“Are you happy with the style, Beth?” he asks me, holding the black number up and frowning at it.
“Mm hmm,” I say awkwardly, not wanting to give anything away to Mags.
“You’ll need to try it on then.”
I look around vaguely for a changing room but there isn’t one.
“Oh, we can do that in here,” says Mags. “You’ll need help with the laces though. I’ll give you a hand.” She looks over at Sinclair, expecting him to leave, but he remains where he is, leaning up against a rack of thongs. After a minute or so of this standoff, she sighs and turns back to me. “You’ll need to undress,” she clarifies.
It’s my turn to look beseechingly at Sinclair, but he merely smiles back. “Do as she says,” he tells me.
In a dream, I lift my black jersey tunic over my head so I am standing in my bra and black footless tights and ballet pumps. I turn away from my audience and unclasp the rather childish flowery bra I am wearing, watching it drop to the floor so I am naked from the waist up. I cross my arms over my breasts, annoyed at the way my nipples perk up from the cold backroom air, and wait for Mags to approach with the corset. I click up the metal snaps as rapidly as I can, though this is not very rapidly – it is very constricting and I have to fiddle with the clasps. Eventually it is on, though, and Mags moves behind me and pulls the laces in so tightly and swiftly that I feel a rush of faintness up to my brain.
“Can’t….breathe…” I wheeze out. Mags looks over to Sinclair, seeking his advice, it seems.
“That’s good. A little tighter would be better, but she needs time to adjust, I suppose.”
I want to protest, but the effort of squeezing the words out from my clamped diaphragm just seems too much to contemplate. I concentrate on establishing a regular breathing pattern and look at myself in the mirror. I look undeniably sex kittenish. My breasts are thrust up and out, my hips flare lasciviously from my cinched-in waist, and I can imagine that Sinclair is admiring the view from the back even more.
“Yes, I’ll take them. Both of them,” he says to Mags. “I just need some accessories – a suspender belt and some stockings. Seamed, I think. Silk, of course.”
“Oh, I’ll go and get some, sir. Er…matching knickers?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” he purrs and I almost drop my head into my hands. Never, ever, ever, even when I had to go to Sinclair’s to swap the essay notes, have I been more mortified in my life. Mags actually giggles with delight as she leaps into the boxes of hosiery like a young gazelle. Having located suitably scandalous stockings and suspenders, she has to help me out of the corset and back into my regulation-student uniform.
“Thank you so much,” she enthuses at the till, packing away the purchases and validating Sinclair’s credit card. “We really value your custom.” She flashes me a bitchy smile and, while my sugar daddy is busy punching numbers into the machine thingy, she takes advantage of his inattention to slip me a card with her mobile number on, winking hugely as she does so. Yeah, right, Mags. Dream on.
“You can’t begin to imagine how embarrassing that was for me,” I complain once we are back on the street. He chuckles and links my arm with his.
“I know a good cure for embarrassment,” he says. “Tea and sandwiches. It works for hunger too.” He leads me into a very unSinclairian tea shop, all frothy net curtains and bone china, and sits us down at a secluded table near the window.
“Why embarrassing?” he asks, having ordered for both of us.
“Well…” I splutter, astonished that he even has to ask. “I know that girl….and…it’s obvious that you and me….you know….and having to get undressed and all that…” I trail off, overwhelmed by the memory.
“Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”
“No! It’s not that! It’s the way…you make it clear…how things are…” I can’t seem to explain any better than this. How did I get three grade As at A-Level? It’s a mystery.
“You think people look at us and realise immediately that I like to put you over my knee and give you a good spanking before I ravish you to the point of multiple orgasm?”
I blink. He is just too frightening sometimes.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “That kind of thing.”
“That’s good,” he smirks. “That’s what I want people to think. Because it’s true. Why would you deny it?”
“I’m not denying it.”
