Lecture Notes

by Justine Elyot

  “I suppose so…oooh.” My muscles tighten against him involuntarily and I worry he will be stuck inside forever. Horrible visions of having to be carried out to A&E on a stretcher, still connected, flash through my mind, though I realise this is highly unlikely.

  “So if one finger is nice but embarrassing…I wonder what two will be like?” He pushes a second finger up beside the first and I yelp a little because there is a brief burst of pain involved with this addition, but it soon recedes. “Push yourself back on me, that’s it. Keep relaxed, loose, open to me. Remember that this is rightfully mine; I am preparing it to be fully claimed.”

  God, the way he talks is hot. I squeeze out all thoughts of discomfort, or fear, or mortification and focus on the feeling, which is powerful, very powerful, especially now that he is ramping up the force with which his cock is pumping into my other hole. His fingers move into a secondary beat; it is like counterpoint, his cock harmonising with his fingers which slip rapidly up and down my sensitive virgin tract, and it only takes scant minutes of this two-way stimulation before the quake blows.

  Somewhere among the debris and smoke I hear his voice, “Mine, Beth, you are entirely mine,” and I register the gush of his seed and it is the most intense orgasm of all time, but so very…wrong, so taboo, perhaps I should be ashamed of myself? Should I be ashamed of myself, to enjoy the feel of a man’s fingers in my bum? I don’t know what’s happening to me.

  Chapter Eleven

  I have packed. Everything I need for the Easter fortnight. Clothes, toiletries, books, papers, webcam, er, butt plugs.

  Sinclair has wrapped two, of differing sizes, up in a T-shirt and tucked them into the side of my case.

  “What are they for?!” I exclaim.

  “You may need them. I’ll instruct you further in due course. Also, I think…the vibrator. And some lubricant.” He tosses the items in. I am so glad I’m not going on a plane and having to pass this through the hand luggage scanner.

  So my case stands ready in the hallway. I have eaten breakfast. There is an hour until my train.

  All that remains to be done is…twelve strokes of the cane. Sinclair’s little parting gift to me, fulfilling all kinds of diabolical purposes – ensuring that nobody else will get to see my arse for at least a week, and that I will think of him every time I sit. So I am waiting outside his office door, as instructed, listening intently to try and work out what he is doing in there. All is silent.

  I jump up from my slouch against the wall when the door opens and Sinclair, in the same pinstriped number he wore in that bloody video, crooks his finger at me. I swallow and follow. I am in the uniform again, but he has provided me with a better fitting shirt this time, so I feel more demure and oddly more ashamed. I hang my head when I come to rest before him, bracing myself for a tongue lashing before the posterior version.

  “Refresh my memory, Beth, and tell me why I had to cane you only eight days ago?”

  “Because I went into your office without permission, sir.”

  “Correct. And now can you explain why I am having to punish you today?”

  I grimace. “Because I went into your office without permission, sir.”

  He does not have to say anything here; he just shakes his head in heavy mock-disappointment.

  “I was beginning to think there was hope for you, Beth,” he says. “Beneath the onion layers of foolishness there was some wit lurking; a potentially excellent student who needed only a firm guiding hand to steer her away from the choppy waters of typical student distraction. Was I wrong to think so?”

  I bite my lip and send an appealing look from beneath my fringe. “No, sir, honestly. I won’t let you down again.”

  “I sincerely hope not, Beth. I do not like being let down. I intend to keep you performing to the very best of your ability, and if the motivational influence of the cane is necessary, then I will not hesitate to apply it regularly and rigorously.” I gasp, not liking the sound of this at all. He relents slightly, tilting his head. “I’m adopting a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy, Beth. One more incident of this nature, and I shall be devising a disciplinary programme for you that will include scheduled canings.” Fuck! Now that’s what I call motivation. OK, my mind is concentrated. No deviation from the straight and narrow from now on.

  “Very well, I see you understand the situation you have placed yourself in,” he says. “Now, Beth, we agreed your punishment, did we not? I would like to hear you ask for it.”

