Sarah's Education

by Madeline Moore

‘Um, want, yes.’

  Leather cracked down again, an inch higher. Sarah emerged from her fog. Oh fuck! It was really happening. What had she let herself in for? Was she crazy?

  The third and fourth and fifth blows landed, each closer to her bottom. Pain seared into her. Tears were streaming from her eyes and she’d almost decided that she was ready to face the humiliation of begging him to stop when the sixth whacked down on the lower curves of her bum cheeks, and she was suddenly in absolute bliss.

  The belt progressed from low on her bottom to halfway up it, where her cheeks were fullest, then made their way down towards her thighs again. Her flesh was glowing embers. Each blow reignited the skin it landed on. The pain was hellish and heavenly. It was as if she’d taken some powerful euphoriant that had set her spirit free to soar through and to pure delight. Her thighs and her bottom had been transformed by ecstatic agony. Deep inside, she was starting to clench.

  Something dripped onto her chin. Of course! Her sex was weeping with joy. The internal convulsions accelerated and became stronger. She was so fucking close! Sarah knew she could take the belt forever, yet when it fell to the bed she moaned with relief.

  Something – his fingers? – forced entrance to her sex and drove deeply into her pussy. The invader pistoned. Other fingers manipulated her clit.

  Sarah heard herself shouting, ‘Love it! Love it!’ The fingers forced their way even further into her, into where she was clamping rhythmically, and triggered – ‘Yip, yip, yip, yip!’ – erotic bliss.

  Things were white and fuzzy for a bit. When Sarah opened her weary eyes, John had released her and covered her with bedclothes.

  ‘How was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Paradise. Devastating paradise.’

  ‘I’m glad. Now you should rest.’

  ‘But you?’

  ‘We can take care of me later.’

  ‘No, I want to … Only fair …’ And she fell asleep.

  When she opened her eyes again he was at the little table, reading a book. There was a platter of tiny triangular sandwiches, some of them eaten. She could smell fresh coffee.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  He poured a cup, added cream and brought it to her. Rolling onto one side to drink hurt, but in a nice way.

  ‘You were very brave,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ He likely wouldn’t understand if she tried to explain that courage had nothing to do with it. When she’d submitted and endured, she hadn’t been herself. She’d been some sort of automaton. ‘I’m feeling fine now,’ she said. I don’t think I could lie on my back, not with you on top of me, but I’d really like to do something nice for you, if you’d let me?’

  ‘Have a sandwich. Then let’s talk. Tell me all about yourself, nothing that you wouldn’t want to, but I’d really like to get to know Sarah, outside of her obvious skills and gorgeous attributes.’

  Sarah lay on her tummy, John beside her, and they chatted the afternoon away. She discovered that he was quite knowledgeable about philosophy, for a layman. When it came to her second area of expertise, he claimed to know very little about drama, but revealed snippets that made her doubt that. He had attended a lecture on acting that Michael Caine had given, and had been so impressed he was able to recite parts of it verbatim. He knew of the works of various dramatists, from Marlowe and Kyd through Sheridan and Feydeau, to Joe Orton and Edward Albee. She concluded that he was a real Renaissance man, complete with a knowledge of Italian, French and German. She practised her Italian on him, including her favourite phrase, ‘Fottere mia bocca, per favore’.

  That made him laugh out loud. ‘I don’t think you’re up for that, not yet,’ he told her, ‘but perhaps a little slow and gentle fellatio, if you don’t mind?’

  Sarah reversed on the bed, gingerly, and took him into her mouth with some sadness. Their date was almost over. Chances were, she’d never see this marvellous man again.

  He let her mumble and lick and suck for a while before he began to fondle her pussy, very gently. She sucked a little harder and nodded an inch or two. Neither of them was in a hurry, thank goodness. She was too stiff and sore for any frantic activity. Eventually, she climaxed, just a soft little clench and release. A little later he emptied into her mouth. They dozed for a while until he touched her shoulder.

  ‘Time for you to go, I’m afraid, sweet Sarah.’

  ‘You have me till ten and that’s another hour yet.’

  ‘I have a plane to catch. It’s time for me to start getting packed and ready.’

  ‘Take a later plane?’