“It sounds as if you are. You have difficulty coming to terms with your own needs and desires, don’t you? Well, you’re young, I suppose. Did you have a religious upbringing?”
“I….kind of.”
“Hm, thought so. Classic case. You aren’t comfortable with your sexual feelings. You aren’t even comfortable with your body, are you?”
A plate of assorted sandwiches materialises on the table along with a pot of tea. The waitress is riveted, I can tell. Sigh. I might as well wear a flashing hat – ‘Yes, he is my lover not my dad.’
“I am,” I refute, futilely.
“Really? You don’t even know your body.”
“Yes I do! I’ve known it all my life!”
“How often do you masturbate?”
“I…that’s…I’m not answering that! You’re so rude!”
“Not such a prissy Miss when you’re in my bed, though, are you? Come on. Answer me. How often?”
“About…I dunno. Fairly often. Now and again.”
He sighs. “Daily?”
“Pretty much. Why do you want to know?”
“How do you do it?”
“What?”
“Describe it for me. When you are quite alone and the urge strikes you…how do you go about it?”
I stare at him. He is tearing into a sandwich as if this is just any old conversation about house prices.
“Better still…show me. Put your hands down your knickers and give me a commentary.”
“I’m NOT going to…”
“Yes you are. Go on. No-one’s looking. Put your fingers down inside your knickers, and tell me how you do it.”
“You’re a really horrible man.”
“I know. Now do as you’re told, Beth, or I’ll put you over the table and smack your arse in front of all these people.”
Surely he’s bluffing! But…oh God…it’s impossible to tell with Sinclair. And he certainly looks serious. I drape the heavy linen tablecloth over my lap as far as I can and lean forward over the table, toying with a sandwich with the one visible hand to distract attention from the other. The invisible counterpart finds the top of my tights and glides down over my stomach until it locates my knicker elastic.
“You aren’t telling me what you’re doing,” Sinclair points out. “You selfish little self-pleasurer.”
“I’m….moving my hand down inside my knickers,” I whisper. “I can feel how smooth it is where it used to be hairy…it’s a bit weird…and now I’m, er, underneath and I’m just sort of pushing my fingers inside….”
“Inside where?”
“The, er, the sides…”
“The labia.”
“The labia. Yeah. And, er, it’s a bit slippery. I’m just kind of er bringing my fingertips back and forth over my…you know…”
“I don’t know. Say it.”
“I can’t.”
“Say it.”
“Oh fuck. Oh, clitoris, there, does that make you happy?”
“Ecstatic. Go on. How does it feel?”
“It feels…sort of warm and tingly. It’s a little sore from…earlier…but not too much. Mmm. Just moving around…in a circular motion….” My whisper is becoming a little ragged. Sinclair’s face and voice is utterly turning me on, despite my consciousness of the depraved behaviour he is making me exhibit.
“Good, and do you ever move your fingers back into your vagina?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you ever put any other object up there?”
“No,” I pant, stopping before I lose control.
�
�Did I say you could stop? Keep going. Tell me what you think about.”
“What I think about?”
“Yes. You know that the brain is the primary sexual organ. What images flash through your mind when you are pleasuring yourself?”
“Oh…er…” I really don’t want to tell him. I am flicking my nub back and forth, almost bent double over the table now, face flushed, thinking ‘Surely it must be obvious what I’m doing’ and being majorly aroused rather than horrified by the thought.
“What do you think about?”
“You,” I wail brokenly. “I think about you. I imagine I’m over your knee and you’re spanking me and afterwards, when my bum is all hot and red, you move your fingers down there to my….clitoris…and my…vagina…and you finger me yourself and you make me come…really hard…ooooooh, ooooooh God, Sinclaaaaair…..” I feel a warm gushing rush and squirm on the seat, my eyes screwed shut, inky blotches of colour splattered on the inside of the lids, glowing, oh, it feels so sweet.
Opening my eyes, I notice that an egg sandwich lies crumpled in my fist, its yellowish paste oozing through my fingers.