  I shuffle my shoes a bit and stare at the floor, blood rushing to my cheeks. “Please, sir, may I have twelve strokes of the cane?”

  “Look at me and say that again. Clearly this time.”

  My fingers are twisting and fidgeting. I look up, and have to force the words out with some effort.

  “You may. Bend over the desk, Beth, holding on to the far edge. Feet apart. A little wider apart. Good.” My pleated skirt is raised and my white cotton knickers lowered to the crease of my knees. Sinclair stands behind me, silent for an age, looking at me. I hear a clatter from the cane bucket in the corner and his footsteps returning to take up position at my rear.

  I flinch, prematurely, when I feel the tapping of the rod lightly against the centre of my upthrust backside. While he judges his stroke, he tells me that I am to count each one and thank him for it. As before, I am not to break position for any reason, which instruction has me gripping the table so that my knuckles whiten.

  “You won’t be forgetting this in a hurry,” he says before laying on his first stripe, vividly worse than I remember, inducing a long, pained exhalation and a conviction that I will not be able to take twelve.

  “One, thank you, sir,” I moan into the hard wood of the desk, inwardly questioning my sanity. “It really hurts,” I add, knowing that this will cut little ice, but needing it registered anyway.

  He does not even answer, lining up the second scorcher with calm precision and letting it sink deep into my skin.

  “Two, thank you, sir.” I am rocking on the balls of my feet, trying to distract my body from the blaze ripping through my bottom.

  “I hope it was worth it, Beth,” says Sinclair laconically, giving me plenty of time to absorb the maximum pain impact before the hateful tap-tap-tap starts over again.

  And again, the deceptively quiet whoosh through the air and smart snap of contact; strange that Sinclair makes so much more noise with the palm of his hand, and yet the damage is so relatively trivial compared to this intense localised agony. I would take an hour of Sinclair’s hand over six of these, I think.

  So it’s “Three, thank you, sir” and “Four, thank you, sir”, and I’m quite impressed with myself at not jumping up thus far; I think I’m taking it like a trooper, trying to bring the pain inside and let it float around within me until it recedes rather than fighting it. But I have taken only four and there are still eight to go, and Sinclair’s demand that I count is my worst enemy in this regard. If only I didn’t have to keep my head, I could concentrate on subduing the pain, I could float off into a strange world of hazy endorphin buzz and deal with it the best I can. But I can’t do that; I cannot escape one second’s consciousness of what is really happening. I must remain mentally present for the duration of the punishment, as Sinclair intends me to.

  “How many is that now, Beth?” he asks, even though I have just counted the fourth stroke.

  “Four, sir.”

  “And how many are left?”

  “Eight, sir.”

  “That’s right. Eight more. Do you think you can take it?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Let’s see, shall we?” Tap-tap-tap whoosh thwick. I cry out; this one seems even harder. Then I regain my breath, count, express thanks.

  The sixth is an evil bastard, falling between cheek and thigh. I jiggle my legs compulsively, breathing in and out very heavily, like women on TV hospital dramas panting through contractions.

  “You don’t like it there, do you?” he
says matter-of-factly.

  “Six, thank you, sir. No, sir.”

  “Is it painful?”

  “Very…painful…,sir.”

  I feel his hand on my back and I wonder what he is doing. To my surprise, he rubs it around, pushing thumbs into neck and shoulders, quite reassuringly.

  “You are doing well, Beth. I did not expect you to take this so well. Take a minute to catch your breath. Only six more now.”

  I rub my cheek against his forearm, longing for him to grant a reprieve in this moment of unexpected gentleness. But all too soon this forlorn hope is allayed by his laying the seventh stroke – bastard! – in exactly the same vicious spot as the sixth, and now I rear up from the desk with a sharp exclamation. “No, please!”

  “Down,” he commands, his tone making it clear that there will be a penalty for refusal. I manage to force myself back down, remembering the count in the nick of time before extra strokes are earned.

