Lecture Notes Page 6

  I am guided roughly over his lap again, gasping as he flips up my skirt then yanks down my tights and…oh GOD…my KNICKERS! He pulls them down just as far as the top of my thighs and I cringe as he spends a minute or two examining my nude bottom, running the hand that isn’t tight at the back of my neck over the quivering expectant globes. He seems to be giving them a scholarly assessment, working out how hard he can strike, how long it will take to achieve his desired effect. His palm feels caressing and I begin to slide into a melting abyss of desire, wanting him to stroke and feather the tingling skin, move down into the restricted zone with his slow, sure touch, open me up to him…oh! OUCH!

  His first slap rings in my ears and I am surprised at how much more painful it is on an unclothed bum. The sting is hot and immediate; I can almost see the redness begin to bloom on my defenceless cheek, then he lays in with another, just as hard, and I really start to worry about my tolerance level.

  “You will learn, Beth,” he lectures from on high, “that I always mean what I say. And when I say…” SMACK! “…you are to be home at a certain time…” SMACK! “…that is exactly what I mean.” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! I begin to squirm. He is not holding back at all tonight, raising his arm high and putting his full weight behind each scorcher.

  The lecture on rules and regulations continues but I am scarcely taking any of it in, wriggling violently and thrashing in my efforts to shield my derriere from his pitiless regime.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Beth,” he says calmly, twisting my wrists up in his vice-like grip while he continues his relentless reddening of my posterior. “You need to learn and learn well, my girl. If I have to repeat this lesson, it will be with my belt, not just my hand. Do you understand?”

  Could it possibly be any more painful? Already I am jerking and bucking under the slamming burn of his palm, and I know he is going to keep this up for a good while longer, if past form is anything to go by.

  “Well? Do you? Do you need a demonstration?”

  “No, sir! I understand!” I yelp, falling into the fiery pit he is working so hard to keep aflame, my head swimming, conscious of nothing but pain, pain, pain.

  After a while…I don’t know how long really…I hit the bottom of the abyss and find I can no longer fight him. The writhing stills, the tension floats out of my body, I find I am still whimpering but in a curious, quasi-meditative kind of way.

  “That’s good, Beth, very good. You know this is what you need,” he says, his voice low and gentle, but belied by the searing smacks he is still applying to my rear.

  “Ooooooooh,” I reply. It has been a good quarter of an hour; surely he is going to let up soon? He stops soon afterwards, resting his hand on my pulsing rump, then brushing the sore skin with his thumb, causing me to clench my teeth and hiss. He admires his handiwork for a moment or two, then, in a strange, thick voice, instructs me to go and look at it in the mirror. I wince in sympathy with myself when I see the dark shade of crimson he has turned my punished arse, like the worst sunburn you could imagine. He tells me I have to stand in the corner with my hands clasped behind my neck for half an hour before being sent straight to bed.

  All the time I am standing there, I know he is looking at my backside, and it is oddly, creepily exciting. He pretends to be reading – the rustle of paper is too ostentatious to be genuine – but I swear he is drinking in the view. I long for him to come over, to put his arms around me from the back and kiss me, to speak tender words to me and carry me to bed.

  But after half an hour has passed, he simply turns a page of his book and says, “Time for bed, Beth.”

  I turn to him and say, in a shy, crackly voice, “Goodnight, Sir.” He nods, twitches the corner of a lip.

  “Goodnight, Beth.”

  *

  Two weeks pass and my life falls into a routine. I have never worked harder academically; Sinclair’s remedial course is so stringent I am rarely out of the library by day, and if we are both free in the evening we invariably end up falling into lengthy discussions of pre- and post-Revolutionary French culture and history, usually involving some form of oral examination. And usually involving a sore bottom if my performance on said examination falls under par. The spankings become normal, routine, to the point where I am almost desensitised to the actual weirdness of the set-up and sometimes fear I might accidentally blurt something injudicious out to Dearbhla or Emily in the Union at lunchtime.

