The Choice

by Monica Belle

  That path was my sole protection against an idea that had begun to form in my mind; too busy and in plain view of the river for what I wanted to do but was telling myself I shouldn’t. Not that there was anybody around, but there might have been, and that kept me safe as I followed the river, under the ring road and out onto a spit of land where the two main channels of the Isis join together.

  A weir crossed the lesser branch, the high water passing over it with a steady roar, while a long walkway would have allowed me to cross to the far side. I didn’t, telling myself I should turn back but knowing full well that I had no such intention. Instead I followed the lesser branch, beneath gently humming pylon lines to where a fringe of trees flanked the water, oak and ash, holly and yew still in leaf, and birch.

  I had to do it, my need too great to resist and the risks of being caught too slim to allow me an excuse. There was nobody to be seen, just the empty meadows, still flooded in places, the river and the trees, under which I was completely sheltered. I found the perfect place after a minute or two of searching, an open space beneath a single huge oak with a screen of holly bushes to hide me from sight. Nearby was a clump of birch, the twigs hanging low and inviting.

  My fingers were shaking as I began to pick the birch, twig after twig, all the while telling myself I was only doing it to push my ridiculous fantasies out of my head once and for all, that the pain would soon make me see sense. I knew it was a lie, because as the bunch in my hand grew my arousal was soaring, until my nipples had grown painfully stiff and I felt damp and warm between my legs.

  Violet had used a ribbon from her hair to tie the bundle tight and make a handle for James to hold, but I hadn’t worn ribbons since I was six. My belt served instead, making a cruder, but perhaps more businesslike birch whip. Just to hold it made me want to take down my clothes and stick my bottom out for punishment, and I scampered back to my hiding place full of embarrassment and anticipation for what I was about to do.

  Having made absolutely sure that nobody was about, I put the birch down and unfastened my jeans. I was still glancing guiltily from side to side as I pushed them down, careful not to take my knickers as well, because that was a moment I wanted to savour, as Violet had done. My shaking had grown uncontrollable as I pushed my thumbs into my waistband and closed my eyes.

  She’d been in ecstasy as she was stripped and, as I let my bottom come slowly bare, I felt I could appreciate something of the thrill. Certainly it was stronger than just stripping to show off, when I knew I was baring my cheeks not to tease or for the caress of a boyfriend’s hands, but to be whipped. Being bare, always a pleasure save in the most mundane of circumstances, now felt vulnerable, almost frightening as I tried to imagine James and Violet watching, her eyes bright with excitement and amusement too, he cool and full of authority as he swished the birch through the air to test its weight.

  I picked it up, deliberately bending at the waist to make my position as revealing as possible. That felt good, both exciting and shameful, emotions I’d come to realise could enhance each other in a delightful and unexpected way. I knew how much I was showing behind, which any man about to whip me would be able to see, enjoying my exposure while he himself was fully clothed.

  The birch felt evil, somehow wicked, the braided leather of my belt around the hard twigs giving it a harsh rustic feel, ideal for whipping a naughty girl in the country. As I hefted it I let my imagination run, pushing thoughts of James away so that I wouldn’t feel guilty for Violet. Instead I was to be beaten by a young farmer who’d caught me trespassing and given me the choice of the police or taking down my jeans and panties for a dozen strokes of the birch.

  I’d stood up again, my bottom pushed out, and brushed the twigs across my cheeks. It tickled, making me giggle, and I thought of the farmer teasing me, deliberately taking his time so that he could enjoy my half-naked body and my rising consternation as he held off from punishing me properly. A gentle smack tingled slightly, a firmer one slightly more, stinging in places, but no more than I could have taken on my breasts.

  Sure that my farmer boy would want to see everything and remembering what James had done to Violet, I pulled up my top and bra. A moment playing with nipples and holding my breasts as I imagined myself being made to show them off and I took the birch to my chest, just hard enough to sting a little. It felt nice, but my bottom was definitely the proper target and I stuck it out again, this time landing the birch across my cheeks with a solid flick of my wrist.