  ‘I must return to my real life. I’m sorry.’ The kiss he gave her, though sweet, stifled her protests, definitely signalling farewell.

  When Sarah got down to her Volvo she sat in it for a while before starting its engine. She hardly cried at all.

  16

  WHAT ARE YOU and David planning for New Year’s Eve, Sarah?’ Mr Meadows took another bite of turkey leg and chewed, open-mouthed. ‘Delishush’, he told his wife.

  Sarah dropped her eyes to avoid grimacing at his poor table manners. She’d never realised, until this trip home, how lacking in etiquette he was. No wonder her sister habitually ate with one hand up to her face, like a blinkered horse.

  ‘We’ll probably go to a dinner party at the university. Unless something better comes up.’ She toyed with a Brussels sprout. The very mention of David made her stomach queasy. She hadn’t managed to break up with him before leaving Toledo for the Christmas holidays. ‘What about you, Donna?’

  Donna shrugged. ‘I’ll probably go clubbing.’

  Mrs Meadows clucked her tongue impatiently. And spend the first day of the new year in bed with a hangover,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Yeah,’ Donna replied cheerfully. ‘Probably.’

  Sarah sipped her wine. She’d been playing peacemaker between her menopausal mother and her self-proclaimed Asperger’s sister ever since her arrival in St Paul. It was getting tiresome. She glanced at her father. He grinned good-naturedly and gestured to the box of wine on the table. Sarah shook her head. Much as she agreed with his unspoken suggestion that alcohol always helped, she was too much of a snob to drink any more boxed wine than was necessary to be polite.

  ‘What schools have you applied to for graduate work, lovey?’ Mrs Meadows was speaking to Sarah, but her eyes were on Donna.

  ‘I haven’t decided what I want to do next year. I have a new part-time job, with a catering company that I like a lot. It pays really well. So I might take some time off school and concentrate on making money.’

  She saw the glances exchanged between her parents. Was that relief? Why had it never occurred to her, until now, that the cost of her education, even with her student loan, was a weight on them?

  ‘Anyway, Professor Braun’s final exam was way out there. There was only one question on it. “Write everything you know about the meaning of life.” A friend of mine, Christopher, wrote, “I know nothing about the meaning of life,” and walked out.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Mr Meadows laughed heartily.

  ‘We’ll see. I think he’d like to fail us all, in which case we won’t have the credits to take his second semester class on ethics. It’s a problem for all the Phil. Honours students.’

  ‘Braun. He’s the professor you think is losing his mind?’ Mr Meadows tapped his forehead with his fork, leaving a little mashed potato at his brow.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘So all I can tell you, Mom, is that right now I’m considering staying in Toledo.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Mrs Meadows clapped her hands. ‘David must be thrilled. I’m so glad you’re taking my advice. Stand by your man, Sarah, that’s what I say.’

  Donna choked on a mouthful of wine. ‘What happened to, “Never get married, never have children”? God, Mom, you’ve really changed your tune.’

  ‘Well, Germaine Greer says –’

  ‘Germaine Greer is a traitor to feminism,’ said Donna. She waved her glass impatiently under her father’s
nose. He took it and busied himself filling it from the box.

  Mrs Meadows glared at her youngest daughter. ‘It astounds me that a high-school dropout imagines herself so well-informed on every single issue that –’

  ‘I don’t need a piece of paper to be informed. Or to have an opinion.’

  ‘Pass the peas!’ Mr Meadows bellowed. He handed Donna her glass, full almost to the brim, and gave her a glowering frown.

  Christ. In an instant Donna and Mrs Meadows could and would veer from chit-chat to attack. Sarah was weary of it. She could only imagine how much it exhausted her dad. She handed him the peas.

  ‘What are you two doing for New Year’s Eve?’ Sarah glanced from her dad to her mom.

  ‘Nothing much,’ muttered Mr Meadows.

  ‘If you were staying over New Year’s we’d likely have a dinner party,’ said Mrs Meadows. ‘Invite all your old school chums.’

  Donna snorted. ‘Sarah only has one, and Alice didn’t come home for Christmas.’

  ‘Don’t be cruel,’ said Mrs Meadows.

  ‘She can’t help being a loner. That’s the way Asperger’s people are,’ said Donna.