  On a couple of occasions – incidents of minor rule-breaking – he goes further than his trusty palm and brings his belt out to play on my bum. I hope the walls in his apartment are thick, because the feel of that wide strap of leather biting into my sensitive skin induced the production of higher notes than even my soprano role in Pinafore requires of me. Afterwards he always makes me stand in the corner while he checks out my derriere covertly. Every time, it seems that he is within an ace of…taking things further. But he never does.

  James Winthrop has made a couple more half-hearted attempts to engage me for a second date, but I have tactfully declined and I suppose he has thrown in the towel. Makes the hero/heroine dynamic in H.M.S. Pinafore slightly awkward, though the first act bits where he has to be lovelorn and I have to spurn him now have a certain verité.

  On the Friday night three weeks after that first fateful foray into Sinclair’s abode, he has been called away to London to take part in Newsnight Review (to his considerable excitement, judging by the officious, self-important vibe he has been projecting all week). Much as I’d love to stay in and watch him get into a fistfight with Tony Parsons, my Gogol Bordello tickets take priority and I find myself heading off down to the Bierkeller with Dearbhla and Emily in fine fettle.

  Unfortunately, it is close enough to the end of term that all three of us are now struggling for funds and as the raucous, rumbustious, rowdy event draws to a close, we find ourselves unable to finance further plastic pints of manky cider.

  “Awww, I feel like partying all night now,” complains Emily as we straggle dispiritedly up Park Street.

  “Me too,” wails Dearbhla. “It’s like leaving things half-finished.”

  “Hey!” I exclaim, having had enough of the apple-based toxin to make this seem like a great idea. “Sinclair’s drinks cabinet is full. And he’s staying overnight in London. What do you say, girls?”

  “No! He’d kill you!” demurs Dearbhla, though her eyes are shining with excitement all the same.

  “He’s never forbidden me to have friends round,” I say, which is true. Though I don’t think he thought I’d dare…

  “Oh my freaking God, we have to!” shrieks Emily. “Come on!” She links our arms and drags us up at a run while we laugh and sing snatches of songs all the way to leafy Oaklands Road.

  “Oh wow. This is niiiice,” approves Emily as we creep up the stairs, or rather stumble as quietly as we can.

  “He’s got a bob or two,” comments Dearbhla as our feet sink into the deep pile of his hall carpet. They squeal and exclaim over everything for about ten minutes, before remembering to raid the drinks cabinet.

  “Cocktails, girls!” cries Emily, inspecting the contents with a semi-professional eye. “Make mine a Manhattan.”

  “Could you do a Bellini?” wonders Dearbhla.

  “No, no,” says Emily, almost asphyxiating with pleasure at her own joke, “I want a Sloe Comfortable Screw! With Sinclair!” She falls about laughing. The soul of wit, that girl.

  “Yeah,” snickers Dearbhla, joining in with the (90% proof) spirit. “Or Sex on the Beach!”

  They both cry, “Screaming Orgasm!” at the same time and collapse with mirth. I swear to God, I’ve never thought of myself as sophisticated, but compared to these sub-Carry On chicks…

  We organise drinks and loll on his tasteful leather sofas watching Newsnight Review on Sky Plus.

  “Oh my God, I just love him,” slurs Emily as he verbally demolishes whatever it was Tony Parsons just said. “I want his babies.”

  “When are you go
ing to seduce him, Beth?” asks Dearbhla conversationally. “Do you think he’d be up for a ménage à quatre?”

  “Depends if you could cater to his…tastes,” I say mysteriously, cocking my eyebrows at them.

  “What do you mean?” they demand in stereo. Fuck! Why did I say that? Apart from because I’m drunk, obviously.

  “Nothing. ‘M joking. Have you seen his CD collection. Ish quite good.”

  We shake more cocktails, forgetting to add the mixers and olives and whatnot this time, and rifle through his music, singing along, dancing, swaying. At some point Emily and I start using some weird ornamental bowl thing as an ashtray. We have another cocktail. Is it really half past two? Dearbhla has passed out on the sofa and Emily and I are crooning in two-part harmony to a Jacques Brel CD when….OOOOH SHIT! A key turns in the lock.

