Fifty Days of Sin (3 page)

You don’t know
the half of it
, I think to myself with an
inner smile.

He strokes my back and we lie in
each other’s arms contentedly for a few more minutes, then he says,
“I suppose I ought to get up and make that coffee I promised
you.”

“Yes, you should,” I agree with
a grin. “Black mark for poor hospitality.”

As he gets up and pulls on his
underwear, then pads into the kitchen to switch on the kettle, I
pull the duvet over me and shut my eyes, snuggling contentedly in
the warm bed. And I muse on the differences between Edward and
Michael. The roleplay that Michael likes to indulge in brings that
extra degree of intensity when I finally allow him to come inside
me. Dominating him makes for great sex. But I’ve had a really good
time with Edward tonight.

I guess that’s why I’ve stuck
with my current lifestyle for so long: it really does give me the
best of both worlds.

Monday, 27 February

I PUSH OPEN THE DOOR TO leave LK
Bennett, loaded down with bags from a number of shops, after a very
productive spree around the centre of Oxford. My biggest package is
a huge shoe box containing a sexy but classy pair of very high
heels for which I’ve just handed over a three figure sum.
Extravagant, but beautiful.

I know what you’re probably
thinking. Sexy but classy? Really? You already know I have a lot of
flings with younger men and I’m currently trying out my first
experience as a dominatrix. You were expecting me to dress like a
porn star.

I can’t blame you for this –
society has conditioned you to assume that because I enjoy lots of
sex with a variety of men I must be a slut.

Well, I like to see the way I
live my life as a kind of advertisement for modern feminism. I love
sex and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I know that in recent years
it’s become much more acceptable for women to have a varied love
life. The stigma of having a string of different partners has
receded considerably. But most women would still baulk at admitting
that they’ve completely lost count of the number of lovers they’ve
had. And few would be happy to reveal that they don’t have
monogamous sexual relationships, regularly dating several men at a
time.

Not me. It’s something I can –
and do – cheerfully acknowledge. Sometimes my friends wince at my
lifestyle, but I just don’t see a problem with it. I’m open and
honest with the men I’m involved with. I don’t ask them for
exclusivity, just safe sex. And I don’t expect them to demand more
from me in return.

Of course, I have periods of
being single, and there are times when I’m seeing only one person.
But it’s not deliberate. Since I was in my late teens I’ve been
open with my partners, telling them that I’ll never rule out
starting a relationship with someone else while I’m dating them.
Often it scares them off. Well, when it does there are plenty more
men out there. When it doesn’t, fine – we have some fun
together.

It helps that I’m an intelligent
woman and I know it. Sorry, I’m supposed to be feminine and modest
about it – but I would be lying if I said anything different; and I
would never have ended up as a history lecturer at this historic
university, in this beautiful old city, without brains. But proving
that a woman can work her way regularly through lots of
non-meaningful but very pleasurable relationships without detriment
to her self-esteem or the regard of her contemporaries is easier
when you’re demonstrably intelligent and successful. It makes the
social experiment that is my lifestyle all the more gratifying when
I consider how thoroughly I’m smashing the stereotype of a
dried-up, sexless Oxford bluestocking.

So I have a swing in my step as
I leave the shop, armed with several new purchases including my new
high heels. Then I notice a few spots of rain. As I didn’t
anticipate it I haven’t brought an umbrella. We’ve had an amazing
period of mild, sunny weather in the previous few days, considering
what February is normally like in England, and I’m wearing a coat
with no hood. So I quicken my pace, hoping to reach the car before
the downpour that seems to be threatened by the glowering sky.

That’s when I see him.

I’m looking down the road to see
if it’s clear to cross when a stranger across the street catches my
eye. He’s tall, with tousled light brown hair and a face that makes
me stop in my tracks. A little younger than me, he’s strolling
casually past the shop windows, glancing in but without the
appearance of much interest – but then he sees me looking at
him.

I’m not sure what it is about
him that’s so arresting. Yes, he’s handsome. I think any woman
walking down the street would notice him and give him a second
glance. Yes, it looks like he’s got a nice body under his casual
dark blue t-shirt and jeans. Perhaps it’s the expression of his
face that makes me stop and stare – a keen, intelligent glance,
full of masculine self-assurance.