  The end of the caning seems too remote now, centuries of pain away, and a sob escapes me as I wonder how I can cope with five more.

  I’m not sure how merciful this really is, but he is very quick with the next three, flicking them down immediately after my increasingly garbled count, so that we are soon down to the final two.

  “Just two more, Beth,” he says. “I will make them count.”

  The eleventh is an explosion of firepower, detonating my nerve endings and twisting my face into a hundred contortions. Even amidst the general sting, it elevates itself to a new level.

  “Eeeeeeleven, sir, I mean, thank you, sir.”

  “Last one, Beth. I always make the last one the hardest.” Hey, thanks for the warning.

  It slices diagonally across from the bottom of my left cheek to near the top of my right and it is white hot, a blinder, and I really have to jump up and clasp my raging bottom to protect it, although I objectively know that the caning is now over.

  “Oooooooh,” I moan. “Oooooooh. Twelve, thank you, Sir. Ooooooh.”

  “Take your hands away, Beth, or there will be more,” he says impatiently. I remove them from the heat, expecting steam to arise when I do so. “Get back over the table; I want to inspect the results. Hmmm. Very nice.” He traces each and every ridge with a finger, which makes me wince all over again. “Would you like to see?”

  I mew incoherently and he leads me over to the mirror, making me stand and look at my creatively slashed bum for minutes on end. It is like an eleven-barred-gate, if such a thing could possibly exist. The stripes are deep, deep red and look set to last; certainly if the angry throbbing back there is anything to go by, I will be aware of them for some time.

  “Hmmm.” Sinclair is enchanted by the scene; I get the feeling that the glories of Roman art and architecture are going to pale in comparison. “Get back over the desk.”

  “What?” I yelp in dismay.

  “No, not that. I want a photograph to take away with me. It’s too beautiful to let it fade without having a record.” He kisses me, deeply, fully. “Go on then.”

  Shaky from the caning and lightheaded from the kiss, I flop back across the varnished wood. I hear a heavy click, then stillness. “Stay there,” he says in a low, rather unbalanced tone. “Spread your legs a bit more.” Before I know it, he has taken my hips in his hands and is penetrating me from behind. It feels blissful, so perfect, so absolutely the right thing to do to divert the warmth of my rear down a little and I push backwards, meeting his thrust, feeling a sublime urgency of need. Very quickly the rhythm is fast and primal, the banging and crashing against the desk only peripheral to the gigantic pulse of sensation concentrated at that apex where he connects with me. I begin to cry hoarsely, keening, falling, everything going black, oh, oh, oh…. He pulls out of me while still hard and I gasp, start to ask what, why, but then I feel warm liquid spurt on to my marked rump and I understand. Oh, I understand. This is why he is with me – because I understand, or at least, because I try to.

  He stands braced behind me, his breathing laboured, for a few minutes. His hands rest on my hips. He is looking down at my arse. He leans over a little and begins to suck on the side of my neck, hard, until a patch of mottled red is left there.

  “Another photograph, I think,” he says, and takes a couple more while I lie, winded, with my upper body on the desk.

  “Your train,” he says at length. “We must go. Pull your knickers up.”

  “But…” I push myself wearily, unwillingly, to my feet. “Like this?”

  “Like that. You don’t have time to change.”

  “But…” I wave a hand at my semen-smeared backside. “I need to clean up.”

  “No. Leave it like that. Pull your knickers up.” I continue to stare and he snaps, “Now!”

  I pull the knickers back up, drawing in breath as they snag over the raised welts across my behind. A large damp patch is in evidence straightaway, spreading and oozing across the white stretch cotton. Sinclair smiles.

  “Good,” he says. “I only wish I could watch you on the train home. Three hours is a long time to stand, but I can’t imagine you’ll want to sit either.”

  I shrug, looking ruefully up at him. I pray that the upholstery won’t be the stiff, fuzzy kind.

  *

  In the echoing space of Brunel’s cathedral-like railway terminus, Sinclair and I embrace on platform 9. Only the two of us exist here; the trolley pushing, shouting into mobile phones, whistle-blowing, snogging that swirls around us is just background blur.

