Lecture Notes

by Justine Elyot

  “Oh.” I can read between the lines. Was it a ménage? Is it still? My eyes must be giving these speculations away, for Rob laughs again and changes the subject, mentioning a meal he and Mel had not enjoyed at a new bistro in town, before we all turn our attention to the menu. Well, partially, at least, because I am very conscious of being the gastronomic centrepiece at this table, rather like one of those spit-roast porkers with an apple stuffed in its mouth. I lose count of the number of sidelong glances swiftly diverted that shoot across to me from all directions. The men seem amused, the women equally split between envy and disapproval.

  I ignore them, concentrate on my food and Sinclair, who, despite his marginal position at the corner of the table, certainly appears to be the focus of the room. It is interesting to watch him among peers. The student’s eye view of him is as this distant god who cannot be known…but he does have friends after all. Although he appears to command a certain level of respect, he gets teased occasionally, even challenged. The conversation is fast-paced, sophisticated, clever – and I realise with a pang that I cannot possibly contribute to it. I have no idea what they are all on about. My mood begins to drop and I become tense and anxious at my inability to shoulder through the barrier of intellectual inadequacy and throw myself into the debate. Sinclair will see me for what I am - a witless dullard with nothing to say for herself. I so want to dazzle, both him and his circle, yet I’m in a stranglehold of uncharacteristic shyness. He will leave me, for one of these worldly-wise glamourpusses gathered here. What, after all, can we possibly have in common.

  My appetite wanes and I drop my fork to my plate, watching Sinclair demolish somebody’s viewpoint on compulsory identity cards.

  “What do you think, Beth?” asks Mel snidely, a malicious look on her face.

  “Oh…I dunno,” I stammer, furiously hot. “It’s all a bit Big Brother for me.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, your generation gets all its insight from reality TV,” she drawls. Bitch!

  “Mel!” chorus both Sinclair and Rob. “I think you owe Beth an apology,” adds Sinclair. Oh God!!! I love him!

  She pouts, but says, “OK, I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did. I’m sorry.” She subsides and Sinclair starts talking to her about some work-related issue.

  I pick at my food for a minute, but then Rob surprises me by picking up my hand and inspecting it minutely. I cringe, realising too late that there are two angry red weals across my palm.

  “What did you do to get those?” he asks with a devilish smile, trailing a fingertip lightly along one. I stare at him with dumb consternation. He knows all about Sinclair’s tastes, clearly. I am mortified and I look away. “Oh, don’t be coy,” he croons. “Have you been bad, Beth?”

  “Leave her alone,” Sinclair breaks into the conversation, raising an eyebrow at his overfamiliar friend. His voice is low but very threatening.

  “Do excuse me,” says Rob smoothly. “I forget how protective Sinclair is of his…companions. I was only wondering what she might have done to merit her…”

  “None of your business.”

  I spend the rest of the evening feeling like some medieval damsel with Sinclair as my knight errant. He effortlessly deflects all negative vibes from my radius and spends most of the pudding course sliding his foot up and down my calf, lifting the delicate fabric of my dress over my knees. He is watching me from under his brows all along, giving me the slightest twitch of a lip or crease of an eye, yet it is amazing how much warmth floods into my body from such infinitesimal flickers of expression. I feel…safe with him. My mood lifts and when we leave the restaurant I flutter when he links my arm with his and draws me into his side, the warm wool coat that smells of him.

  “Fancy taking the party to ours, Sinclair?” offers Rob, out on the quayside cobbles.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” he replies. “Beth’s had a tiring day. Perhaps another time.”

  We reach the bridge and he hails a taxi, which takes us away from the creepy couple.

  “Thanks,” I yawn, leaning into his shoulder inside the cab and shifting around on my bottom to minimise the sting. “I don’t think I could stay awake much longer anyway. Who are those people?”

  “Rob and Mel? Mel used to be the Admissions Secretary at Senate House. As she said, we saw each other briefly. For about four months, ten years ago. Then she met Rob at a party. We’ve stayed friends.”

  “So…she just shacked up with Rob and that was that? Didn’t you mind?”

  “Obviously not, Beth. Mel and I had some fundamental differences.”

  “In…the bedroom?” I risk the question, prepared to be slapped down for my curiosity. But Sinclair does not take offence.