  Now it stung, making me squeal and jump up, rubbing at my smarting skin. It had hurt, and I was telling myself I was a fool, completely mad, but that didn’t stop me sticking my bottom out again and giving myself a second stroke, harder still. Again I jumped and squeaked, but I stayed in position, imagining the farmer’s words as he beat me; ordering me to stick my bum well out, telling me he could see my anus and that my sex was wet, but far less politely.

  With that thought I simply lost control, smacking at my bottom as I imagined what he’d say; telling me that he liked my bottom and boobs, that my cunt was juicy and he was going to fuck it, even that he was tempted to stuff his oversized cock up the wrinkled pink hole between my open cheeks. My mouth came open in a cry of shame and ecstasy for that awful thought and my hand was between my thighs, rubbing at myself even as I smacked the birch down across my now flaming cheeks.

  It hurt, a lot, but I wanted more, to be whipped to ecstasy and have my man’s cock put in me, up my beaten bottom as I went into climax, which I was doing. I dropped the birch and sank to my knees, my bottom stuck well out, my eyes shut and my mouth wide in a silent scream, rubbing at myself as wave after wave of pleasure swept through me, until I could stand it no more and collapsed gasping onto the cold wet ground.

  9

  WHEN I GOT back that evening it was as if I’d got lost and returned to a different city, with the same buildings but otherwise a complete contrast. The weather had changed, with warm, moist air coming in from the West, and it began to rain as I hurried the last few yards along the High. People had been arriving across the day as well, so that college was bustling with students carrying cases and trunks, with everybody greeting one another and asking after friends. Within minutes I’d seen more people I knew than I had in the previous week, and I’d barely had a chance to change before being whisked into hall by two of my fellow PPE students.

  Sunday was busier still, and Stephen returned, late in the evening, coming up to my room just as I’d had a shower and having me on the bed, wet and naked. That really put the roses back in my cheeks and we slept together that night, too happy and excited to be back in each other’s arms to worry about being tired the next day. Only Violet had not returned, but she had sent a postcard to say that she was coming back via Arles and Paris.

  By the middle of the first week everything was going full swing once more. I had lectures to attend, an essay to work on, and a new term in front of me at the Chamber, hopefully as successful as the last. The second debate of the Hilary term was going to be a repeat of the famous King and Country motion, when a majority had voted against fighting for Britain a few years before the Second World War. It was sure to attract attention and I was keen to speak.

  So, inevitably, were a lot of other people, and as luck would have it Giles Lancaster was leading the team against the motion, which was the angle I wanted to take. I was sure he’d want to make me grovel, but equally sure that he’d want me on the team. My best chance seemed to be to make a bold move, so I asked him outright at the bar with half-a-dozen of his cronies looking on and quite a few other people within earshot.

  His usual facetious drawl had vanished as he replied. ‘I’m sure you’d be very good, but we do have the son of one of the original speakers coming as a guest, and a third-year historian who’s planning to do a thesis on pacifism in the 1930s. That only leaves one place available, and you’ll have to admit that it’s not your subject.’

  ‘That’s true, but …’

  ‘My t
hought is that you might prefer to be one of the tellers?’

  I hesitated. Counting the votes was a responsible job, and a useful one to have done for when I came to stand for an elected post, while to turn the offer down would make me look bad, as Giles knew.

  ‘Unless of course you don’t feel up to it?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll do it, thanks.’

  ‘Good girl. Drinkies?’

  His patronising tone was back, but I accepted the drink, wondering if he was simply keen to maintain my support or had some ulterior motive in making the offer. I didn’t trust him, but it was hard to see what could go wrong, and nothing in his conversation suggested that it was anything more than a straightforward offer.

  I stayed quite late at the Chamber, then wandered back to college, really quite glad that I’d spared myself the time and trouble of preparing my speech and going through it with the rest of the team. As a teller my name would still be on the report, while everybody would see that I was considered responsible. Giles was also right to say that it was not my subject.

