You know, it’s a bit strange, but I just can’t find my pills. I’m sure I packed them. I remember doing it. Yet they are nowhere to be found.
I mean, it’s no big deal; it’s not as if I’m planning to sleep with anyone, and this is such a small town that if anyone did decide to attack me I’d more than likely know his name, address and which Cub Scout troop he was in as a child. I don’t suppose Sinclair would object too violently to using condoms for seven days when I get back. He’s not averse to a bit of rubber.
Ah well. The small mystery of the pills is filed way back in the mental cabinet as the Skype alarm blasts the air, making me jump, on the very dot of eleven.
I’ve had plenty of contact with Sinclair throughout the day. A message to say he was at the airport. Another to say he was at the hotel. Another to remind me to have my computer on at eleven.
I have no idea if the webcam thing works, but I shout, “Hello!” into empty space and am rewarded by a slightly querulous, “What on earth are you wearing?”
“You can see me?”
“Evidently.”
“Just old pyjamas. I don’t want to schlep around the house in superslinky black satin and lace – or do you think I should?”
“Ah, no, probably not.”
“How’s the Eternal City?”
“Eternal. Very beautiful. If only I’d met you earlier, you could have come with me.”
“I wish I could.”
“I’d like to show you the Sistine Chapel. Perhaps another time.”
“Ohh, yes, another time.” I flood with pleasure every time he makes any reference to the future. I still think he is going to cast me aside at the first opportunity and the thought of all those stylish, svelte Italian cicciolinas fills me with dread.
“Show me your bottom.”
“What?”
“You heard. Take your trousers down and show me your bottom. I want to check your marks.”
It feels strangely lonely to do this in an empty bedroom in front of a computer monitor, but I lower the pink monstrosities slowly. The flesh is still very tender, not least from having to unglue my knickers earlier on, which was like ripping off a plaster. I had to bite down on a teddy bear to keep myself from yelling out. There is an eerie silence while I thrust my backside in the direction of the webcam.
“Can you see?”
“Mmmm. Yes. Do me a favour, Beth, get those stuffed toys out of shot. They’re most off-putting.”
I giggle and sweep teddy and pals down on to the floor.
“Better. Spread your legs a little. Show me. Good.”
I start to angst about the volume; will mum and dad be able to hear this? I try to move my hand back towards the keypad.
“What’s the problem?”
“You might be heard. I don’t want the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Oh. Go on then; turn it down if you must. No, I didn’t say pull up your trousers, did I?”
I lunge for the volume control and turn it down as far as I can without losing the golden tones of Sinclair altogether.
“Sir, I would like your permission to go out tomorrow after lunch.”
“Where are you going?”
“To my friend’s house. To watch DVDs.”
“I see. Female friend?”
“Yes.”
“Brothers?”
“No. And why is that relevant?”
“It’s relevant. All right, permission granted.”
Just as well, I think to myself, because I’d have gone anyway.
“Thanks. Oh, by the way, do you remember seeing me packing my pills?”
“Pills?”
“You know. Contraceptives. Did I leave them at the flat?”
“I’ve no idea. Kneel up, Beth, and part your legs. Now lick your fingers….that’s nice…and put them down there. Pleasure yourself for me.”
I finger myself to orgasm right there on the duvet, helped along by Sinclair’s wicked purr of suggestion, finally flopping face down in front of the webcam.
“I miss you, Beth,” he says softly as I lie there, boneless as Looby Loo, my displaced rag doll. “Goodnight.”
*
I’ve had my instructions for the day. Hair in a ponytail, jeans, long-sleeved top, no make-up. I find thinking about that kind of thing boring anyway, so it’s a relief to have a stylist on the end of the phone to do it for me; he’s my own little Trinny&Susannah.
I spent the morning completing an essay on the French Romantic poets and novelists and now I’m free to do as I please, which is see my best friend Caitlin.
“Oh my God, you’ve had a makeover,” she says on opening the door.
