Lecture Notes
Dazedly I sit back up, the room unblurring before my eyes. “Will it be many?” I ask meekly, crawling reluctantly down to where the pillows wait for me to drape myself across them.
“You will count them and find out,” says Sinclair, predictably.
With a weighty sigh I bend over the cushions, thrusting my arse up as much as I can, the way he likes me to. I have the duvet to clench and bite into; much better than being over the desk for the cane really.
“Legs further apart, Beth,” he tuts, disappointed in me already. I spread them wider, flushing as always at the knowledge that I can hide nothing from him. “Now this will be a lesson to you, my love, in the wisdom of always following my instructions, both to the letter, and in spirit. I will not accept backsliding and laziness from you, Beth; what you are about to receive will serve as a reminder on this point. Do you feel that you deserve this reminder?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” I sigh, slotting sweetly into my sorely-missed disciplinary headspace.
“Good. Then you should ask me for it.”
“Please, sir, will you punish me for my disobedience?”
“Indeed I will.”
I take a breath, hold it high up in my lungs, teeth together, then…the heavy crack of leather against flesh…the breath whooshes out, I pluck at the duvet, wriggle my bottom furiously to try and dissipate some of the sting. Remember to count. “One, sir.”
Repetition, repetition, repetition. No deviation. As the count moves inexorably on, past five, past six, past seven, my behind is beginning to burn in earnest and the temptation to move aside, to beg for relief is intense. “Is this getting through to you, Beth?” he asks with polite steeliness and I manage a gasped, “Yes, sir,” before he raises the strap to strike again.
On again, past ten, past twelve. Oh God, how many? I am rocking back and forth on my knees, trying to keep my backside high and in the line of fire, wailing almost continuously between counts. The heat is all over me, inescapable, unbearable, searing every particle of skin on my rear and upper thighs. After fifteen he stops and I take a breath, but all he does is move across to the other side, ensuring equal coverage of both cheeks. Argh! This means another fifteen minimum. For the first five I struggle and yell, but after twenty all the resistance leaves my body, the way it does sometimes and I just flop acceptantly over the pillows, keeping my position, swimming sweetly around the scorching pain as if it is a fiery sea, flipping over, doing backstroke through the strokes. My voice comes out somehow, through the roar of the painwaves, and my mantra sweeps through my head… “I want this…I need this…I want this…I need this…”
And then it is over. “Thirty, sir.” The waves are still fanning out through my nerve endings, a burning glow. Sinclair is standing silently behind me and I dimly recall some point of etiquette that may have eluded me... “Thank you, sir.”
“Let’s hope that you will not forget the standard of conduct required of you in future,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse, the way it goes when he is almost too aroused to speak. “Now hold that position, Beth.”
I’m not sure I could move anyway, and I hear the tearing of a foil packet, the cringe-inducing snap of rubber and a slight ouchy sound from Sinclair, who is presumably unused to this form of prophylactic. Then I am speared, stretched open for him, pushing back on to the invasive prong that splits me, welcoming it all the way up, even welcoming the additional sting of his skin against my hot, sore bum, welcoming him back, back for good.
“Mmm, I love you,” I rave, his hands on my shoulders, his thumb pressing down in the middle of my neck. “I’m yours.”
“Always mine,” he grunts, thrusting hard. And afterwards, he tells me again that he loves me.
Chapter Fifteen
“Today I am going to take you every way, in every position conceivable. You are going to come so hard and so often that you will temporarily lose the use of your legs. I am going to tie you up and blindfold you and take you on a journey of unbearable pleasure. I am going to mark you as mine, mark you with my scent and my insignia upon the soft flesh of your neck. Everyone who sees you will know that you are the property of Sinclair.”
I would reply – something along that lines of ‘that’s nice, dear’ – but my mouth is inconveniently full of his cock. I make a breathy little noise of approval and continue to bob carefully up and down the saliva-coated rod of his erection. Today’s itinerary is sounding good…except there’s something…a nagging something at the back of my mind….something I should be doing….
“Shit!!” I pop off the end of my lewd lollipop, staring in horror. Sinclair is disgruntled and tries to push my head back down but I babble, “Sir, I should have been on stage last night!” He lets go of my hair, sighs and sits back. “The opera. I missed it. It was our last night!”
“You have an understudy, I take it?” he snaps
“Well, yes, I do. Emily. But I didn’t even let them know. Oh God, I feel awful.” I clap my hands over my face. Everybody must know now. Everybody…fuck, will I be in the paper? What about my mum and dad?
My heart starts to race, not so much a steeplechase as a full-on Ben-Hur-style chariot job. “Sinclair, would you mind if I looked up the newspaper websites? I need to know if I’m in the news.”
He takes my flapping hands and stills them in his own. “Beth, you are going nowhere until this does.” He nods significantly down at his unassuaged hard-on. “The websites will still be there in ten minutes time. Don’t let the hysteria outside creep into our bedroom.”
“No, no, OK. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m going to calm down. I’m going to be calm. It’s all fine, it’s all fine…”
“Could you stop blethering and finish what you started!” Sinclair is beginning to lose what little patience he has. It’s fine, it’s good. Sinclair will know what to do.
I bend my spinal column back into position, achieve optimal lip suction and continue with my morning fellatio.
Ten minutes later, I race to the kitchen in Sinclair’s (lovely sheeny satin) bathrobe, wash his special breakfast juice down with a glass of water and head straight for the computer in his office. Peering through the blinds, I can still make out a few lingering photographers, though it seems the majority have given up and gone to tear stringy bits of meat off some other carcass. Sinclair, barefoot but in trousers and half-buttoned shirt, lurks over my shoulder, frowning at the screen.
I Google myself.
Then I really wish I hadn’t.