  The first thing I heard when I reached my floor was music coming from Violet’s room, a classical piece as usual. I knocked immediately, delighted to hear her voice as she invited me in. She looked as languid as ever, in a slinky black dress that was presumably Italian, with her curls tied back in a tell-tale ribbon and a book in one hand. She put it down, smiling as I came in.

  ‘Poppy! I was wondering where you’d got to?’

  ‘I was at the Chamber. I didn’t know you were due back today.’

  ‘I wasn’t, but there was a little problem in Paris and I had to leave early.’

  ‘Ooh scandal! What happened?’

  I’d caught the tone in her voice and her answering smile showed that I was right. She got up, kissed me and carried on as she started to make coffee. ‘I met the most beautiful boy, at the Espace Dalí, he …’

  ‘Hang on. What about James?’

  ‘James? Our relationship isn’t like that.’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘He doesn’t mind what I do, as long as I tell him. In fact, the more I do the better he likes it, because …’ She broke off, rather abruptly I thought, then carried on, full of mischief and enthusiasm. ‘… but I was telling you about Zacharie. He was so beautiful, and so perfectly French. I just had to have him, or my trip wouldn’t have been complete. The next morning I woke up in his room in a student apartment block in Montmartre, with a view across the whole centre of Paris. Everybody should do that once, Poppy. You should, but probably not the way I did, because he’d just started to plant kisses on my leg when his girlfriend walked in on us. Look what she did!’

  As she spoke she had tugged the front of her dress a little way down, exposing the upper slope of one tiny breast. Her pale skin was marked with four vivid red lines.

  ‘What happened!?’

  ‘I thought she was going to kill me! She was screaming at us and if she hadn’t been trying to get both of us at the same time it would have been a lot worse. I just snatched my bag and my dress and ran for it, down the passage with heads popping out of all the doorways …’

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Stark.’

  I could picture the scene, and my hand had gone to my mouth as she carried on.

  ‘I had to get dressed at the top of the stairs, and I didn’t dare go back, so I had to walk back to my hostel barefoot, in a dress that barely covered my bum.’

  She shook her head, grinning. I smiled back, again picturing the scene.

  ‘So you left?’

  ‘I had to. I’d written my address down for him on the back of a beer mat, which she might well have found. I didn’t feel safe!’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s my exciting story. Italy was wonderful, and it was great to see Arles even in mid-winter. But how about you?’

  ‘Nothing to match that. In fact I was so bored I came up early. James very kindly treated me to dinner one night, at his house.’

  Despite what she’d said earlier, and my innocence, I was a little cautious as I spoke. She merely threw me what might have been an enquiring look and carried on, changing the subject. ‘I suspect your boyfriend’s back though?’

  ‘Oh, very much so.’

  ‘You two amaze me. You have so much energy, always on the river and out on the town.’

  ‘Rather than being chased around Paris by jealous girlfriends?’

  Violet laughed. ‘She was Catalan, apparently, or at least that’s what he said while she was trying to rake her nails down my face, as if it was an excuse!’

  ‘I suppose she was bound to be angry.’

  ‘Maybe, but not with me. I didn’t even know she existed until she came through the door. Anyway, why do people have to be so jealous?’

  ‘It’s human nature, I suppose. Defending your mate.’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t live in caves any more, do we? As long as we’re careful it shouldn’t matter.’

  ‘And James?’

  ‘Um … it’s complicated.’

  ‘I always thought you had a stormy, obsessive relationship? Now you’re making it sound so casual.’

  ‘Stormy, yes, but that’s … that’s my fault. He’s obsessive enough, though, just not about being faithful.’

  She was obviously feeling uncomfortable, so I changed the subject, but I could guess at least some of what had been going on.

  Over the next couple of weeks I drifted back into much the same routine as I’d enjoyed the term before; the Chamber, work, rowing, Stephen and other friends, particularly Violet. We were in and out of each other’s room for coffee more often than ever, but while Dr McLean was quite often around they’d clearly decided to be more discreet about their relationship, with Violet cycling out to his house on the Eynsham Road at weekends and quite often in the afternoon.

