thoroughly,” he instructs me. “Take your time.”
This is going to sound silly, because I’m not a virgin – but I have to confess I have never really looked at a penis before. I have sort of peeked at them from the corner of my eye and then averted my gaze at the first available opportunity, Sylvia Plath’s description of ‘turkey neck and gizzards’ springing depressingly to mind. I would deliberately blur my vision and give a swift hand job or concentrate hard on my breathing while I stuck it in my mouth and hope the fellow concerned was eager enough to just get down to business. Lights out. Tumble in the dark. Put it away now, there’s a love.
But I sense Sinclair is not a man who will stand for my squeamishness. I will have to bite the bullet…or rather the gun. Well, not bite as such… Christ, my nerves.
I kneel between his legs and start just behind his sacs, running a soapy finger over his perineum, which is an insta nt hit, rather to my surprise. I’ll have to remember that. I cup his balls with my foamy hands, exerting gentle pressure while he shuts his eyes and hisses. And I haven’t even got to the main event yet, which is pointing up at the shower head by now, inviting me to slide slippily up and down, to caressingly attend to every inch of the steely blue-veined flesh, even pushing back the foreskin as gently as I can to clean the underside and the smooth purplish head.
“Good, Beth, good….but I don’t want to peak too soon. You’d better get out and leave me to, ah, calm myself down.”
He almost pushes me out to wrap myself in a vast fluffy towel. I tie it up, toga-style, and head to the kitchen to make a start on breakfast. Coffee is percolating and eggs are in the pan by the time Sinclair sashays in, towel around waist, one hand plucking at his damp hair. Oh, I can’t believe all this is mine. It is like looking at a big plate of your favourite food, knowing you are going to savour every last morsel.
“Seizing the initiative,” he comments, pushing the eggs around with a spatula . He takes over, placing the eggs, toast and coffee on the table while we sit opposite each other. I am slightly strung up, cutting up the food unnecessarily small, casting around my suddenly fluffy mind for things to say and finding none, heatedly conscious of Sinclair’s eyes following my every move.
In an evil conversational pounce, he says, “We shall have to discu ss your punishment, Beth. For trespassing into my private office.”
“Oh.” I stop, fork halfway to mouth, shaking in my fingers. “But I thought…”
“I believe you were made well aware that serious consequences would ensue from any such intrusion. Weren’t you?”
“Oh…yes.”
“Very well; we’ll deal with it this afternoon.”
“What are you going to…?”
“This afternoon,” he says firmly.
Having killed my appetite stone dead, he goes on to sip slowly at his coffee, watching my every move with narrowed eyes, as if making calculations.
“Professor, is this…” I begin tentatively, “I mean, er, is this…you and me….like…a relationship then?”
“Of course,” he says. “A relationship between us has always existed. That of teacher and student, mentor and disciple, disciplinarian and wrongdoer, landlord and tenant. Just for starters.”
“You know what I mean.”
He nods, giving me an inch of leeway. “We will be sexual partners. Lovers, if you like.”
“Will we be…exclusive?”
“Yes. You have made a commitment to me, Beth, and its nature is such that I feel responsibility for you. What I am asking of you in the bedroom is more than simple sex. It requires sensitivity and maturity on my part; trust and faith on yours. It is more complicated than a…casual shag, for certain.”
Although what he is saying is slightly unn erving, it is also reassuring. It sounds as if he cares for me on some level, even if that level is only to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill me in bed. For the
This is going to sound silly, because I’m not a virgin – but I have to confess I have never really looked at a penis before. I have sort of peeked at them from the corner of my eye and then averted my gaze at the first available opportunity, Sylvia Plath’s description of ‘turkey neck and gizzards’ springing depressingly to mind. I would deliberately blur my vision and give a swift hand job or concentrate hard on my breathing while I stuck it in my mouth and hope the fellow concerned was eager enough to just get down to business. Lights out. Tumble in the dark. Put it away now, there’s a love.
But I sense Sinclair is not a man who will stand for my squeamishness. I will have to bite the bullet…or rather the gun. Well, not bite as such… Christ, my nerves.
I kneel between his legs and start just behind his sacs, running a soapy finger over his perineum, which is an insta nt hit, rather to my surprise. I’ll have to remember that. I cup his balls with my foamy hands, exerting gentle pressure while he shuts his eyes and hisses. And I haven’t even got to the main event yet, which is pointing up at the shower head by now, inviting me to slide slippily up and down, to caressingly attend to every inch of the steely blue-veined flesh, even pushing back the foreskin as gently as I can to clean the underside and the smooth purplish head.
“Good, Beth, good….but I don’t want to peak too soon. You’d better get out and leave me to, ah, calm myself down.”
He almost pushes me out to wrap myself in a vast fluffy towel. I tie it up, toga-style, and head to the kitchen to make a start on breakfast. Coffee is percolating and eggs are in the pan by the time Sinclair sashays in, towel around waist, one hand plucking at his damp hair. Oh, I can’t believe all this is mine. It is like looking at a big plate of your favourite food, knowing you are going to savour every last morsel.
“Seizing the initiative,” he comments, pushing the eggs around with a spatula . He takes over, placing the eggs, toast and coffee on the table while we sit opposite each other. I am slightly strung up, cutting up the food unnecessarily small, casting around my suddenly fluffy mind for things to say and finding none, heatedly conscious of Sinclair’s eyes following my every move.
In an evil conversational pounce, he says, “We shall have to discu ss your punishment, Beth. For trespassing into my private office.”
“Oh.” I stop, fork halfway to mouth, shaking in my fingers. “But I thought…”
“I believe you were made well aware that serious consequences would ensue from any such intrusion. Weren’t you?”
“Oh…yes.”
“Very well; we’ll deal with it this afternoon.”
“What are you going to…?”
“This afternoon,” he says firmly.
Having killed my appetite stone dead, he goes on to sip slowly at his coffee, watching my every move with narrowed eyes, as if making calculations.
“Professor, is this…” I begin tentatively, “I mean, er, is this…you and me….like…a relationship then?”
“Of course,” he says. “A relationship between us has always existed. That of teacher and student, mentor and disciple, disciplinarian and wrongdoer, landlord and tenant. Just for starters.”
“You know what I mean.”
He nods, giving me an inch of leeway. “We will be sexual partners. Lovers, if you like.”
“Will we be…exclusive?”
“Yes. You have made a commitment to me, Beth, and its nature is such that I feel responsibility for you. What I am asking of you in the bedroom is more than simple sex. It requires sensitivity and maturity on my part; trust and faith on yours. It is more complicated than a…casual shag, for certain.”
Although what he is saying is slightly unn erving, it is also reassuring. It sounds as if he cares for me on some level, even if that level is only to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill me in bed. For the
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