  “Will you call me when you get there?” I ask him.

  “When in Rome?”

  “Will you do as the Romans do?”

  “Ride a vespa and eat ice-cream? Oh, probably.” He smiles, but it is not a cheery smile. It has a pained quality; this parting is as difficult for him as for me. And I feel as if I’m losing a body part. “I will let you know when I land. And have your computer ready for eleven.”

  “Remember there’s an hour’s difference,” I say anxiously.

  “There isn’t, Beth. British Summer Time.”

  “Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry. Idiot.”

  He half-laughs and strokes my cheek at that. “Your train is going to leave,” he reminds me. Keeping my face in one hand, he brings his lips to mine and gives them one last taste of honey before our fortnight’s separation. Then he picks up my bags and carries them over to the waiting train, ushering me in after them.

  “Don’t forget me,” I blurt through the open window, feeling absurdly Brief-Encounterish, almost expecting the strains of Rachmaninov to swell up and haunt the wrought iron splendour of the station.

  “Of course not,” he clucks at me, and the train begins to slide away, leaving him to get smaller and smaller until it rounds a bend in the track and I cannot see him at all.

  Tears are in my eyes as I look for a secluded place in which to squirm uncomfortably on my hot rear end for the next three hours. I look at my case up in the rack and consider getting a pair of jeans out and changing into them in the loo. But before I can even sit down my telephone beeps.

  A message. “Don’t even think about getting changed. S.”

  I laugh. But if he thinks I’m getting off the train in my home town wearing a school uniform, he has to be insane. I don’t care. I’m getting changed. I’ll stick to his other rules happily, because I will feel his presence while I am denying myself – but this is my token infraction. Every girl needs a token rule infraction, no?

  So I spend three hours moping with my head against the window, pretending that Sinclair is next to me and holding imaginary conversations with him while my bottom throbs a reminder of our recent leave-taking. I find an awkwardly comfortable position, leaning on a hip with my legs tucked up on the seat so that most of my bum is off the seat. My knickers appear to be glued to me; taking them off is going to be a painful experience. But I will think of Sinclair as I do it. I will offer my pain to him as a proof of my love, just as they always told you at school to offer up your suffering to the
Lord.

  *

  “You’re looking well, love,” comments my father, hoisting my bags into the boot of the car.

  “Thanks.”

  “Studying going well, is it?”

  “Brilliant. My tutor’s predicting a First if I keep up the good work.”

  “Really? Marvellous, Beth. How’re you off for money?”

  “Oh, fine. Well, cutting back a bit these days. Not going out so much.”

  He straightens up and smiles oddly.

  “Not like you, Miss Party Girl.”

  “Can’t party all the time.”

  “No. Quite. My little girl’s growing up.” There is a hint of sadness in his tone, but the hug he folds me into half a second later is wholehearted and grateful. “We do worry about you up there on your own. But you seem to be…different.”

  “I’ve changed.” I confirm.

  *

  My mother says something similar after dinner.

  “You’ve got a confidence about you, Beth. Poise, I suppose. I’m so pleased that you’re happy up there.”

  “I’m very happy,” I assure her.

  “Your skin is so much clearer too. And your hair…so shiny. Oh, Caitlin phoned earlier on. Could you call her back?”

  I disappear into my bedroom and call my best friend from school.

  “Hey, you’re back! We’re just off into town; d’you fancy coming?”

  “Oh, not tonight. I’m only just back; mum and dad want to do the welcoming-back-to-the-fold thing.”

  “No worries, what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know.”

  “Want to come over? Watch a DVD or something?”

  “Yeah, cool. After lunch?”

  “See you then. Byeeeee.”

  *

  At five to eleven I am lounging on my old bed amidst an army of fluffy friends in my most comfortable old pair of brushed cotton pyjamas. I’m lying on my stomach, obviously, double checking the contents of my suitcase and waiting for the Skype alarm to shrill on my laptop.