  “Yes. She’s a switch. That is, she likes to play both dominant and submissive roles. I, as you have no doubt gathered by now, am not a switch. So Mel was missing the opportunity to express that side of her sexuality. Rob is far better suited to her.”

  “Because he’s a…switch…too?” Honestly, what a conversation. “I can imagine Mel with the thigh-high boots and the riding crop. She definitely seems the type.”

  Sinclair says nothing.

  “When Rob wanted to take the party to his place,” I venture timidly. “Did he mean…just a drink and playing a few records?”

  Sinclair looks at me forbiddingly. The cab parks up outside the house and we pay our fare and head indoors.

  “Well?” I persist as we move through the living room and towards the bedroom. “What?”

  He catches me just inside the bedroom door and wraps strong arms around me from behind, clasping hands just beneath my ribcage.

  “Don’t question me, Beth,” he rasps into my ear. “Just get undressed and into bed…now.”

  He sends me on my way with a light slap to my rear that still manages to wake up the slumbering cane stripes, making them fizz and throb anew. Swine.

  *

  The steady needling of rain on the window wakes me early on Sunday morning…what’s the time?...seven. Mmm, I return my face to the pillow, ready to crash back into my dreams, but am startled when Sinclair swings out of bed and begins dressing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask blearily. “Why are you getting up?”

  “I’m going to the gym,” he says shortly, easing a sweater over his tousled head. Wow. He looks fine in the mornings, unlike everybody else in the world. I think Nietzsche may have had him in mind when he theorised on the existence of a master race.

  “The gym?” The heavy disbelief in my tone does not go unnoticed. “It’s Sunday morning.”

  “I’m aware of that, Beth. Perhaps in your slothful universe people spend their lives idling in bed until the pubs open, but there are those who choose to look after themselves a little better. In fact, you should come with me. You could do with the exercise.”

  “Erm…after yesterday…I think I’m all exercised out!” I protest, and I’m not joking. My thighs ache in hitherto undreamed-of places. Who knew I had so many muscles worth straining? And besides, forget caning, being dragged to the gym at seven a.m. is my idea of cruel and unusual punishment.

  He chuckles. “All right, I’ll let you off this time,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Only if you’re prepared to face the wrath of the European Court of Human Rights,” I mutter. He laughs again.

  “Oh, I’m sure I could talk them round,” he says silkily. He probably could too. “Very well, then. I’ll be back in an hour. Be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I yelp.

  “Just be ready.” He winks, swoops down to kiss me goodbye and sweeps away.

  *

  I am not ready when he returns; indeed, I am asleep. It is only the smell of toasting bread that awakes me nearly two hours later, along with the rattling of cutlery and the thuddy sound of something being chopped. Oooh, yes, breakfast; that’ll do nicely. Not quite as nicely as the sight that greets my eyes shortly afterwards; of a shower-fresh Sinclair in a paisley print satin dressing gown be
aring a tray of exotic delicacies. OK, some fruit salad, toast and coffee. I’m not seeing any immediate s&m potential in these items, so I relax slightly, move myself to the most comfortable sitting position I can given the tender state of my arse and drink in the view.

  “Wow, breakfast. Thanks,” I enthuse, reaching out for the tray. He holds it out of my range and puts it on his nightstand.

  “Breakfast must be earned, Snoring Beauty,” he says severely.

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Oh, but you do. Sit up, arms above your head, now.”

  I blink at the peremptory tone and put my arms up in mock-surrender. Sinclair whips the black satin cord from his robe and uses it to bind my wrists. OMG. Bondage for breakfast; what the hell next? He fastens the strip of fabric to the top strut of the metal-frame headboard so I am tethered to the bed, arms forced up and back, thrusting out my breasts as if they are exhibits. He smiles down at the anxiety in my eyes. “Don’t worry; nothing too advanced for you this morning. Just a little gentle introduction to the joys of restraint.”

  It is true that I am not in any kind of discomfort. The satin is slippery and soft against my skin rather than tight, and the position does not put any particular strain on my arms. Nonetheless, I would have a hard time escaping from my bonds; Sinclair is quite the boy scout when it comes to expertise in the field of knotting.

  He opens a drawer in his nightstand and brings out…yikes…a blindfold; one of those frilly burlesque ones you can get in the better lingerie outlets. Not a serious number, I am relieved to note.