  ‘Here we go,’ sighed Mrs Meadows. ‘Doctor Meadows and her internet diagnoses.’

  ‘She fits the profile. Brilliant, strange, lousy communicator. She’s even a picky eater.’

  Sarah quit toying with her food.

  ‘Oh, you’re just jealous of your sister, always have been,’ grumbled Mrs Meadows.

  ‘I am not! Jesus fucking Christ, Mom –’

  ‘Quiet, you.’ Mr Meadows pointed his fork at Donna. Turning his head, he asked, ‘What do you think, Sarah?’

  ‘About being high-functioning autistic? I … I think I’d like more wine, please, Dad.’

  Sarah retired to the room she shared with her sister as soon as she could. She lay in her twin bed, in the flannel pyjamas she’d received from Santa that morning, and yearned for sleep. She’d been in St Paul for four days and four nights. After this one, there’d be only one more day and night before she flew back to Toledo. If only she could will herself to fall asleep, right now. But of course the harder she tried, the wider awake she became. Her fingers drifted to the waistband of her pyjama bottoms. Masturbation was one way to find relaxation, but she didn’t think she could do it, not with her family, her dysfunctional family, lurking about the house.

  Donna flounced into the room. She switched on the bedside lamp. ‘I fucking hate her.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sarah wearily. She didn’t know how much more peacekeeping she’d be able to do without a break. ‘She’s just Mom.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You’re the good one.’ Donna stripped off and started pulling on her new pyjamas. ‘What the fuck are these things supposed to be?’ She gestured to the pattern on the pyjama bottoms.

  Sarah peered at Donna. Come closer,’ she ordered. Donna complied, bending over so her bum was inches from her sister’s face. ‘I think they’re kitties,’ Sarah said. She threw back her covers. ‘What’re mine?’

  Donna perched on Sarah’s bed and scrutinised Sarah’s flannel-clad body. ‘Some weird sort of bunnies?’

  They giggled.

  ‘Space bunnies?’ Sarah asked, giving her sister an exaggerated look of confusion.

  ‘Kitties from hell?’ Donna bit her lip quizzically.

  They erupted in a full-blown fit of laughter.

  ‘Shut up. They’ll hear us,’ said Sarah. She slapped her hand over her sister’s mouth.

  ‘Mmph,’ mumbled Donna. She clapped her hand over Sarah’s mouth.

  They’d almost stopped laughing when they heard their parents’ footsteps in the hallway. Sarah and Donna gave each other identical horrified looks and the hysteria bubbled up again.

  Once they heard the door to their parents’ room close they finally collapsed, weak from silliness. Donna crawled under Sarah’s covers.

  ‘I miss you sometimes,’ whispered Donna, even though you’re a pain in the ass.’

  ‘Thanks,’ whispered Sarah. ‘Ditto, I’m sure.’

  ‘It totally sucks here.’

  ‘I know,’ Sarah whispered back.

  Donna sat up. ‘Wanna go clubbing?’

  ‘Now? Here? Christmas Day in St Paul? You’re kidding.’

  ‘I know a “speak” that’s always open. Want to? You might just like a taste of the underworld.’

  ‘I’m not as much of a goody-goody as everyone thinks,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Prove it,’ challenged Donna. She jumped out of bed. We’ll go like this.’

  ‘In our pyjamas?’

  ‘Yeah. It’ll be fun. C’mon, Sarah.’

  Sarah paused for a moment, remembering all the nights she’d lain in her bed, half envious, half pitying, and listened to her little sister quietly escaping this buttoned-down suburban house. What was out there, she’d wondered, that was so enticing it beckoned Donna away from warmth and safety, propelling her into darkness and danger? She jumped out of bed. ‘I’m in.’

  The streets of St Paul were silent; even downtown seemed deserted. Once they were on the other side of the core, Donna drove slowly, peering intently through the windshield. ‘It’s here somewhere,’ she muttered. ‘I haven’t been in a while.’

  Sarah sat in the passenger seat, holding a shoe bag with their fuzzy slippers in it.

  They’d donned their coats and boots over pyjamas and bare feet and had silently left the house. Once they were strapped in, Donna had released the parking break and put the car in neutral. The driveway was on an incline, so the car simply rolled backwards onto the street. Only then did she turn the key in the ignition and flick on the lights.