“No I haven’t.” I’m confused. The jeans and top are old. I’m not wearing cosmetics. More like a makeunder.
“Well, no, not a makeover, but you just look…different.”
“Bad different?”
“No. You look kind of…glam. I dunno. Words aren’t coming out right. Do you want something to drink?”
I follow her into the kitchen where she busies herself with a selection of fresh fruit and the blender.
“You on a health kick?” I ask as she chops bananas.
“Nah, just another diet. Wish I had your figure. So how’ve you been? You went all quiet on me for a while; I wondered what was going on?”
“Oh, just busy. I fell behind with a few essays and had to camp out in the library for weeks on end.”
“Ugh, yeah, I know what you mean. I started the year all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, handing everything in on time, doing all the research. Now I can barely be bothered to write my name at the top of the page. Must be some kind of syndrome.”
“Apathy Syndrome.”
“Yeah, that’ll be it. Listen, you should have come down the Arms last night. Guess who was there.”
“Paris Hilton? Osama bin Laden?”
“Ha ha, yeah, who knew they’d get together? No, Adam Ellwood.”
“Oh right.” I nod neutrally. Adam Ellwood. The Mother of all Crushes. Two years above me in school but so far beyond attainability that he might as well have been a 1940s matinee idol.
“And…he’s split up with Lollipop Head. Single, Beth. On the market.”
“But I’m not.”
Caitlin waves her knife in the air with excitement.
“You dirty dog! I knew there’d be more to it than an essay crisis. Honestly, one week you’re never off Facebook and then I don’t hear from you for, like, a month. I said to myself, Caitlin, my girl, cherchez l’homme!”
I collapse into a giggle of blushes. L’homme. Ah, Sinclair, my lover, my man. I’m afraid to tell her the unvarnished truth though. I don’t want an earful of gasps and tuts about how old he is.
“Come on then! Names, vital stats, scores out of ten for snogging etc.” She looks at me expectantly, poised to switch on the blender.
“He’s called Sinclair.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“A nice name! And he’s tall and gorgeous and gets a million out of ten for everything.”
“Wow.” She turns on the blender with an impressed blink and we watch the red, green and yellow fruits get beaten to a pulp. “Is he on your course?” she asks, pouring the gloopy result into two glasses.
“Er, yeah,” I hedge. Well, he is, in a way. “What about your lot? Any potential?”
She sighs. “A few cuties. But nobody wants to look at a fat fucking heifer like me.”
“Get lost! You aren’t fat.” She isn’t either. She’s a well-proportioned size 14 with a sheeny shiny black bob and perfect skin. She could pull Prince bloody William if she would stop being so down on herself.
“Easy for you to say,” she snaps and I am taken aback by the ragged edge of her voice.
We move on up to her bedroom and loll on her bed watching DVDs for the rest of the afternoon. I am grateful for the plentiful cushioning but even more grateful that I am reminded of Sinclair every time I shift position. I feel so lucky.
&n
bsp; Chapter Twelve
Monday, hair down, no knickers, internet blogs by people in relationships like mine and Sinclair’s. Some of these are real eye-openers, placing Sinclair and I at the tamer end of the spectrum. I love what we already have; I love the tremble in my stomach when he says ‘Come here’ in that authoritarian tone; I love the way that all his rules and regulations are aimed towards my self-improvement; I love that he accepts nothing less than my best effort and that he is consistent in the way he disciplines anything weaker. He has high expectations of me and I long to be able to meet them; I know I will be able to meet them.
But clothes pegs on the nipples? Electric shocks? Polyamorousness (if that’s a word)? Some of this stuff jets way out of my comfort zone. In his email he said: “Take what you find interesting or appealing and we will discuss it. If, conversely, there is anything you find unacceptable, we will also discuss it.” I’m not sure what he means by that. Sinclair’s version of discussion would not make it into the dictionary, I think; it tends to consist of, “I want to do it, so we’ll do it”. I’m absolutely not going there with knives or breath play though, so he can discuss off.