  But he said he was staying overnight! He wasn’t going to be back until morning! Fuck x 1,000,000.

  “Beth!” His voice, laden with suspicion. “Why can I smell….” He opens the door and catches me in the act of scooping up glasses, ashtrays and other detritus while Dearbhla sweetly snores on in the corner. “…Cigarette smoke?” he finishes with heartstopping menace.

  I freeze in mid-damage-limitation. “I…you didn’t say I couldn’t….I thought it would be….all right,” I almost whisper.

  He shakes his head. “No,” is all he says. Then, “Wake her up and get the pair of them out of here.” Charming. A chastened Emily stirs Dearbhla from her groggy repose and they leave, heads hanging low and feet all over the place.

  I wait for nuclear meltdown, but he just says, “Go to bed, Beth. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry,” I squeak.

  “Bed. Now.”

  Chapter Five

  Ooooh God, what time is it? I open one eye against the fierce kettledrumming in my head and check the digital alarm clock. 10:46, though whether that’s a.m. or p.m….

  Light drifts in through the curtain, giving me my first hint. I need to get a glass of water, but I’m not sure I can move without disturbing the limpid puddle of nausea in my brain and stomach. I need to hold it…very….still…. I need to shut my eyes again. But with the relief of darkness comes a burst of memory so vividly unwelcome I almost throw up regardless.

  SINCLAIR IS GOING TO KILL ME!

  Lying silently, hidden beneath the duvet, I listen for sounds to convey his presence. The flat appears to be empty. No running water, footsteps, hum of computer, music. Just eerie mid-morning stillness. I am motionlessly supine for ten minutes or more before I can summon the courage to stick one foot out from beneath the covers. With calculated slowness and stealth, I bring out another, place them on the floor and bring my sick head up until I am vertical. Oh my Lord. I sway gently, unwelcome reminders of last night’s cocktails surging up through the centre of my torso.

  This is it. I clamp a hand to my mouth and bolt for the bathroom. Several redecorations of the toilet bowl later, I crawl into the kitchen, needing water, water, water, like the stereotypical guy in the desert. I slide gratefully into one of the wooden chairs, tipping the water down my throat with abandon, but my gut lurches once more when I notice a card propped against the salt cellar with my name inscribed in elegant Sinclairian script.

  “Beth

  I have to be out most of today, and suspect you will be indisposed at any rate.

  I will expect you to report to me tomorrow afternoon at 5 p.m. sharp to address the outstanding matters of last night.

  Prof. E.L. Sinclair.”

  Despite the creepy, knotty sensation in my stomach, I snicker slightly at his pompous signing-off. ‘Prof. E. L. Sinclair’. What a knob.

  I can’t believe the psychological torture he is subjecting me to. More than twenty four hours to get wound up into a state of holy terror; I’m sure it is totally intentional. On the other hand, even the mildest tap would probably finish me off today, so it’s probably just as well.

  I drain another pint of cold, clear stuff and write him a little note on the back.

  “Dear Professor

  I am staying overnight with Emily.

  A bientôt,

  Beth xx.” I giggle at the kisses, wondering what he will make of them, if anything. Then I get dressed, pack my tote and haul my sorry arse over to Cliveden Hall, to spend the weekend moaning and languishing with my fellow-sufferers.

  *

  I am distracted throughout the Sunday afternoon Pinafore rehearsal, forgetting my lines about eight times, until Seb tells me to sort my life out, dearie, or get the hell out of Dodge.

  I trot swiftly back to the flat, wondering if I will get any credit for being early, my jaw set, fingers crossed, every cell on high alert, though my bottom appears to be throbbing presciently in anticipation of the festivities to come.

  I quell the urge to cry ‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ as I slip through the front door, and instead listen out for any readable sign of Sinclair’s intentions for me.

  It is quiet.

  I enter the living room timidly; he looks up from the table, where he is poring over some papers, and checks his watch. I am five minutes early.