  ‘So that’s how you always got away with stealing the car. I never could figure it out.’

  ‘I’m an evil genius,’ Donna had replied.

  ‘There it is!’ Donna’s expression was triumphant.

  Sarah peered through the windshield. She saw nothing but dark, seemingly abandoned warehouses. ‘Are you sure?’

  Donna parked the car. ‘Trust me. Things are not always what they seem.’

  Sure enough, Donna’s knock at an alleyway door was answered by a big man in black leather. ‘Sweetie!’ he cried in a surprisingly shrill voice. ‘Long time no see!’

  He and Donna air-kissed.

  ‘Come in, come in. How’s my favourite fag hag?’

  ‘Peachy,’ said Donna.

  The sisters climbed a seemingly endless flight of steel stairs.

  ‘Fag hag?’ Sarah whispered to her sister’s back. ‘Is this a gay bar?’

  ‘Yeah. You got a problem with that?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly. I was hoping for a little action is all.’

  Donna paused on the stairs to glance back at Sarah. Really? My, how you’ve changed.’

  Sarah shrugged.

  ‘I gotta meet this David guy some day. I want to meet the man who deflowered my big sister.’ Donna resumed climbing.

  Sarah chuckled. Let Donna think what she liked. Sarah thought about all the men she’d been with. Except for three – David, Christopher and Luigi – they’d all paid for the pleasure of her company. She allowed her thoughts to linger on her last assignation, the weekend she’d spent with John, then resolutely pushed him from her thoughts. Just another john, albeit one who had touched her in a way no one had since Jack, the man who had really taken her virginity. In between the two she’d had, she realised, a lot of men.

  As they approached the top floor they could hear the boom boom boom of synthesised dance music. Two big guys swung open the double steel doors and the girls were assaulted with such a noise that Sarah felt she might be pushed back down the stairs by it.

  They entered a dark cavernous space, alive with the writhing bodies of men in heat and lit with swirling coloured spotlights. Donna grinned at her sister as she shucked off her coat and boots. She grabbed her slippers from Sarah and slid them on her feet. ‘Come on!’ She dragged Sarah through a packed crowd of mostly m
ale bodies, towards the bar.

  Sarah had never seen anything like it. The place was vibrating with the combined energy of music and dancing men. Everywhere she looked she saw men pressed against other men, dancing or making out or both at once. The bar was crowded but Donna managed to worm her way to the front and returned with two plastic cups of beer. Sarah took one and tipped it to her sister. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she mouthed, and took a long draught.

  They danced. Sometimes together, sometimes with guys, sometimes alone. They danced for hours, until the flannel stuck to their skin and their hair was slick with sweat. They danced with guys in jeans and shirts and guys in nothing more than thongs and running shoes. They danced until the music stopped and the floor show began.

  Two men, one at each end of the stage, danced solo in a spotlight. One was young, fit but skinny, with a flop of black hair. The other, big and bald, was incredibly muscular. His body gleamed with oil. Both wore thongs and nothing else.

  There were a few catcalls from the audience, which had gathered on the dance floor to watch. But when the bald man raised his head, as if from a trance, and stared menacingly into the crowd, the heckling ended. He spotted the other man, apparently oblivious to everything but the music, writhing sensuously. The bald man approached, his spotlight following him, until he was behind the young man. He paused, then pounced.

  The young man feigned shock. He struggled to break the iron grip the bald man had on him, and was rewarded with a slap across the face. He fell to his knees and his well-oiled aggressor raised his fists in triumph, like some hairless King Kong.

  ‘I don’t know about this,’ Sarah muttered to her sister.

  ‘Silly. It’s all for show.’

  ‘Yes but –’

  On the stage, the young man’s head was pushed down and his hips tugged up. He was being arranged by his aggressor, handled like he was nothing more than a bendable sex toy. He glanced up at the audience. His eyes were wild, full of fear. The bald man put his foot to the younger man’s shaggy head and pushed it back down.

  ‘He’s afraid, Donna!’

  ‘Shh. Don’t be silly. They’re lovers.’

  ‘In real life?’