems to be coming from between my lips. There is some sort of accompanying animal noise from Sinclair; he holds himself perfectly still for a second then crashes down, his head beside mine, his fingers uncurling from my now-bruising wrists, our bodies mixed up and conjoined and slippery with mutual exertion. The power of it is such that I feel tears leak from my eyes. It is all too much, too much. I love him. Oh God.
After a few minutes have passed, we reconnect with reality and he props himself up to stroke damp hair from my brow. “No turning back now,” he muses. “Now I’ve had you. You seemed to enjoy yourself.” His voice is sticky and dark and redolent of the sex we just had.
“I did,” I say. “It was amazing. You were. Amazing.”
He kisses me on the forehead, then the nose, then the lips. “I hope I can live up to the high expectations I’ve set then,” he says. “Seriously, Beth, this is what you want, isn’t it?”
I look up at him. He looks as if he cares what I say, which makes my heart constrict. “Yes, I think so. Though I’ve no idea why you would choose me.”
He smiles. “No, you haven’t, have you?” He seems satisfied with that, and lays his head back down beside mine, keeping his hand possessively on my stomach and pulling me further into the crook of his shoulder. We lie there like that for almost an hour, wordlessly. I’m thinking that that wasn’t entirely what I expected. Though he was ferociously controlling, he was also somewhat tender. Nothing painful or kinky was involved. Is this all he wanted?
“Professor…Sir,” I venture timidly, deciding to ask him about this.
“Umm hmmm.” He is half-asleep, his eyes closed, breathing into my hair so that strands of it play ticklishly on my forehead.
“That didn’t seem particularly…sadistic.”
He expels a rapid burst of air from his nostrils; the ancestor of a chuckle. “Beth, I’m a reasonable man. You need to accustom yourself to my body before we move on to anything more…creative. I don’t want to frighten you off before we’ve even begun. I will take things at your pace and if you are uncomfortable with anything I do, you have only to say so. Eventually your body will be entirely mine, but it will take time to achieve the level of understanding and trust needed for the kind o
f unconditional submission I’m hoping for from you.”
“Unconditional submission,” I repeat faintly.
“Yes, Beth. Don’t be afraid. You will always be taken care of. Your wellbeing is one of my top priorities. I intend to show you your darkest desires, the ones you suppress because you think them unacceptable, and give them to you; to free you from the constraints of your own fears. I will give you what you want.”
“Oh. What do I want?” I ask him, rather confused on this point.
“You want to be mine. You want me to hurt you. You want me to own you. You want me to love you.”
The words sear like lightning through my chest, connecting invisibly and inexorably with my groin. He is right. He is bloody right. That is what I want, and furthermore, it’s what I’ve always wanted.
“Why do you think I want that?” I ask.
“It’s obvious,” he says.
I want to ask why, but I hang fire. Is this something he saw in me right from the day he called me into his office to lecture me on my studently shortcomings? Or has it been a more gradual realisation? He has been testing me over these past few weeks, to see how I react to the infliction of pain, and I have passed, apparently with flying colours. The idea of Sinclair having this in mind all along is eerie, and yet powerfully, erotically flattering. I feel special, at last, for once. Beth the Amorous Also-Ran, the one who got the more popular girls’ hand-me-downs and cast-offs, the dreamy impractical clueless fool gets the most sought-after man on campus. It doesn’t matter that he only wants me because he knows he can tie me up and beat me – because that is what I want too; what I have always fantasised about on some level. The way I used to love playing kiss-chase on the village green for the thrill of being caught, the way I used to flick through Victorian school novels to get to the caning scene, the way I used to bind my hands to my bedpost with my school tie and imagine myself at the mercy of some domineering bastard…it was all leading to this. A man who will not think me perverse and be frightened by my tendencies, but will embrace them, and indulge them, and enact them and add his own to the mix. It could be so good.
There is, I must admit, one unsettling element in the compound, and that is my absolute lack of information on how he feels about me. I don’t want to be used and cast aside. I hear his words in my head…I will give you what you want….you want me to love you…That has to be grounds for optimism, doesn’t it?
The phone by the bedside shrills, jerking the pair of us from our lassitude. Sinclair answers, looking blearily at me as he speaks.
“Yes, did you get my message? That’s right. Well, I hope it doesn’t put you out too much…You’re sure? That’s good…that’s very understanding of you…” He half-snorts, smirking at me with dynamite-hot rumpled sexiness. “Yes, precisely. Thanks, let’s hope so. Yes, see you at half seven then. Bye.”
I don’t ask the question but he answers it anyway. “I’m taking you out tonight,” he says. “Birthday dinner with friends. I don’t suppose you’ve anything remotely suitable to wear to the Gourmet Boat, have you?”
My chest tightens. This is real. Official. I will be on his arm tonight at one of the chicest restaurants in town, being introduced to his sophisticate friends. But he’s absolutely right about having nothing to wear.
“Wow,” is all I can think of to say, with a drippy smile. “The Gourmet Boat. No. I haven’t.”
“We’ll have to fix that, won’t we? Come on. Up and dressed. I’ll buy you a dress.”
*
‘Surreal’ is a word I’ve always over-used…well, since I understood what it meant at least…but I think I can apply it with justification to the experience of shopping for frocks with Professor Sinclair. I expect him to take me down to the ugly seventies concrete shopping centre, or maybe The Mall, but in the event we remain close to home, finding a street of chi-chi boutiques I have never even bothered to look at before, correctly assuming to them to be well beyond my price range. As is everything bar Poundstretcher, I must admit.