  “Take a seat,” he directs me. I perch uncertainly on the sofa and he returns to his calm scrutinising. I feel as if I am waiting for a job interview and by the time he takes off his reading glasses and puts the papers aside, I swear I have developed a twitch.

  “Come and stand here please,” he says, indicating a spot opposite him across the table. Impossible to stand there like that in the glare of his disapproving attention without finding my head starting to droop in classic contrite fashion. He steeples his fingers and straightens his spine, in full intimidating effect. “Well, then, Miss Newland, we have a catalogue of misdemeanours to address today, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumble.

  “Stand up straight, Miss Newland, and speak clearly, if you please.”

  I jolt into military stiffness and bark, “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t expect to arrive in my own home and find it colonised by semi-conscious girls, helping themselves to my liquor, polluting the air with cigarette smoke and damaging my property in the early hours of the morning. Do you consider that to be an appropriate payment for my hospitality?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why did you do it, Miss Newland? I require an explanation.”

  “I…er….don’t know really. We were drunk.” I shrug awkwardly, palms upward in supplication, hoping this interrogation will not be lengthy. I am beginning to cower.

  “You were drunk,” he says, laying on the appalled hush of his tone very thick. “That is your entire rationale behind this litany of disrespectful behaviour?”

  “Yes. Sir.” My eyes are back on the floor.

  “So then,” he says, back to robust full voice. “How shall I deal with you, Miss Newland? What would be a suitable disincentive to repeat this behaviour, do you think?”

  He’s asking me?

  “Oh…I won’t do it again,” I assure him. “Honestly, never, ever.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced by your claim. I’m starting to wonder if you are, in fact, incorrigible, and as such, beyond correction.”

  “Oh no, I’m not,” I bleat. “I’m not beyond correction.”

  “Let’s see, shall we?” He rises from his chair and my heart starts to thump sincerely. “Follow me.”

  He sweeps past me and out towards the hall. Where…are we going? We leave the flat and then the building, walking swiftly down the gravel drive and taking a sharp left up towards the Downs.

  “Where are we going?” I ask breathlessly, breaking into a light canter in my efforts to keep up with his long-legged pace.

  “You’ll find out in due course,” he says tersely, taking my wrist as we cross the road over to a patch of verdant new-spring growth on the edge of the urban oasis of green. Walking into the dense darkness of the grove, I am curiouser and curiouser, until Sinclair stops in a
quiet spot and hands me a Stanley knife. I am totally confused now. Does he want me to stab myself? I don’t think what I did was that bad… I flick my eyes blankly between the professor and the blade.

  “Erm..?” I say queryingly.

  “New growth,” says Sinclair mysteriously, waving his hand at the surrounding woodland. “The saplings are sprouting. Soon their branches will be coarse and woody, but just now, they are at their most flexible.”

  “I, er, see,” I say, not processing this botanical lesson on the level that he seems to intend.

  “Their most whippy,” he clarifies, and I literally jump.

  “OH!” I squeak. “You mean…?”

  “I will need you cut me about…eight…branches. Six young striplings and a couple of more robust examples to give the bundle a little backbone. Well, what are you waiting for?”

  He indicates the birch trees in front of us. Oh God. He is actually going to birch me. My cheeks are tingling in the late March, early evening chill as much from humiliation as from cold as I set to work sawing off the young green rods and imagining them applied to my backside later on. Sinclair supervises, vetoing specimens that seem too weedy, until finally I have a bunch of eight. He tests each individually, swishing it through the air to assess its level of stinginess, even bending me over and whacking my rear end with a couple, making me thank God for corduroy. At least it is late enough in the day that passers-by are unlikely, though not impossible. When he is satisfied that my labours have borne fruit, he makes me carry the bundle home. It is, to say the least, an uncomfortable walk back. I wonder if the people we encounter in the street think anything of my peculiar burden – is it an obvious conclusion that they are bound for my bum, or will it be assumed they are for decorative or craft purposes? I hope the latter, though I imagine my shifty, tormented expression might tend a knowing observer towards the former.