All of this happens in an
instant. I see him, I notice his handsomeness, his physical
attractiveness, and in that split second I’m irresistibly drawn to
the personality and charisma that shines out of his face. I nearly
forget to put one foot in front of the other, then I remember what
I’m doing and step out to cross the road.

Then somewhere in my mind, a
screech of brakes dimly registers, and with a sickening thud my
world goes black.

******

Wednesday, 29 February

“JUSTINE,” SAYS A FAMILIAR
VOICE. “ARE you awake now, darling?”

“Mum?” I try to move my neck to
look where I can hear her voice coming from, but an acute shaft of
pain from my skull down to my chest prevents me and I cry out at
the shock of it. Then I see her above me, looking down at me where
I am lying.

“Does it hurt? Oh, poor Justine.
Shall I call the doctor?”

“No, I don’t need the doctor....
what happened?” I’m in a hospital room, grey and clinical, tucked
under a stiff National Health Service sheet and one of those
horrible cotton blankets with holes in. I look down at my arm,
resting on top of the covers, and see an IV drip feeding into my
wrist. The agony of trying to move has eased, but my whole body
seems filled with a dull pain. Mum touches my hand.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you
awake, dear. We’ve been so worried. You were hit by a car crossing
the road. Do you remember any of it?”

I cast my mind back and try to
remember, but I can’t. LK Bennet – my new shoes – those are
imprinted in my memory. But a car accident? I frown with the effort
of frustrated recollection.

“When? How long have I been
asleep?”

“You’ve been in and out of
consciousness for a couple of days.” This is news to me. I had no
idea I’d been waking and drifting off again. “Don’t worry, the
doctors have said that you’ve got a couple of broken ribs, but
apart from that, it’s mainly bruising. The car was slowing down
anyway, because it was driving towards a red light. And the driver
slammed his brakes on as soon as he saw you step out, so the impact
apparently wasn’t as hard as it might have been.”

“So how long will it take until
I’m better?”

“They don’t know for sure, dear,
but they said once you’d regained full consciousness you should be
out of here within a week or so.”

“And I’ve been out for the count
for two days already? The students! Has someone delivered my
lectures for me?”

“Don’t worry about your
lectures, Justine! For crying out loud, you’re only just waking up
from a car accident. I’m sure the university will have found
someone to replace you for a couple of days!”

“I bloody well hope they
haven’t,” I mumble grumpily.

“Language, dear,” says my
mother. She doesn’t even like the mildest swearing coming from my
lips. I would have thought that she could have let me off today
though, when I’m prostrate in a hospital bed.

“I don’t want someone else doing
my work,” I complain. “I’ll give extra tuition when I’m out of
hospital.”

“There were lots of people who
saw the accident,” Mum continues, ignoring me. “It looks like you
just stepped out in front of a car. Everybody said that the driver
wasn’t to blame. How could you not see the car when you were
crossing? Darling, you might have been killed.”

“I have no idea,” I say
truthfully. “I always check it’s clear when I cross the road. I
don’t understand it.”

I look around, taking care only
to move my eyes whilst keeping my neck completely still, and see
several lovely bunches of flowers. “Oh, they’re beautiful,” I
smile.

“You’ve had lots of flowers,
dear,” says Mum. “These ones are from me and your Dad, one of the
secretaries at the university brought these from your colleagues,
these are from a nice young man called Michael.” I feel myself
blush – although I’m open and forthright about my adventurous sex
life with my friends, I find it best to spare my parents the
details. So they have no idea what sort of a young man Michael
really is, and would be shocked to the core to learn that I’ve
spent many happy moments with a cane, turning his firm bottom a
delicate shade of pink.

“And this one is from Adam.”
She’s pointing out a gorgeous bouquet of delicate flowers with two
sets of petals, cornflower-blue on the outside and a pale blue,
nearly white, on the inside. I’ve never seen them before I think
they’re quite possibly the most beautiful flowers I have ever
seen.