There is an intimidating hush once the bell over the door has ceased its clangour, and it is almost as if the costly silks are whispering around us. ‘Who the hell does she think she is? It’s obvious she’s his tart – she couldn’t afford this herself…’ When the manageress emerges from behind a rack of floatiness like a solid form through phantoms, her tight welcoming smile says exactly the same thing.
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
“Yes, we’re going out to dinner tonight…a birthday celebration at a good restaurant…I wonder what you have in size…what? Ten?” He looks at me questioningly. I nod. This is somehow violently embarrassing. Part of me wishes he would leave me to speak for myself; another part is grateful at not having to. “Suitable for this young lady.”
Argh! He called me a ‘young lady’. That makes it so obvious I’m his mistress! I feel like I’m on parade, and it occurs to me that tonight will only increase this feeling tenfold.
“Of course, sir.” She moves over to the rails of clothes on the left-hand side of the room; less glitzy than those on the right. “The neckline on this is very flattering..and I think she has the figure for a more fitted cut…” Hang on! I am here! It isn’t going to be Sinclair wearing the bleeding thing, so why is she only addressing him?
“Is the colour quite right, though?” he demurs.
“Hmm.” The woman frowns and looks me up and down unforgivingly. “She can carry any shade of green or blue…she’s too young for black really…”
Sinclair quirks an eyebrow at me. I wear black all the time; I’m the monochrome kid. The pair of them fuss and shake heads over endless swathes of fabric before finally settling on a double-layered clingy floaty type thing in teal with silver pattern things subtly printed on the sheeny top dress. Spaghetti straps, drapey neckline, asymmetric hem. I have to admit, it’s pretty. I feel like a different person when I look at myself in the mirror; a person with taste. But of course, the taste is not mine. He stands behind me, leaning over my shoulder, looking into the mirror at me with an expression that leaves me in no doubt that, were we not in a shop, the dress would be in tatters around my ankles by now. He takes my hair and piles it messily on my head, accepting a clip from the helpful manageress, his fingers crawling across my scalp like an army of pleasure-giving spiders. The love bite from this morning glares crimson at me and I have to stop myself glancing anxiously over at the assistant, especially when he presses a finger against it, drawing attention as if it were needed.
“I think a necklace…a pendant of some kind…something simple,” he mutters to the poor woman, who must be feeling increasingly voyeuristic, given that Sinclair is now tracing a finger along the line of my throat down to my collarbone, then resting his hands on my shoulders, pressing his thumbs sensuously into the back of my neck and rotating them. She rummages in a glass cabinet and emerges with a pearl teardrop on a slim silver chain. “Perfect,” avers Sinclair, placing it gently against my skin and fastening the clasp. He rests his lips, almost accidentally, against the portion of my neck it lies upon, just for a feathery second, but long enough to make my head loll heavily to the side with the sudden collapse of my vertebrae. I see the look of veiled interest again in the manageress’ eyes and I feel weak with the potency of the moment. We are a timeless staple of romantic and sexual drama; the older man, the ingenue. The possessor and the possessed. Looking at us in the mirror, I feel a sense of connection with women who have been in my position throughout the ages – maidservants, actresses, village girls, Roman slaves. I am carrying on a well-established tradition, and yet it feels so daring, so new.
“Just shoes, then,” he says, and pretty swiftly I am sorted out with some high-heeled silver strappy numbers. I voice a fear that I may not be able to walk in them.
“You won’t need to walk.”
Right.
He won’t let me hear how much it all comes to, but there can’t be much change from four hundred quid, I’d say, and he isn’t even finished. L
eaving the boutique, we cross the street to Agent Provocateur…oh my, he is going to buy me underwear. He is so brazen! I can’t face this. I tug appealingly on his hand. “Must we?” I falter, pitching up outside a window display of red satin and black lace. “Of course,” he says sternly. “What’s underneath is the most important part of the outfit. If you get the foundations wrong, the whole effect is ruined. Come on.”
He pulls me through the door and I half-bury my face in Sinclair’s jacket sleeve when I see every head swivel towards us. He shrugs me off rather violently and begins browsing the mannequins as if this were perfectly normal.
“May I help?” asks a heavily made-up young woman sweetly, and to my absolute horror/fascination, I see that it is Mags Parker from the Wessex Whisperer. Now I’m going to be the most talked-about woman on campus. Oh well. Only one thing worse, as Oscar Wilde said.
“Yes. I think we need a corset, don’t you, Beth? To go underneath a strappy dress. A nice tight one that laces up the back, if you have such an item, preferably not black in this instance…though perhaps I should get a black one also…”
“Oh, yes, we have several,” Mags assures us, winking at me. “Perhaps you’d like to come with me to the stockroom and choose one, eh, Beth?” Hack alarm! She wants a quote.
Of course, Sinclair tumbles to this straight away; he has had three years of this girl’s journalistic wiles. “As the buyer, I believe I should have some say in the purchase,” he says smoothly, leading me by the elbow to the back room.
Rail upon rail of racy lingerie greets us in this immodest haven; eventually we select a pale blue satin number with ribbons and its cousin in bedroom black. I cannot help but run my fingers over the garments; I have never worn such an item before and it seems far too unforgiving to be comfortable.
Lecture Notes Page 9