“Sit up, Beth, we’ll be thrown out if you can’t conduct yourself with a little more dignity.” He grins at me. All his teeth bared. God, he is sexy. I hate him. I love him.
“That was very good, Beth,” he tells me. “You did very well. I think we are going to get along famously. Now eat your lunch and tell me about something dull. I have the most painful erection. What do your parents do?”
*
Walking back from the teashop to the flat is like being in a wonderful dream. Sinclair holds my hand (lifting it to his nose to sniff my fingers with a wicked grin before dropping them down again) as we stroll through the Village which is bursting out into blossom and birdsong all over. He talks to me, amusingly, about inter-departmental politics at the university but I am only half-listening, concentrating on capturing every second of this early spring fever and hoping many, many people of my acquaintance see us together.
(‘Oh my God, is that Beth Newland with Professor Sinclair?’
‘What? Are you serious?’
‘It fucking is! Lucky cow!’
‘How did she get her hands on him? Oh my God, I’m so jealous I might have to kill myself!’)
I practically skip along the pavement next to him, glowing gently. The lark’s on the wing, the snail’s on the thorn etc.
Back at the flat, the mood changes, snap!, just like that.
“I have some work to do this afternoon,” he informs me, ducking into his study and coming out with a paper bag. “So I’ll leave you a little task while I’m busy. I want my CD collection re-organised into the alphabetical order it was in before you and your friends decided to disarrange it. Then I want you to find pen and paper and write me two hundred lines, the line being: ‘I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times.’ At precisely five o’clock, I want you to knock on my office door to present me with your completed script, and I will expect you to be wearing this.” He thrusts the paper bag into my hands. “Is that clear?”
I nod dumbly, not daring to unwrap the brown paper parcel.
“Are you sure? Repeat my instructions.”
“Erm. Put your CDs in alphabetical order. Write lines…”
“How many?”
“Two hundred. Ah…I will not…no, I will obey Professor Sinclair’s orders…”
“Instructions.”
“Instructions. At all times. Then…get changed and knock on your door at five.”
I look up. He nods. “Correct. Until five then.”
He darts off into his office and shuts the door with an ostentatious (and ominous) bang.
I stare vaguely after him for a minute or two, then set to unwrapping the mystery attire.
A horrified giggle escapes my lips and I clap a hand over my mouth when the jumble of material falls out on to the sofa beside me. A white shirt. A shortish pleated grey skirt. A striped tie. Some bottle green ribbon for my hair and a pair of white knee socks. School uniform. I shake my head bemusedly for a while, and then it occurs to me. School uniform. So I’m the naughty schoolgirl…and he’s the stern headmaster…calling me to his study… This can only mean one thing. The cane.
Chapter Seven
I begin to chew the fingernails of the hand that is stopping my mouth. I can’t quite judge the balance here between turned-on and terrified. Isn’t the cane supposed to be, like, really, really painful? I recall an incident during my adolescence when, in the spirit of experimentation, I whacked myself across the backside with a wooden strut from a kite. That hurt more than enough, yet the single red line that ensued disappeared within minutes. From the information I’ve gathered from old-fashioned boarding school stories, cane marks linger. For a long time. That’s a scary comparator straight away. But then, those old-fashioned boarding school stories always riveted me; I would go back and revisit the caning scenes endlessly, imagining myself caught in that heartstopping moment between the swipe and the stripe. And always wondering how it would feel….longing to know how it would feel…
And now is my chance.
I glance up at the clock; it is half-past two. I’ll be hard pressed to complete both tasks by five o’clock – I estimate the lines will take two and a half hours by themselves. Best get to work.
*
Although Sinclair’s clock does not have chimes, I can almost hear doom-laden Big Ben style tolling as the big hand reaches the twelve and the little hand shivers on to the five.
