“Oh dear.” Sinclair’s voice is unctuous with false disappointment. “We need to work on this, Beth, don’t we? Open your eyes. Look at me.”
He has to tap my flank quite stingingly with the crop before I obey.
“Self-discipline, Beth. Control. A swift deterrent and then we’ll try again.” No, please, not again. But he has both my ankles gripped in one hand and is lifting my legs into the air, so high that my bottom is raised off the counterpane. He takes advantage of my defenceless position to add six more strokes of the crop to those he has already placed; six burning red welts for my collection. I moan and hiss at the pain while the vibrator continues to roil away inside me and whirr against my clit. The river of juices on my thighs is starting to feel cold and clammy and my clit feels as if it might explode, but he lowers my legs again and spreads them.
“One more try,” he says. I make a dramatic sobbing sound, but to be honest, I don’t think I’ll be able to come again. My clit feels worn to a nubbin already. But….oh god…he flicks the switch again, so the buzzing increases in volume and frequency. Oh God. What did I just say? I begin to thrash wildly and mindlessly, pulling at my restraints, rubbing my hot backside against the sheets, finding that the stinging there creeps up and around my throbbing sex, adding another flavour to the feast of sensation already in progress there. The long shaft presses mercilessly against my slippery walls, round and round. Sinclair stands up by the side of the bed, staring down at me, arms folded, so intimidating that I have to shut my eyes again.
I can’t believe I’m having to ask already, but I feel the tremor beginning and I wail, “Please, sir, please let me come.”
“Again? So soon, Beth?” is all he will say. Bastard!
“Please…please…” But I cannot wait for his reply; however hard I try to clamp down on every nerve ending, my climax will not be denied and out it roars, thumbing its nose at Sinclair, who watches impassively from the sidelines. I keep my eyes closed again, my tongue lolling uselessly in my mouth as I feel Sinclair return to the bed, lift my legs once more, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, six more in rapid succession, cutting into my bum with heartless precision, then the vibrator is pulled out with a soft slicking sound and tossed aside, and before I can open my eyes, my heels are on Sinclair’s shoulders and he is ploughing straight into me, hard and fast, hands on my hips. Despite my multi-orgasmic malaise, I sigh with pleasure at the feel of him, his warm, human flesh on mine, his thick rod slipping up and down my well-used slopes, and after about ten minutes of this joyful primal coupling he growls, “You may come, Beth,” and…I do. Just like that. Just his voice, his words, are enough now. He fills me up and comes down to rest on top of me, his hands on my silk-strapped wrists, his mouth over mine. Our tongues dart and flick lazily against each other. I am in another place now, a place far away from the world I once knew. I am in Sinclair’s possession.
Chapter Nine
Now that I am Possessed, there has been a shift in my perspective on life. Nothing else matters except the higher will of Sinclair. I don’t have to chew my fingernails with worry, fend off my bank manager or do any of that tedious decision-making stuff because Sinclair does it all for me. Even chewing my fingernails. OK, I made that last part up.
My priorities have altered beyond imagination. Where before they might have been listed thus:
1) Don’t get thrown out of University
2) Don’t get thrown out of accommodation
3) Don’t get taken to court by bank
4) Opera practice
…they can now be listed quite differently:
1) Do what Sinclair says
2) Do what Sinclair says
3) Do what Sinclair says
4) Opera practice
We spend most of the time in bed or studying, together or independently. Nothing and nobody intrudes into our perfect cocoon. By Thursday Sinclair has introduced me to sexual positions even the Kama Sutra doesn’t recognise; I have been taught how to deep-throat (tricky) and how to insert ben wa balls (easier); I have been spanked innumerably, paddled (twice) and tied down to the coffee table with a dildo inside me and a strap applied to me while the curtains of the picture windows hung wide open so (admittedly very eagle-eyed) passers-by could see the tableau.
I am learning to be what he wants. If I can be what he wants, then he will never leave.
But on this Thursday, Sinclair has to go out. He has a meeting with the TV company. I am left with instructions to spend forty five minutes on the gym equipment, take a shower and then wait for him, on my knees, naked on the living room carpet with the riding crop between my teeth. If he is satisfied with my pose on his return, I will only get six. If not, he will double the total. Or treble it, if he is really very dissatisfied.
I do spend the allotted forty five minutes in the spare room, though I spend most of it at a dawdling pace on the running machine, daydreaming about Sinclair and I holidaying on the French Riviera, sipping café noir at pavement cafes and shagging on the beach. Will he take me abroad? Will he still want me, come the summer?
I shower, carefully depilate, then when I am completely oiled up and perfumed as he desires, I make my way to the living room. On the way, some errant impulse makes me stop by the office door and turn the handle. It is unlocked. Nothing more to conceal from me here then.
I tiptoe in, shivering slightly at the sight of his canes – I’m still faintly marked from that experience – and look for a lurid novel to read while I’m stuck in slave-ready mode. There are plenty to choose from, many of historical interest and quite a few in French. But as I slip The History of the Human Heart out of the shelf, I notice something lodged behind it. A videotape.
I take it out and inspect it. “Mel’s Birthday” is written on the label. Is this…a sex tape? I check the clock; he will be gone for another hour. I’m going to do this. No, what if it’s awful? I’m going to do this. What if it really upsets me? I can’t not do this!
There is ye olde VCR, just above the DVD player on the console. I slip the tape inside, switch on the television and await enlightenment. Should I get some popcorn? I idly debate the wisdom of getting a drink from the kitchen, but my attention is grabbed straightaway when a slightly wavy, discoloured Mel appears before camera, dressed to the nines in a rubber dress and spike heels, grinning up at me brazenly. Her hair is different; this must be a few years ago. When was Sinclair with her? Ten years ago…no, it can’t be as long ago as that. The music playing in the background is by Zero Seven…five years? Roughly.
Lounging on an overstuffed sofa in the background is Rob, wearing only a bathrobe and a lecherous smile.
“Guess what?” says a marginally tipsy Mel. “It’s my birthday. I am 30! Oh my God! 30! Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me then.”
Rob sings a couple of bars. “Aren’t you going to join in, Sinclair?”