  “You’re going to blindfold me,” I say tremulously. Duh, Beth! Perhaps a dunce’s cap would be more in order. He visibly swallows whatever sarcastic retort sprung to his sarcastic-retort-expert mind and slips the thing over my head, settling it gently so it confers the perfect level of darkness.

  Funny how such a simple thing as the withholding of sight can be so profoundly affecting. Instantly my body switches to high-alert mode and my remaining senses raise themselves stealthily to optimum performance. I can hear Sinclair’s barefoot tread to my nor-nor-east and feel how the faint trace of chill in the air goosepimples my exposed skin. My own breathing is shallow and rather heavy, through my nose (do I really snore?) and the dulled throb of my bottom is suddenly acute again. Oh, and I’m really, really turned on. And hungry. The scent of that toast…mmm.

  I feel my body slope down to the right as Sinclair takes a seat at the edge of the bed, then there is something cold and fruity-smelling brushed against my lips.

  “Taste it,” he says, and his voice, darkness in the dark, is so thrilling I let out a tiny vocal sigh, which makes him ‘Mmmm’, which makes me sigh again….this could go on for hours. Best taste the fruit. It is pulpy-soft and delicately flavoured; I don’t think I’ve ever had this before. Sinclair will think I’m such a prole; I’m an apples and oranges girl myself. I probe the sweet flesh with my tongue and the juice drips lavishly down my throat. Sinclair wipes the excess from my lips with an elegant thumb and just before I swallow I feel his mouth on mine, his tongue opening me, tasting what I am tasting, an oral investigation…ooooh…he withdraws with the lightest of nips to my lower lip.

  “Well? Can you identify what you have just eaten?”

  “Not sure,” I pant, my loins afire. Come back! Kiss me again! “Was it…guava?” Total guess.

  “Well done,” he congratulates me. Bullseye; how funny. “You have won a piece of toast. Honey or jam?”

  “Any marmite?”

  “Marmite? Ugh. I am certainly never kissing you again if I catch you eating marmite on these premises.”

  “Philistine.”

  “That’ll be ‘Philistine, sir.’ You’re having honey and you’re going to have to like it. And you’re going to have to do something about your disrespectful manner if you don’t want to be paying another visit to my office later.”

  Cripes, no! Well, not today, at least.

  “Sorry, Sir,” I say, subdued, then I bite into the honey toast he is feeding me. “You aren’t a Philistine. You’re a great connoisseur of the arts.”

  “I hope that isn’t mockery I’m detecting in your tone.” He moves a hand beneath the duvet and presses a finger against one of the cane welts. Ouch. Time to shut up, I think.

  The process is repeated with melon, mango and even lychee, which makes me squeal with the second’s fear that it might be an eyeball.

  “For heavens sake, Beth,” says an exasperated Sinclair. “Why would I feed you an eyeball?”

  “Um, because you’re a sadist?” I hazard. There is a moment’s silence then he laughs.

  “You have so much to learn,” he says. “And I’m going to enjoy teaching you.” He waits for me to take my last bite of toast, then I feel the warmth radiating from his body as he moves closer, a nudge of cold satin from his robe perking one nipple into perfect stiffness. “You’ve had your breakfast,” he murmurs into my ear, which prickles and then melts. “Now I’m going to have mine.” On my chin his beard, then on my lips, his lips, then in my mouth, his tongue, oh, long, succulent, ravishing tongue in my mouth which is wet, which is sweet, which is fruity. Then his hand is at the back of my neck, the fingers planted in my hair, the thumb massaging my nape and the other hand brushes itself down the side of my ribcage until it rests on my hip and I squirm with the realisation that I have nowhere to run from his thorough attentions because I am tied up at his mercy.

  He snogs me until my lips are swollen and sore, then moves slowly and tantalisingly from the corner of my mouth down my jawline, kissing a path down to my neck, where he lingers, pinching little mounds of flesh between his teeth and sucking in a way that makes me lay my head back and exhale broken vocalisation. I tug at my silken cords, I rub my head against his hair, I try to push my body against his but he puts a hand on my stomach, holding me in place. He must know I am burning up, he must know I want him to touch my liquefying core, to feel his skin on mine, oh, anything, just stop teasing me…

  “Patience, Beth,” he reproves, his lips against my neck. “You don’t get any say in what happens here. Just sit back and submit to me.”