I had had to abandon the lines at 161 ten minutes earlier so that I would be appropriately dressed for the occasion, and now I have my hair in two silly little bunches, the white shirt not-quite-buttoned all the way, due to it being a flipping size eight, so the tie is hanging in a slovenly manner around my undone collar. The horrible knife pleats of the grey flannel skirt brush against my thighs in a way that brings back memories of dull school assemblies, though I suspect the upcoming experience will maintain my attention rather more effectively than those drear-fests.
My fingers are flapping as I pick up the uncompleted lines and there is a tightness in my throat that makes me wonder if I will be able to speak once I’m facing the music. I knock three times.
“Enter.”
I edge the door open slowly. Sinclair, fully suited and booted, turns from his desk, stands and beckons me forward to stand a foot or so away from him. God, he looks fine. For a split second I almost forget to be apprehensive, I so love that disapproving look he has. He folds his arms and glowers. Wow. I like that.
“Ah, the miscreant,” he says, a sardonic edge to his words. Well, who was he expecting? Not sure what to say to that, so I just hang my head. He holds his hand out, for the lines I am clutching to my chest, presumably. I hand them over. He peruses them, eyebrow raised. “Incomplete,” he notes, though he must have known I had no hope of finishing them in the time available. I’m sure it’s all part of the plan. “And is that really your idea of an acceptable standard of dress?” He puts forth a hand and tugs at the offending tie.
“The shirt doesn’t fit, sir,” I object. “And I didn’t have time to do the lines.”
He puts up a hand, indicating that I should zip my lip. “You’ll have to remind me, Miss Newland, exactly how many of your lame excuses I’ve heard now; I rather fear I have lost count.”
My lips do a kind of stammery thing but no sound issues.
“I would ask you to explain your flagrant breaking of bounds by entering my study regardless of my strict prohibition, but I’m sure nothing enlightening could possibly result from such a line of enquiry, so I will refrain. The facts of the case are clear; I forbade you to come in here and you chose to disobey me. It only remains to administer the necessary deterrent to your pursuing further infractions of my rules in future. Do you have anything to say, Miss Newland, before I commence with your punishment?”
I could try, but my mouth still appears to be made of jelly, so I leave
it for now.
“Not even an apology?” His hushed indignation causes the jelly-feeling to spread across my whole face and down the line of my torso.
“I…er…sorry, sir,” I whisper.
“No you aren’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “But you will be. I intend to ensure that you will be feeling sorry for some days to come.” He holds my eye while he removes his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Although I know exactly what this signifies I can’t resist a tiny tingle at the sight of his strong forearms and his absolute firmness of purpose. However much it hurts…and I know it will hurt a lot…this is still an illicit dream made flesh.
He turns to his bucket of implements in the corner and selects a long, thin round-handled cane. Aha, I was right. What’s the bonus question? He taps it in the palm of his hand, demonstrating its flexibility and strength. My blood coalesces.
“The cane,” he says, his tone low, almost seductive. “A last resort for the truly incorrigible. The ne plus ultra of disciplinary tools; it can make even a strong man buckle. I don’t use it lightly, Miss Newland, in any sense of the word, but you have earned it today. My prediction is that, by the end of this session, you will take every precaution to make sure you don’t earn it again.”
He caresses its whippy rattan length, then uses it to point to the desk, rapping it down sharply on the aged wood. Eek. I startle and jump slightly.
“Palms flat on the desk, Miss Newland, bent at the waist, please.” I scurry to comply, now having the sincere wish to get this over with. “Feet further apart.” I feel an unwelcome tap on the inside of my knees and reposition so that suitable triangularity is attained. He places the cane on the desk in front of my nose and I have to avert my eyes. I am craning my neck up at one of Sinclair’s fat-bottomed-girl prints on the wall when he prowls up behind me and raises my skirt to the waist, resting his hand on my cotton knickers, patting them slightly as if assessing my flesh’s level of resistance. This is a truly sinister gesture and I squirm beneath it.
Lecture Notes Page 10
