“Oh, I know that. That was Nerys. She hasn’t been in this morning and she isn’t at home. Off spending the fat cheque she was given for selling me out, I imagine.”
“Wow, a double pronged attack.”
“Hmmm. Classic battle tactic,” he says with a rueful smile.
“The price of fame, I suppose. Everyone wants to make some money off your back.”
“Except you, I hope.”
“Oh yes. I’m the exception.”
We sit entwined on the sofa for a silent while until he leaps up and starts calling people back, quick scattergun conversations, putting his points across clearly and firmly. He hires the publicist, persuades the producer that this will blow over and will be good for ratings anyway, calls his publisher and makes a number of book proposals. He is back in full effect. It is beautiful to observe.
Finally he replaces the handset and stands, arms folded, eyes fixed on me with foreboding intent. The adoring smile that has been drifting about my features settles into a query; my eyes refocus and my brow furrows. “What? What have I done?”
“It’s what you haven’t done that is my concern,” he rejoinders sinisterly. What does he mean? “I’ve dealt with the world at large, and now it’s time I dealt with you. Into the bedroom. Now.”
With a muffled squeak, I scamper off the sofa and along the corridor to his (ours again?) bedroom. He places me in the centre of the room and wheels around me, stroking his beard and looking me up and down. It is highly intimidating and I begin to calculate how long it would take me to escape to the bathroom, though that involves knowing factors like velocity and distance; maths was never my thing. If one short-legged Beth travelled four metres at eight strides per second, how long would it take one long-legged Sinclair to catch up with her…hmmm…something like minus three seconds, by my reckonings. Not a flier.
“Would you mind telling me…what?” I ask nervously.
“I think you know, Beth,” he says, maddeningly, then he stops in front of me, arms folded again. “An inspection is in order. Take off your clothes.”
I blush to the roots and begin fumbling with buttons.
“I didn’t hear you, Beth,” he says, jerking my chin up with a forceful hand. “I issued a command; what is the expected response?”
“Yes, sir,” I recall. It has been a while; he can’t expect me to remember everything.
He nods and drops me. I keep plucking at the buttons of my shirt; those that are left anyway after his earlier efforts. I had to put a cardigan over it for our trip to the doctor. Once I am down to bra and knickers I pause to look at him.
“Keep going.”
My skin feels prickled all over, as if his eyes are a laser beam transferring little darts of heat to me. It is not as if I have never had to undress in front of him before, but it still makes me feel very, very small and submissive. And turned on. I unwillingly unhook my bra, wanting to wrap my arms over my naked breasts, but knowing better than that. Then I shimmy the knickers down past my knees and step out of them, so that I am perfectly nude opposite the fully-clothed Sinclair.
“Now we get to the crux of the matter,” he says softly, reaching a hand out to stroke the downy hair that is regrowing all over my pubis. I haven’t bothered to shave for two weeks or so. “What’s this, Beth?”
His fingertips move down between my thighs, rubbing between my lips, nudging my legs further apart.
“I…don’t like shaving there,” I mutter, looking away from him. “And since you weren’t around…”
“No matter where I am or what the circumstances are, Beth, this is still mine.” He pinches a lip and I jump on to my tiptoes. “It all belongs to me, whether I am there or not. You seem to have been acting in defiance of this.” Another pinch, another jump. “Don’t you?”
Oh God, I can feel the juices multiply, a
nd I’m sure he can feel it too. My voice is thick, breath constricted as I reply, “I know, sir, I’m sorry, sir.”
He spends another minute moving his fingertips back and forth, feeling my clit become swollen and my channel congested as the flames of desire leap up and start dancing. A small, broken moan leaks out and he takes his hand away.
“Go to the bathroom and fetch the razor and shaving foam, with a towel,” he orders. I trot off and back, placing the items on the bed as directed. This is not too bad. I know he has a steady hand.
“Thank you, now go to my office and fetch the strap. The two-tailed one; it’s in the right hand drawer.” Oh shit! I give him my most tragic look, but his expression is unyielding. I trudge away again and lift the supple leather from amongst its companions in evil, counting my blessings that he did not send me for the cane at least.
He nods that I am to put it on the bedside table, then he unfolds the towel and spreads it on the bed. “Come on, then, lie down and prepare yourself.”
I do as I am told – I’m keeping my nose clean today, believe me – scrunching my eyes shut and clenching my hands all the time that he is lathering me up and scraping the cold metal blade against my fuzzy regrowth. I concentrate on not moving a muscle, conscious of Sinclair’s shadow over me, his measured breathing, his skilled hands. He mops up the excess foam with a corner of the towel, then he slathers some kind of lotion on me, cool and moisturising, slicking it over my mons and down to my labia, behind to my perineum, massaging it with pleasurable firmness of touch.
“Much better,” he judges, standing back up and throwing a quartet of pillows down near the foot of the bed. “Now then, Beth, up and over. I want to see that bottom nice and high and ready for me.”