“Come for me, Beth.”
And, just like that, I do, jolting on his fingers as if they connect me to the mains electricity, feeling utterly, humiliatingly at his mercy. Which, I suppose, I am.
“Good girl,” he says, watching me subside until my head lolls heavily on my neck, my lips parted to expel ragged breath. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
“Could you tell?” I mutter, still embarrassed by the position of subjection he has put me in. He slaps my thigh sternly so that I wince.
“You will maintain a respectful tone towards me at all times, Beth,” he tells me. “Perhaps I can find a better use for that mouth than spouting smart remarks.”
I watch dumbly as he removes his tie and begins rapidly unbuttoning his shirt. Once it is untucked, he sets to unbuckling his belt – making me cringe slightly at the memory of the two occasions on which he has beaten me with it – and divesting himself of his trousers and underpants.
By the look on his face I can tell he is looking for a reaction to the grand unveiling of Sinclair Jr, but to be honest, I’m a little coy of checking it out blatantly. My eyes flick down quickly…flick back up again…and then I have to look back down just to ascertain that it is real. I don’t remember the last two being that size. I swallow.
“Wow,” I say sincerely. Then I cough.
“There’s really no need to worry,” he says smoothly, obviously used to eye-popping gasps of amazement. “Why don’t you get acquainted?”
He nods sharply downwards, indicating, I imagine, that he wants me to take it in my mouth. I stretch my lips a little on the way down, hoping they won’t crack around the edges. It’s not that I’m new to fellatio – far from it – but I can’t imagine how I’m going to get more than half of this monster in. I give the tip a tentative lick, swirling my tongue around, lollipop-style, before wrapping my mouth around it. I steady the base with my hands, feeling the rubbery hardness of it and marvelling at what I am doing. Sinclair takes a handful of my hair, ostensibly a gesture of affection but with the added advantage of preventing me from moving my head backwards. My elastic lips and lapping tongue move ever lower; I begin to suck in earnest and Sinclair emits a low growling which spurs me on.
“You should see yourself,” he commentates. “Bent over with my cock in your mouth. It’s a truly exquisite sight, Beth. I only wish I could photograph it. I only wish I could have it framed on my office wall.” I make a squeaky noise in the back of my throat at this, half alarmed and half amused at the thought of what Dr Blakey would say if he did. “No, don’t stop!” he cautions, pinching the nape of my neck hard so that I am encouraged to try and take even more of his inordinate length down my oesophagus. My cheek muscles are beginning to spasm and my entire face aches after just a few minutes, so it is a considerable relief when I feel his thrusts build in urgency, and it is rather decent of him to warn me that, “It’s coming, Beth, drink it down”. So I do. All of it. Not the worst tasting specimen I’ve ever swallowed, but it’s not exactly nectar either. I grimace and he takes my chin in his hand, wrenching it up.
“You will accept my seed gratefully, Beth, or be made to drink a cupful every day until you can.”
“Sorry, sir. Thank you, sir,” I say, not sure which of these is the correct response.
“I should think so.” He is mollified and moves both of his hands into my hair, kneading at my scalp so that blissful butterflies are released. “That was good, Beth. For a beginner. I have high hopes of you.”
I smile shyly and say, “Do you?” This is the nicest thing he has ever said to me. My heart swells.
“Oh yes.” He kisses me briefly on my overworked lips. “We should sleep now. I have rather a lot of plans for you tomorrow.”
/> “Oh. What?” I ask curiously, but he refuses to elaborate. “Wash yourself and come to bed, Beth. I need you in tiptop condition."
*
I wake during the night – the digital display on the alarm clock reads 3:17 – and before I can marshal my thoughts I wonder how I have come to be lying on a sheet whose threadcount is far, far higher than any I have ever previously experienced. Then I notice the wrist and hand lying heavily across my stomach, attached to the man I have desired for so long…OK, six months…and I breathe in his sleepy, manly smell and want to groan out loud at the way it fills me with longing. Sinclair, divine Sinclair, dreaming beside me, having plans for me tomorrow….I drift back into sleep, musing with pleasurable fear on what the plans could possibly be…
When I wake up next I register a tickle of lips on my neck before I have a chance to open my eyes. I catch a breath and feel the lips begin to press down, the tip of a tongue pushing into my sensitive flesh, then a suction against it, ooooh, I love that feeling, but never get to indulge it because I don’t want the embarrassment of having to account for love bites. If Sinclair carries on at this rate, though, there will certainly be a substantial mark there… I open my eyes.
“You’ll mark me,” I whisper hoarsely, noting the rather unconcealable spot he has chosen for this novel wake-up call. He simply presses fingers down on either side of his ravening mouth. When he finally finishes his wicked work, he gives me a dirty glint and says, “As I fully intend.”
His hands move down to my nipples, pinching them gently at first, then making me ‘Ooh!’ with the sharp twinge his fingers occasion.
“How painful is that?” he wants to know.
“Uh…moderately,” I say, not sure what scale he operates on.
“Right. Come on. Get up. We’re showering, having breakfast and then going back to bed.”
He pulls me out of bed and shepherds me along to the bathroom, turning all the jets on in the shower so that the room rapidly fills with steam. The pressure of the water is pleasantly needly as it falls on my scalp, then Sinclair takes the shampoo bottle and works up a rich lather on my head, massaging it in with skilled fingers, moving downwards to my neck then my shoulders, loosening me perfectly. He swirls the foamy gel around my body, lingering over my breasts and kneeling to ensure he hasn’t missed a millimetre of my lower lips, which are washed very, very thoroughly indeed, even up inside me. Then he turns me round and repeats the process with my back and bottom, cleaning out the cleft of my buttocks with just as forensic care, pressing gently against my rear entrance for a second or two so that I squirm an escape attempt. “Keep still,” he growls, slapping at my rump, its wetness intensifying the sting of his blow. I am slightly uneasy at this – after all, I have no idea how far he will go with me, but I submit to the rest of his ablutions without moving.
When he has finished with me, he sits on the shelf and invites me to return the favour. I start with his hair, which I have always liked, planting fingers deep into the lush growth and mashing at his scalp with a will while I stand between his knees. He fidgets with my nipples while I work, ducking forward to take one in his mouth and flick his tongue over it until I have to still my hands for a minute, giddy at the sensation. I move my hands down his face and neck, like a sculptor assessing a new piece, feeling every tendon, running my thumb over his Adams apple, marvelling at the differences between the composition of a man and a woman. His shoulders are not especially broad, I am quite surprised to note, but he holds himself so erect that one wouldn’t really realise. His frame is taut, sinewy but lithe; there is not an excess ounce on him but he is not skinny, just pleasingly willowy. He stands so that I can see to his back, an inverted isosceles triangle tapering away to his waist and hips and his biteable, beautiful bum. Long, long legs, feet that are big but elegantly so, and then I move back up his front, over his knees until I reach the hallowed apparatus hanging between his thighs.
“Wash it 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.