Lecture Notes (28 page)

“
Oh, no, I suppose that’s fair. I’m sorry.” I can see that Sinclair is making a massive effort to let go of that tiny area of control in his life, and I’m touched by it. “So anyway…?”

I sit up and he comes to sit beside me, pulling me over so that I lie with my head in his lap.
He strokes my hair as he speaks.

“The Vice Chancell
or wants me to get rid of you. I said no. He tried to make a deal but I stood firm. He caved in.”

“Really?”
I am overawed that Sinclair would put his job on the line for me. I imagine a showdown between the VC and him, both in cowboy hats, blowing smoke from the ends of their pistols. How completely thrilling. “You constantly amaze me.”

“I amaze myself,” h
e concedes, preening a little. “Then I saw the BBC. They will keep me on; the programme is not aimed at a family or young audience, though they were concerned that some female viewers might turn off. We shall have to wait for tonight’s figures and see. I’ve made a deal with my publishers for a book for the Christmas market; they are offering a very substantial advance.”

“Did anyone recognise you?”

“I did attract a modicum of attention,” he says, half-smirking. “But in general, I found that people got out of my way in a most gratifying manner.”

“I’ll bet they did.
Wincing as they scurried off. Everyone’s seen that tape.”

“Well, what’s done is done.
The important thing to remember is that it has not resulted in anything disastrous.”

“I’d wait until tomorrow before you committed to that statement.”

“Oh?” He frowns down, tugging at a strand of hair.

“I don’t think mum and dad are going to welcome you with open arms,” I confide.

He resumes the stroking. Aaah. “They’ll come round,” he says. Sinclair. The Voice of God. He makes one believe everything he says somehow; it’s a neat trick to have. His thumb moves down to my lips, stroking along the line until I kiss it, try to nip at it, then he adjusts himself into a horizontal position, cradling me on the sofa, and lures me into a long and thorough kiss.

Oh, the reassurance of his embrace, like being folded in a h
uge blanket of erotic comfort. I feel safety and belonging, even as his hands slip under my skirt and my top, finding their targets without too much fumbling. One hand cups the smooth curve of my bottom, stroking and kneading it, sometimes moving down to my thigh; while the other has yanked down the cups of my bra so he can press his flat palm against the nipples, bringing them to painful hardness with expert ease. He encourages one of my legs over his hip so I am spread, then his fingers stroll down leisurely into the heated crack they find newly-opened. Mmm, I nuzzle into him, pushing and grinding against his hands, bumping up against the hard swell in his trousers.

He lets me out of the kiss just long enough to murmur, “The VC must have been ma
d to think I could let you go. I could never let you go.”

Blissfully I offer my stinging lips to him again, full of swirly whirly emotion, imagining my insides like one of those big funfair lollipops with different coloured whorls and loops – lust, love, hap
piness, lust, love, happiness. I flood his probing fingers with my juices and he is unbuckling his belt one-handedly, preparing to roll me over and pounce on top of me when I say, “I trust you, Sinclair.”

He stops for a second, hand clenched over the tooled
leather and raises an eyebrow. “Good,” he says. “It’s mutual. Did you want a discussion now or can I resume my original plan to fuck you until you can’t stand?”

“No, what I meant was….”
I am overcome with coyness for a few seconds and have to force the words out, “…that thing you wanted me to do….before….well, if you still want it…”

Sinclair frowns intently for a whi
le, then his brow straightens. “That thing?” he says teasingly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more explicit than that, Beth. I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

He bloody has, the swine! “You know!” I persist.
“Don’t make me say it!”

He sh
akes his head, mock-mystified. “You want me to chain you up to the office wall and whip you unconscious?”

“NO!
You know what I mean…”

“You want me to…put a collar and leash on you and take you for a walk on the
Downs?”

“Fo
r fuck’s sake, Sinclair! Stop it!”

He laughs.
“Well, come on, then. A clue, at least. And don’t think you’ve got away with swearing at me either.”

