Free Lecture Notes by Justine Elyot Page B

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.
    Back at the flat, he sits me down at the table and instructs me to trim the rods of any rough edges.
    “I don’t want to draw blood,” he says, reassuringly. Is that reassuring? I’m not sure. Then he hands me some twine, which is to be wrapped securely around the ends of the bundle to a length of about six inches, forming a handle. A ribbon – how sweet – is tied around the spot where the twine ends and the whippy rods flare out. The weapon is ready. It looks meaner than Cruella de Vil with PMT.
    “Good work, Miss Newland,” says Sinclair, picking it up and caressing the strands lovingly; a good workman who does not want anything to blame his tools for. “This will certainly get my point across effectively, I trust.” Gulp. “Now I must ask you to remove your lower garments and bend over your chair, if you please, keeping a tight hold of the sides.”
    The formality and dispassion of his tone is frightening and yet, at th e same time, rather a turn on. Sinclair is horribly strict, but that is a big part of what makes him so sexy. I cannot deny that, as I drift into sleep each night, I hear his voice in my head telling me to place myself over his knee…lower my knickers…slap!...need to be taught a lesson, Miss Newland…slap!...and then he would touch me…ooooh yes, he would touch me there….and I fall asleep satisfied, and yet so very unsatisfied, so full of longing and need. Oh Sinclair.
    But there is no time for fantasy now – this is real, and it is going to be real pain I feel. Once I have unwillingly uncovered myself from the waist down, I droop forwards over the chair seat and grip the sides, as instructed. My arse thrust up and out while my spine slopes down, I am hideously aware that my masterful mentor can have a good long look at my womanly parts from this position. I hear him walking around behind me, shaking out the bundle of birch twigs in a manner that makes my heart stop, continuing this process for what seems like a very long time.
    “Now then,” he says in a low, authoritative voice, once he has tired of the psychological terror tactics. “You will receive ten strokes of the birch, each one of which you will count for me. Should you move out of place or attempt to protect the target area, please be in no doubt that additional strokes will be added to the total until your behaviour indicates obedience and suitable contrition. Have I made myself clear, Miss Newland?”
    “Yes, s ir,” I say fearfully, my backside twitching.
    “Then I shall begin.” He lays the birch rods against my behind; I feel their harsh texture and coldness and I cringe. When he removes them, I tighten my grip on the chair and my jaw clenches. They fall through the air with a swoosh and a slight rattle and then land on my bottom like a swarm of angry bees, stinging me in long lines across the startled flesh so that I gasp and utter a weak cry, only just preventing myself from jumping up. This is serious punishment. “One, Sir,” I say unevenly, but now he is raising his arm again and I don’t think I can… oooh, noooo. Another stinging slash of pain overtakes my