  I was tempted to repeat my expedition to some lonely copse to recapture the thrill of taking a birch whip to my bottom, but there never seemed to be time, while I’d got so carried away before that both my cheeks were spotted with little red marks, which took over a week to fade and made changing for rowing both awkward and embarrassing.

  More and more of my time was taken up with the Chamber, and in particular preparing for the King and Country debate, which was creating even more interest than had been expected. As a teller I was neutral, which put me in an excellent position to take over the publicity, which in turn allowed me to talk to people from the broadsheets, radio and television, adding further to my list of contacts.

  Among my responsibilities was keeping track of opinion, so that I could pass on the likely outcome to the press, a job that would normally have been done by the Recorder had Giles not been leading the opposition to the proposal. I still had to get him to sign off everything I did, and repeatedly found myself needing his advice.

  With just over a week to go before the debate I found myself in an awkward situation, with two of the major television companies wanting exclusive broadcast rights. I wanted to auction the rights to get as large a fee as possible, but didn’t know if the idea was acceptable under Chamber rules, while I was also determined to get Giles’ signature on the documents so that if it all went horribly wrong I wouldn’t end up in trouble.

  He had a very casual attitude to signing the documents I brought him, often scribbling his big lazy signature across the bottom without even bothering to read it, especially when he’d had a few drinks. On the evening I needed the signature I waited until after ten o’clock before going to the Chamber bar, but he wasn’t there. I waited with increasing impatience, only to learn that he’d been in earlier and left. Stephen had also come in, looking for me, which reminded me that I hadn’t seen him since the weekend.

  I was feeling guilty as I left, and decided to seek Giles out in his rooms in Mary’s, then go on to Emmanuel, hopefully for some naughty rough sex. By then it was nearly eleven o’clock, and I knew Mary’s would soon be locked up and I’d be unable t
o get in without a late gate key, but Giles was on the ground floor with a window looking out onto the High. All I needed to do was to knock.

  It only took a few minutes to cycle over and, after a moment working out which was his room, I climbed over the low stone wall and nipped across the thin belt of grass and trees separating the buildings of Mary’s from the street. His curtains were closed, but not completely, and out of pure curiosity I peeped inside, telling myself I’d make sure he hadn’t gone to bed before knocking.

  I could only just reach by standing on tiptoe, but he was there, sitting in an armchair, his head thrown back, his face set in an expression of bliss which could only be sexual. It was very definitely not a good moment to call, but I couldn’t resist a closer look, to see his cock if he was masturbating or, better still, to find out who was on her knees at his feet.

  A quick glance to make sure nobody was watching me from the street and I’d managed to wedge one foot on the slope of a buttress and catch hold of his window sill to haul myself up, balancing precariously. Now I could see properly and, as the scene within became clear, my mouth came wide in shock. Giles was sprawled in an armchair, half-turned to the window, his face set in ecstasy, a large pink erection sprouting from his open fly into the mouth of the person whose head he was holding, not a girl, but a man, my man – Stephen.

  As I watched Stephen’s head bob up and down on Giles Lancaster’s erection I could feel my whole carefully constructed future crumbling around me. He was gay, which made everything we had together a lie, every passionate word he’d spoken false, every claim of affection a mockery.

  I just ran, having jumped down from my perch and leaped the low wall onto the High, oblivious to the stares of passers-by, and I headed for the sanctuary of my room. Every inch of the way that awful image stayed with me, of Stephen, who I’d built up as my ideal image of masculine strength and virtue, on his knees with another man’s penis in his mouth. I felt I could hear Ewan’s mocking laughter and the taunts of his friends as they teased me about college boys all being gay. I thought of how faithful I’d been, politely turning down every man who’d approached me, including Giles himself. I cursed and spat as I remembered the curious taste in Stephen’s mouth and realised it had been cock.