A clue.
Hmmm. I wriggle round to face away from him – this kind of thing is much easier out of range of his penetrating eye contact – then I reach back for his hand and brush the fingers delicately up and down the crack of my behind, dropping it when he seems keen to continue the motion alone. He presses his thumb gently against the tight ring of muscle.

“Really, Beth?” he
murmurs, holding it there.

I nod vigorously, my eyes tight shut, hoping against hope that he does not want me to say it in words.

“Tell me.” Fucker!

“You can…if you want you can…oh…please be careful though….oh…youcantakemeupthearse.”

I hear his satisfied exhalation at the same time as a cracker of a slap lands on my right bum cheek. What was that for? The sheer hell of it, no doubt.

“I think we’ll continue proceedings the in the bedroom,” he decrees, nudging me off the sofa with his knee, then taking me by a handful of hair (ouch!) and marching me out of the room while his unbuckled belt jingles and flaps about en route.

“Get undressed,” he orders, moving a quartet of pillows to the centre of the bed, as he did yesterday when he was about to strap me. Eek. Not that again, I hope. I shimmy out of my already-severely-compromised outfit and stand fidgeting while he arranges the scene to his satisfaction. “I want you over these cushions, on all fours now,” he says.

“You aren’t going to…?”

“Just do it.”

I position myself as required, finding myself admiring the view of the heavy cotton duvet cover once more, thinking that very soon I’ll be able to reproduce from memory every single thread.
Sinclair kneels on the bed beside me, puts his fingers on the back of my neck and starts…oh, heaven…massaging it, quite gently, moving on to my shoulders.

“You need to be rela
xed for this,” he says softly. “No tension, no anxiety. You will enjoy it if you can let go of your fears.” He drops a kiss on to the nape of my neck, then starts sucking at the flesh around it while his hands brush up and down the curve of my spine. At some point he starts using some scented oil, warming it in his palm before drip-drip-dripping it on to my skin. When he moves down from my back, over my tailbone and into the area of interest, I do feel my muscles stiffen involuntarily, knowing what it is in store for them. I get two strong smacks to each cheek for my trouble and a stern warning to stop clenching. “Trust me, Beth. You said you trusted me. Open up to me.” The skin is stretched taut in this position, and I feel as if there are handprints glowing on it, even as he rubs the oil diligently over every square millimetre of my bottom, down to my inner thighs, then back up, moving inwards, inexorably inwards. God, it is hard not to tense up again as I sense the progress of his fingers. It is tickly and I feel skittish, starting to squirm and rotate my ankles until he deems me too restless and spanks me again, a good half dozen this time. I decide to concentrate on breathing…in…out…in…out…in…oh, lubricant, oh God, he is greasing up the tiny pucker and it feels obscenely invasive; it is all I can do not to clench and try to pull away from him, but I will breathe…I trust….in….out…and after all, the idea that he will take me there is fantastically sexy in a taboo, forbidden kind of way. I will belong to him completely, and I am ready to belong to him in that way. I am ready to let him all the way in, as he has let me.

“I’m going to start with a finger, Beth,” he says, h
is mouth down close to my ear. “Just let it happen…just…that’s it…” There is a soft splurt of lubricant as his finger breaks the ring, which I have managed not to clench by some form of superhuman endeavour. “That’s good, Beth, you’re doing well.” It is not painful, just peculiar. The feel of it wiggling and pushing against the sides, testing their flexibility, is so odd I am helpfully transfixed with my attempts to describe in words in my head.  What word would describe this feeling? Squishy, squirmy, wormy…squirmishy perhaps. Squirmishy, yeah.

But when Sinclair asks me how it feels, I just say, “Fine”.

“Fine?” he queries in a knitted-brow tone. “Are you understating, or are you trying to please me? How does it really feel?”

“Well….just…interesting, I suppose.”

“Good. Interesting is good. I’m going to add another finger then.”

