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?’