Eleven o’clock comes.
“You didn’t wear knickers today, did you, Beth?”
“No, sir.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
“Of course not, sir!”
“Have you disobeyed me at all since Saturday?”
Silence.
“Well?” His tone now is sharp, a touch of wrath creeping in. “Have you?”
I know I can’t see his piercing stare, but I can imagine it, so I avoid looking at the screen when I reply. “Well…I did change my skirt…on the train. I couldn’t get off wearing school uniform!”
“I see,” he says icily. “Direct defiance of an order, Beth. That will have to be addressed. I think I’ll have to keep a list for my return.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry,” I offer.
“Have you kept all the other rules?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” I say eagerly. “I told you I played tennis with Caitlin earlier, didn’t I? I’m doing all that.”
“Hm. Do you know what I’d do if I had you here now?”
“No, sir.” I’d quite like to, though.
“I’d make you stand in front of me and strip, then I’d have you over my knee and spank you until you begged for mercy, and then I’d spank you twice as hard for twice as long. And you needn’t think I’d go easy on your cane marks either. How are they, by the way?”
“Oh, they’re fine,” I blurt, somewhat turned on and also amused by the way he asks after them as if they are a family member. “That is, still pretty uncomfortable.”
“Good. Show me.”
I lift my nightdress for the ritual bum inspection, hunkering down so my stripes are optimally presented.
“Shame they fade so soon,” he comments. “I’d make the most of that peachy skin, Beth, because believe me, the next time we meet it will be a uniform shade of deep red. What do you think of that?”
“Uh…I think…you should do whatever you think is appropriate, sir.”
“I like your thinking, Beth. Now turn to face me, kneeling with your knees as far apart as you can get them. No, keep the nightdress up. In fact, take it off. It will only get in the way.”
I wrestle the thing over my head and kneel expectantly before the screen, my face flushed and heart bumping with love and excitement. I love technology.
“I’d bet good money that you are wet between the legs. Touch yourself and show me your finger.”
I do so, though I doubt the webcam is able to pick up the telltale glisten on its tip.
“Thought so.” He’s guessing. But he guesses well. “You liked what I said about our next meeting, didn’t you?”
My love-flush turns into embarrassed heat. “Perhaps,” I say coyly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”
“You’re perfectly happy to submit to my desires but you can’t admit to your own. What are you ashamed of, Beth?”
“I…” I stammer, lost. “It’s…you know…nice girls aren’t supposed to…”
“And you consider yourself to be a nice girl, do you? Well, I hate to break it to you, Beth, but you’re as nice as you need to be. Any nicer and I wouldn’t be with you.”
I am silent. I am nice! Is he saying I’m not nice?
“Accept the truth, Beth. You have erotic desires which do not make you a bad person. They have no bearing on your moral character, so don’t bury or suppress them. And happily enough, they coincide with mine. Isn’t that something to celebrate?”
“Yes. I suppose you’re right. So you don’t think I should feel…ashamed?”
“No more than I should. And I don’t. Though I must admit, I do quite enjoy seeing you blush. The struggle between what you want and what you think you should want is rather beguiling to watch.”
“For a sadist!” I exclaim.
“Absolutely. Now I think you should get your vibrator out. And while you are using it, you should tell me exactly what you are thinking about.”
*
Some days I wear knickers, some days I don’t. Some days I wear full make-up, some none at all. Some days I have to work on academic texts, some days on the erotic variety. Every day I ask his permission to leave the house, and he always grants it. But because of these rules and regulations, he is never off my mind. It is as if he is here, even though I reach out for his body each time I wake during the night and find only empty space.
But we have our late night cyber sex to look forward to every day. I spread my legs, finger my nipples, wiggle my bum for him while he tells me what he would like to do with them when we are together again in his low, low midnight voice. It sustains me, centres me, keeps me focused and secure. Until Thursday.