He retracts the exploratory digit then forges forward again with
its neighbour in tandem. This time it is a little harder to accept; there is a chafey kind of soreness on entry but he moves his wrist so that they slide in with relative ease, though he takes it slowly, very slowly, conscious of my screwed up face and stored-up breath.

“You can breathe
out, you know,” he reminds me. “Probably a good idea. Keep relaxed and open, love. You’re doing very well. I’m almost all the way in now.”  He moves his fingers back and forth, pushing them in right up to the knuckles, keeping his other hand on my neck, stroking it calmingly. “Brave girl,” he whispers. “Are you ready?”

I make a small noise at the back of my throat; I am still afraid, but
I do not want to let him down. And I have to admit, it does feel almost nice now.

The fingers pop out, a little more lube is smeared outside and up around the entrance and then…oh….his hands are on my hips and I can feel him push, God, it’s enormously wide and thick, surely it will not…ah.  I yelp a little and try to elude his grip, but he holds
firm. “Don’t be afraid, Beth, you can take this. Come on, stop tensing. Just stay open…yes.”

I can feel the flesh yield
, but it is far from painless. A sharp stinging at first, then a panic-inducing pang and I am sure he is going to damage me so try hard to push him out. But oddly, that just makes it easier for him to move further up. “That’s right,” he says approvingly. “I know it hurts at first, love, but it will pass. Oh, God, so tight, oh God.”

This evidence of his extreme pleasure is enough to dispel the
anxiety. It does hurt, but the worst seems to be over now and I’m fairly sure I’m not torn. Now the pain seems sweet, erotic even, like the aftermath of a spanking, and the sensation of stretched fullness is doubly so. He edges further and further up, Christ, he’s crammed inside, I’m sure I can’t take any more, I’m sure this can’t be good for me…I think he’s all the way in now; I can feel his pelvis pressing against my bum; his rather bruising grip on my hips has relaxed a little. He is jiggling his cock around inside me, accustoming me to the extraordinary weirdness of it.

“Your tight little arse is stuffed full of my c
ock now, Beth,” he informs me. “How do you feel about that?”

“I
t makes me happy,” I tell him. “I makes me feel all yours.” I want to say I feel mastered, but I can’t quite say the words.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. Not too much.”

“Oh, I’m glad it hurts.
But I want you to feel the pleasure as well as the pain. There will be pleasure too.”

Well, hooray.
Shall we get on with it then?

Small, tight movements at first, making me whimper with each thrust, but soon the passage is stretched enough to make more forceful motion possible and he proceeds to fuck me properly, just as he would if he were taking me
in a more conventional manner. I moan and squirm and on occasion try to escape the mercilessness of it, but then he reaches a hand down beneath me to flick at my clitoris and the wave of pleasure is amazing; much stronger than if he were fingering me alone, much stronger than anything…oh…BLOODY HELL, this feels INCREDIBLE…

“I can’t last much longer; you’re so bloody tight,” he complains, ramming hi
mself hard up my back passage. “I’m going to take you like this as often as I can now, Beth; I hope you realise,” he warns, and his gently-spoken half-threat half-promise makes me wild with primitive excitement; I feel deliciously submissive yet primally powerful at the same time, and I come like a shrieking banshee, pushing back against him, which causes him to shoot his load in turn and collapse on my back, rasping raggedly into my ear for a long time afterward.

“So…” he says hoarsely, removing his no
w-limp appendage from my rear. “Was that as bad as you thought it would be?”

“Uh huh,”
I reply. “Worse. Much worse. I’m not sure I’ll ever think straight again.”

He chuckles, shifts off me to the side and we doze off, entwined and exhausted.

*

“I don’t think you should wear a suit,” I opine, watching Sinclair run an elegant hand along the ranks of sharply-
cut tailoring in his wardrobe. We are both shower-fresh, having thought it best to wash off the lingering traces of early-morning sex before setting off on our epic journey.