I kneel between his legs and start just behind his sacs, running a soapy finger over his perineum, which is an instant hit, rather to my surprise. I’ll have to remember that. I cup his balls with my foamy hands, exerting gentle pressure while he shuts his eyes and hisses. And I haven’t even got to the main event yet, which is pointing up at the shower head by now, inviting me to slide slippily up and down, to caressingly attend to every inch of the steely blue-veined flesh, even pushing back the foreskin as gently as I can to clean the underside and the smooth purplish head.
“Good, Beth, good….but I don’t want to peak too soon. You’d better get out and leave me to, ah, calm myself down.”
He almost pushes me out to wrap myself in a vast fluffy towel. I tie it up, toga-style, and head to the kitchen to make a start on breakfast. Coffee is percolating and eggs are in the pan by the time Sinclair sashays in, towel around waist, one hand plucking at his damp hair. Oh, I can’t believe all this is mine. It is like looking at a big plate of your favourite food, knowing you are going to savour every last morsel.
“Seizing the initiative,” he comments, pushing the eggs around with a spatula. He takes over, placing the eggs, toast and coffee on the table while we sit opposite each other. I am slightly strung up, cutting up the food unnecessarily small, casting around my suddenly fluffy mind for things to say and finding none, heatedly conscious of Sinclair’s eyes following my every move.
In an evil conversational pounce, he says, “We shall have to discuss your punishment, Beth. For trespassing into my private office.”
“Oh.” I stop, fork halfway to mouth, shaking in my fingers. “But I thought…”
“I believe you were made well aware that serious consequences would ensue from any such intrusion. Weren’t you?”
“Oh…yes.”
“Very well; we’ll deal with it this afternoon.”
“What are you going to…?”
“This afternoon,” he says firmly.
Having killed my appetite stone dead, he goes on to sip slowly at his coffee, watching my every move with narrowed eyes, as if making calculations.
“Professor, is this…” I begin tentatively, “I mean, er, is this…you and me….like…a relationship then?”
“Of course,” he says. “A relationship between us has always existed. That of teacher and student, mentor and disciple, disciplinarian and wrongdoer, landlord and tenant. Just for starters.”
“You know what I mean.”
He nods, giving me an inch of leeway. “We will be sexual partners. Lovers, if you like.”
“Will we be…exclusive?”
“Yes. You have made a commitment to me, Beth, and its nature is such that I feel responsibility for you. What I am asking of you in the bedroom is more than simple sex. It requires sensitivity and maturity on my part; trust and faith on yours. It is more complicated than a…casual shag, for certain.”
Although what he is saying is slightly unnerving, it is also reassuring. It sounds as if he cares for me on some level, even if that level is only to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill me in bed. For the first time, strangely enough, I seriously question what I am doing. Sinclair, from the sound of it, means to take me deep into his dark desires, crossing limits and boundaries en route.
Am I psychologically robust enough to handle this? Or will he crush me in the process?
I give him a tremulous-neophyte look, which seems to turn him on to the extent that he swoops around the table, takes me by the wrist and impels me along to the bedroom again. After kissing me until I have so little breath I feel like a fish flapping its gills on a slab he unrolls me from the towel and places it in the centre of the bed.
“Lie down, Beth, with your bottom on the towel please.”
“Oh. Right.” I do so and he leaves the room, reappearing with a bowl of warm water, a can of foam and a razor.
I sit up. “You aren’t going to…”
“I’ll do the honours,” he drawls, placing his accessories beside my hip on the bed.
“But why?” I wail. I’m not comfortable with this at all.
“It’s my personal preference,” he says unbendingly.
“Must you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you threatened by adult women?”