Maybe it’s just the distance and the time we’ve been apart, but on Thursday I feel scratchy, paranoid, vulnerable. All I can think about is how I told him I loved him in the restaurant and he wouldn’t say it back. I know, I know, we’ve been together an absurdly short time – still not even a fortnight – but the trajectory of our relationship has been an almost vertical shot up into the sky, so intense has it all been so far. Does he care about me as a person or as an object on which to satisfy his perverse desires? Why does he want so much control? Doesn’t he ever just want to spoon on the sofa watching crappy DVDs? Can I live life as intensely as he seems to demand, or will I burn out and fall by the wayside? Always these questions, and his answers never come.
That night I am pensive when he Skypes me, wanting reassurances. I refuse to slip straight into the kinky stuff.
I say, “I miss you so much. Do you miss me?”
“Of course. The bed feels empty without you.”
“Just the bed?”
“No, not just the bed.” There is a trace of impatience in his tone, then he switches to the honeyed menace I know so well. “Have you been a good girl today, Beth?”
“I’m not a girl. I’m legally a woman.”
Silence.
Fear. “But yes, I’ve been good,” I contribute lamely.
“I’m not sure I believe you. There’s a hint of something that could be construed as rebellion about you tonight. Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I miss you and I’m worried that you don’t miss me.”
“I’ve just told you I do. I’m concerned at this attitude, Beth. I think a test of your obedience may be required.”
My stomach lurches. “What sort of test?”
“Get the lubricant and the smaller of the two anal plugs I gave you.”
Ugh, no, I’ve been dreading this. I hesitate and he says, “Now,” in a final-warning kind of way.
I retrieve them from my bedside drawer, wrinkling my nose with distaste at the pale pink silicone bulb before kneeling back on the bed in front of my computer.
“Strip,” he says peremptorily, and I lose the ov
ersized T-shirt I am wearing. “Now I want you to get yourself into a position that is comfortable, but that also allows me an unhindered view of your rear entrance.” I am feeling queasy. How bad is this going to be? I decide on an arse-to-camera angle, so he cannot see my face, but this is evidently not good enough. “No, Beth, I think perhaps sideways on…I’d like to be able to see your reaction.”
I crouch down, clutching my props and awaiting the next instruction. “You need to lubricate the tip of the plug, and also the area around your anal rosette.”
Anal rosette? I cringe at the term, but as if in a dream I unscrew the cap of the lubricant and smear it across the rubbery bulb. Reaching around to massage it into my arsehole is trickier; the way my arm has to stretch is not comfortable and by the time I am finished the limb is shaking. I swallow.
“Good. Very good. You applied just the right amount. Now I want you to take that plug and press it against your backside. Push it, slowly and gently, inside. It will help if you use your sphincter muscles to try and expel it as you push it in. It sounds illogical, but it does make it easier.”
I pick up the plug and look at it critically. “I don’t think I can do it,” I say.
“You can do it,” he says, hypnosis-inducingly calm and level. “Just do as I tell you…relax your muscles…allow it inside.”
“No, I mean I don’t want to do it. I don’t like the idea of it.”
“If you do it, you will please me. If you don’t, you will disappoint me.”
Chills. I don’t want to disappoint him. That’s not what I want. I will give it a shot.
It feels too tight; the barrier is too impenetrable. “I could do it if you were putting it in,” I gasp, scarlet-faced with effort, embarrassment, fear of failure, the lot. “But I don’t think I can do it myself.”
“Keep trying,” he says, and I try again, but my sphincter clenches and tightens at the invasive pressure. “You aren’t trying,” he admonishes, and suddenly I am so angry with him, so fucking angry with him.
“I AM fucking trying!” I hiss, losing it but still mindful of keeping the noise down. “I’m trying really hard! But I can’t. Do. It.”
Lecture Notes Page 18