  Patience?! Argh! But he moves to kneel between my legs and my heart leaps with the hope that he will now attend to me there. But he does not. He takes my breasts, one in each hand, and then I feel a wet warmth against one nipple, his tongue, which licks and laps at the hard bud, sending multiple messages of bliss pulsing through my body and down to my crotch. He tastes me for ages, until I am wriggling and moaning with frustration, then he closes his lips around it and suckles, flicking his tongue across it as he does and I begin to buck, begin to worry that I might be staining his sheets with the volume of my excitement, and that he might well keep this up for hours on end.

  “I know, I know,” I yelp at him. “I get it. You’re in control. You’re the boss. Now please, please can you fuck me?”

  He kneels back up. “Hmmm….no,” he says, and starts right in on the other nipple, lapping, licking, flicking, suckling, chuckling at my howl of anguish. I am sure I can’t take much more of this; my essences have made it halfway down my thighs now; I’m going to drown in the juices of arousal. Sinclair should be arrested for attempted murder.

  I feel a divine friction – maybe a knuckle - down against the source of the cataract. “Ah, quite stimulated, I see,” he understates, releasing the poor nipple momentarily.

  “Please….” I whimper as the knuckle is drawn back. There are so many lessons being learned here, chief among which is the understanding that sadism consists of more than not sparing the rod. This is sheer torture. And now there is hot air…breath…against my supersized clit, wafting gently, then hotter…oh…just….touch….nooooo. It goes then comes again then goes then is back.

  “What are you trying to do to me?” I rave semi-coherently, then I feel something warm pressed against that frantic nub…and I hear him take a good long inhalation…oh, it’s his NOSE! How novel.

  “I could dab some of this on
my handkerchief and bring it out during long dull meetings for a fragrant aide-memoire,” he drawls, his words seeming to be addressed to my sex. “That might enliven proceedings.” Oh, his lips are so close, so close…his tongue darts out and encircles my opening several times, then it flickers briefly to the centre while his fingers spread the labia majora wide and his nose bumps my clit again, side to side…and…yes…that’s all it takes… The orgasm gushes out of me, through every portal, racing through every vein, lighting me up electrically, pouring out on to Sinclair’s fingers and tongue and nose while he continues to charm it forth. Finally, ages later, it begins to sputter, to subside, to leave my shaking body ravaged and empty. It finishes. But Sinclair does not. Before my heart has even slowed, he returns his mouth to the scene of the crime and commences giving me a proper licking and fingering combination, bringing the dulled and deadened sense-receptors back to tingling life much more quickly than I would have thought possible, sending great juddering jolts of sensation back up inside me, driving me hard to the brink once more.

  “Oh, you can’t dooooo this to me again,” I yell as he tips me over, and I writhe and twist so violently in my tethers that I wonder how I haven’t wrenched his cord into shreds.

  “Now you’re ready to be fucked,” he proclaims and I wince and whimper as he hooks his elbows under my knees and draws my legs wide…oh, those muscles ache, argh!... and my bottom is raised off the bed a little, so I am effectively suspended in the air and then I feel it, his blunt tip against my entrance and I worry slightly that he is going to hurt me, but I am so well-lubricated that he just glides in, spreading and stretching me, keeping me held so firm that my aching stomach muscles are not too strained, thankfully, though my arms and shoulders are starting to quiver. “Slow and sensual, or hard and fast?” he ponders. Hey, he takes requests.

  “I’m not sure how long I can take this,” I wail. “Please make it hard and fast.”

  “I wasn’t asking you,” he retorts. “Just thinking out loud. But since you mention it….I think hard and fast is the way to go.” And with that, he edges back, all the way back, and then slams right up to the hilt again so that his balls slap against a cane stripe, eek. “Hold tight,” he advises, rather redundantly, given that my hands are tied, and then he rides me like a madman, plunging into my slick tract with all the force of his weight, angling me upwards, and upwards, and up again until he has found the spot and he pounds me into the final and most headwrecking climax of the morning, throwing me onto his shaft like a sex rag-doll and filling me up with a feral growl. I am kicking my legs wildly in the grip of his arms, marvelling at the discovery that I like it as rough as this, as rough as he does, when he drops his hold on me and I flop back down, beyond spent.