“Adam?” I ask, puzzled. “Who’s
Adam?”

“He’s a very nice young man,”
she says firmly. “We have him to thank for getting you here. He saw
the accident and called the ambulance. He said you were out cold on
the ground, and he went to help you. He stayed with you and the
driver of the car while they waited for the ambulance to arrive.
But fifteen minutes went and still there was no sign of the
ambulance, so he picked you up off the road and put you in his car,
and drove you here to the Radcliffe.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not, and he got into
trouble for it too. One of the doctors here told him he should
never have done such a thing, and I think the police were close to
giving him a caution, but I can’t blame him. He was worried that
you needed to see a doctor. And he’s been here to see you yesterday
while you were sleeping. Your Dad and I met him. He seems very
nice.”

“Uhh.” This is all too much. A
car accident, a neck that will hardly move, a body filled with
pain, and some random bloke picking me up bodily and taking me to
hospital then coming in to visit me when I’m still unconscious.
This is not how I was expecting the week to pan out.

“Are you tired, darling? You
need to rest and get your strength up. Oh, look, here’s your
father.”

I smile weakly at Dad as he
enters the room with two cups of coffee. “Oh, Justine, you’re awake
at last,” he says, beaming. He hands a drink to Mum and sits down
on the other side of the bed to my mother. Once he’s settled his
considerable bulk into the too-small chair, he takes my hand and
reiterates Mum’s telling-off for crossing the road without due care
and attention. “Honestly, Justine,” he shakes his head, “you’re
such an intelligent girl. How can you be stupid enough not to know
how to cross the road?”

“All right, Frank,” scolds Mum
gently. “I think she’s tired now, we should let her be.” She’s
right; my vision is starting to swim and I’m having difficulty
concentrating on their words. “Oh! Justine, I was just telling you
about Adam, wasn’t I?” She gets up and crosses to the door, where
in my peripheral vision I can see a figure entering the room. I
still can’t move my neck though, so I can’t see him properly at
all. “She’s very tired, you’ll have to just have two minutes with
her,” I hear her say to the visitor. Then she comes over and kisses
me on the cheek. “We’ll leave you now, darling. Mind you only talk
for two minutes and then you need to rest. But as Adam’s here, we
won’t send him away straight away.”

“Okay, Mum,” I agree, wanting
more than anything to sink into sleep and wake up when the pain has
gone away.

“See you tomorrow. Be good,”
says Dad, kissing my forehead, and then they’re gone.

Adam is by the bed now and a
sharp intake of breath causes me to wince in fresh pain as the
movement of my chest causes a sharp stab beneath my ribcage.
“You!”

“Yes, me,” replies Adam. He has
a deep, very sexy voice. It’s the guy who caught my eye across the
road, and he has a rueful look on his face.

Oh, that face. I’m not surprised
that I was bowled over when I saw him walking down the street two
days ago. I’m a little surprised that I was sufficiently impressed
to take leave of my senses and step out in front of a car, but
looking at him now, I have to admit that it doesn’t seem a
particularly over-the-top reaction.

He’s tall and dark, with just
slightly tousled hair, the kind of hair that I want to reach out
and run my fingers through. His grey eyes are the most beautiful
eyes I’ve ever seen in a human face. And as he breaks into a smile
it makes a dimple appear in his cheek. It looks completely
irresistible.

“I think I owe you an apology,”
he continues in that wonderful, sexy voice. Oh, my God, this man is
gorgeous. It’s just a shame that I’m in no fit condition to do
anything about it. “I didn’t mean to distract you so much that you
tried to kill yourself.”

“It’s not something I make a
habit of,” I tell him dryly. “I don’t normally have any problem
co-ordinating my feet and my brain.”

“Well, then I’m truly sorry to
have caused this malfunction.”

“It wasn’t you!” I protest. I am
lying through my teeth. Of course it was him. How could I think
about a little thing like traffic when I was being irresistibly
drawn to the most attractive man I’d ever seen?

“Oh, okay. But anyway, I was
worried about you, so I’m glad to see you’re awake at last.”