I make a furious face, but can’t be bothered to argue with him. It would ruin my evening.
James and I have a pleasant evening, first at Pizza Express then in the Caledonian Vaults, talking the usual kind of shite talk you do on first dates. We discuss Dr Who, our schooldays, favourite bands, whether it’s true that Princess Diana was murdered and other philosophical questions of that nature. James keeps gazing into my eyes and forgetting what he was saying, which is…a bit alarming really. He's so nice. I should go for it. But he isn’t Sinclair…Oh god of love and god of reason say/ Which of you twain shall my poor hea
rt obey? As the song says.
At quarter to ten, I take a deep breath and say, “I’m really sorry, James, I have to be back by ten.”
“Why?” he frowns, disappointed.
“Stupid house rules,” I shrug. “No rhyme or reason. But would you argue with the Prof?”
“I suppose not,” he concedes. “I’ll walk you home then.”
“Cheers,” I say. He takes my arm and we stroll back through the cold, hard starlit night.
At the entrance to the drive, I say, “Well, thanks for a really nice night; I enjoyed it.”
He does not let go of my arm, but instead dithers for a second or two before ducking sharply forward and depositing an awkward kiss on my lips. I don’t know why, but I am taken aback, so do not respond until he tries again immediately afterwards. I play along gamely but the lip contact is too floppy, a bit drippy, not really hitting the spot.
I draw back again. “Goodnight, James,” I whisper fondly.
“I’ll see you…soon,” he calls hopefully after me as I crunch up the gravel.
“Oh, no doubt,” I throw back, feeling hot and annoyed with myself. Mistake. Bad mistake.
Really bad mistake.
When I enter the living room, Sinclair is standing at the picture window, eyeing the mad March night hostilely.
“You’re late,” he says without turning around.
“Only five minutes,” I say breathlessly. Did he see that…with James? Oh God. I bet he did.
“Still late. Get carried away, did we? Lose all track of time?” He turns and he is wearing The Face of Utmost Severity. I get to see this face all too often these days.
“Well…you know…it’s only five minutes,” I whimper nervously.
“You have broken the rules of the house,” he says unyieldingly. “You must be punished.”
“What? This is about…you were watching me…” I accuse in a very unaccusatory tone, not wanting to call any more trouble on my head.
He narrows his eyes. “Beth, you did not obey my command that you arrive home by ten o’clock. Therefore you must be punished. There is nothing more to it than that.”
My eye! But I don’t say it. He moves swiftly over to me, takes my wrist and leads me over to the sofa. My behind has just about recovered from his spatula attack and now I’m going to be presenting it for yet more chastisement. No fair. But my heart is pounding and I cannot deny I am excited, especially by the premise. He is going to spank me because he is JEALOUS! My blood is singing a victory chant even as it freezes with dread at the prospect of the pain.
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?”