Lecture Notes
He is silent. Then, “I can’t promise you that. But I’ll try.”
It’s a start.
*
An hour later, we are in bed where an intense session of bodily exploration has been building up, so slowly, so surely, to the point where the bodies will meet. Sinclair has been different – less calculated, more unrestrained, granting me more license with his skin than I am accustomed to, which is good, because I want to memorise every pore and freckle and navel-to-groin hair so I can call it to memory on the fourteen long and lonely nights ahead.
We are in the sixty-nine position; my teasing tongue has brought him to the perfect pitch of stimulation and I have already drenched his mouth with my juices twice. He wriggles up from underneath me, leaving me on all fours without an occupation for my mouth or my lower orifices. “Oh,” I say.
“Keep those legs spread,” he cautions me, and I can hear some scrabbling around in his drawer of decadence going on. Oh blimey. Ropes? Toys? Blindfolds? “I want to try something new today.”
He plunges deep into me from behind without warning and I utter a long ‘aaaah’ at the sudden filling of my void. This is not new, I think vaguely, though I am highly aware that my walls are a little tender after two earlier skirmishes and my attention is fixed on the sensation of it. He soon settles into a leisurely back and forth stroke that rubs pleasurably against my front wall, keeping my bottom high and my head pressed down so that my spine forms a perfect downward slope.
“To whom do you belong, Beth?” he asks, commencing an oft-rehearsed mantra, rather like a catechism in its call and response nature.
“To you, sir,” I gasp.
“That’s right. What parts of you belong to me?”
“Every part, sir. All of me.”
“Yes, Beth. This part?” He reaches around to fondle my breasts as they jiggle and bounce in the wake of his fucking rhythm.
“Yes, they belong to you, sir.”
“This part?” He moves one hand beneath me to twiddle my clit.
“Yes, it belongs to you, sir.”
“This part?” He lays a smack on my backside, hard enough to leave a handprint.
“Yes, it belongs to you, sir.”
“I need hardly ask about this part,” he says laconically, thrusting his cock in emphasis.
“No, sir,” I concur.
“Is it mine?”
“Always, sir.”
“Always. Good answer. But what about this part?” The rocking motion of my thighs, pressing backwards to meet Sinclair’s urgent thrusts, freezes. I hold very, very still as Sinclair’s index finger prods my tight anal pucker. ‘When you’ve finished there, Rob, I want her arse’. His words on the videotape come back to haunt me. He said we’d do it when I was ready. I’m not ready.
“I…er…”
“Is it mine?”
“You said…”
“I know what I said, Beth, but that’s not what I’m asking you. Is it mine?”
Tensely I answer, “Yes, sir. It’s yours.”
“That’s right. And I will use it. On
e day. When you’re ready. I know you aren’t ready yet, Beth, so what I propose is that we start work on preparing you.”
“Preparing me?” Eek fucking squared. What does he mean?