The Choice (10 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

She sounded frightened yet highly aroused and I found myself remembering the night I’d lost my virginity; scared yet eager as my boyfriend fumbled my knickers off with his cock rearing above my open sex. With that came understanding, or at least what I hoped was understanding, because her expression spoke of emotions as intense as mine had been that night.

Dr McLean spoke again. ‘So be it. You have made your birch well, so there will be no need for extra strokes, just the usual dozen.’

‘And then?’

‘And then you will say thank you.’

He sounded amused, also cruel, and I saw Violet swallow. I didn’t understand, but there was no mistaking his next command.

‘I will have you kneeling.’

Violet obeyed immediately, although she was shaking badly as she climbed onto her bed, adopting more or less the position I’d imagined, only on all fours and so lewder still, but with her back curved to make an elegant swan’s neck and her bottom a neat, round shape beneath her skirt she still looked beautiful and strangely enticing.

Dr McLean nodded and stepped forwards, tracing a slow line across the straining seat of Violet’s skirt as he walked past her. He put the birch whip down on the curve of her back and took hold of her skirt, tugging it gently up. Violet had begun to bite her lip as her exposure began and even safely beyond the door I could share her emotions; shame and fear but excitement too, and the thrill of being laid naked in front of your lover.

She was in stockings and a suspender belt, framing the seat of her full black French knickers, dark against her pale skin. Dr McLean gave a pleased chuckle as he saw, the same sound I’d heard before; a little cruel, a little amused, full of pleasure for her surrender to his peculiar vice. A brief smile flickered across her face in response, before she hung her head, her eyes closed and her mouth wide as if waiting for some exquisite sexual thrill.

All he did was pull her knickers down, very slowly, the way dirty-minded men like to do it, but without touching her, and yet the sigh that escaped her lips as her bottom came bare suggested far more than the simple naughty buzz I got when it was done to me. He didn’t even take them off either, but left them stretched between her open thighs, adding to the effect of a frame around her now naked bottom.

She was ready for it, as bare and vulnerable as he could possibly have wished, or so I thought, but he wanted her still more fully exposed. Reaching beneath her tummy, he tugged her blouse free of her waistband and turned it up all the way to her shoulders before undoing her bra and flipping the cups up from her breasts. She’d begun to sob as she was exposed, her whole body shaking to the intensity of her emotion.

Had I seen a picture of what was going on I would have said she was in a state of misery, shame and fear, but I now realised that I would have been imposing my own preconceptions onto her. She had put a hand back between her legs, stroking herself gently, not the reaction of a woman in a bad state, but of a woman as happy as she was uninhibited. Dr McLean saw what she was doing and reached down to remove her fingers, speaking as he did so.

‘Oh no you don’t, young lady. You’re to be beaten first.’

‘Please?’

‘Behave!’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘Good girl. Lift your bottom a little more.’

She already had it stuck high in the air, but did her best to oblige, letting her arms slide apart to lay her chest on the bed and making the curve of her back more hollow still. He was grinning as he stepped back, his lust getting the better of his pose of authority. She closed her eyes as he stroked the bundle of birch across her naked bottom, lifted it, and brought it down with a swish and a smack.

Violet yelped as the twigs hit home, but she stayed as she was, allowing him to apply a second stroke, and a third. With the fourth she had begun to kick her feet and toss her hair. Her whole body was shaking, her muscles twitching to the strokes, while again and again she made to reach back for her sex, only to pull back. I wanted to do the same, for all that I was telling myself I could not possibly masturbate over the sight of another woman being whipped, even if she was so obviously enjoying it.

Dr McLean had said twelve strokes and he kept his word, dropping the birch the instant he’d finished. Violet moved immediately, twisting around to come into his open arms, her body shaking with violent sobs and the tears streaming down her face as she hugged him. He held her, stroking her hair and whispering to her, never once attempting to touch her sexually until she had finished sobbing out her emotions onto his chest. Only then did he ease her gently down to her knees on the floor and free his cock into her mouth.

I realised what he had meant by making her say thank you – sucking his cock – and with that my restraint broke. The idea of a woman having to thank a man for whipping her was too much. I ran back into my room, utterly confused, not knowing
if
I wanted to scream or to masturbate, to hide myself away for ever or to push out my naked bottom and take my hairbrush to my own cheeks, to rush in next door and punch Dr McLean as hard as I could or get down on my knees beside Violet and help her suck him off.

7

FOR THE NEXT
three days I barely slept, barely ate, barely worked. Only on the Monday did I force myself to resume my normal life, and even then it was mechanical. I could not get what I had seen out of my head, nor stop myself from imagining how I would have felt in Violet’s place, undergoing the same appalling ritual; my acceptance of what was to be done to me, the exposure of my bottom, the pain of the beating, having my smarting cheeks rubbed with cream, and lastly taking my persecutor’s cock in my mouth to say thank you for what had been done to me. It was that last detail that really got to me, the idea that I was the one who should be saying thank you when I was the one who’d been beaten, and by sucking his cock. Nothing could be more unfair, more unjust, and yet when I finally gave in to my needs and masturbated over the memory that was what I came over.

Nor was it just about sex. I had never seen a woman give up her emotions the way Violet had after her beating, clinging to the man who had done it and crying her eyes out as he comforted her. While I wasn’t sure if I understood, it had seemed to me that her experience had gone far beyond physical pleasure, providing a catharsis for her emotions maybe somewhere between orgasm and religious penitence. I had never imagined such a thing, and my head still rebelled against the idea, but it was also compelling. Not that I was going to try, partly because I knew I could never let myself go so completely with Stephen, which in turn made me wonder
at
how deep the bond between Violet and James McLean went.

As with when I had first learned about Violet taking the birch, my ruffled emotions gradually calmed with time and the busy routine of my Oxford life. Work was the best way to keep my mind off things, and it was going well, or at least as well as I could have hoped. I’d always known I wasn’t a serious candidate for a first, but of the five PPE students at Boniface I came comfortably in the middle. I also got on with Dr Etheridge, having quickly learned that the easiest way to get on was to discuss all sides of an issue and then reach similar conclusions to those he did in his numerous books.

Stephen and I settled into a comfortable relationship, going out together two or three times a week and sharing a bed at weekends, along with the occasional passionate encounter during the day and usually on the riverbank. The only problem was that even in our most intimate moments I would find my thoughts going to Violet and Dr McLean rather than my lover, but I was sure I’d get over that with time.

I managed to redeem myself with the boat club, at least partially, by doing well in the trials and getting into the women’s boat at number two, although I had to accept the nickname of the Wrecker from my team-mates.

The Chamber remained my first priority, and I began to work on manoeuvring myself into a position where I’d be able to stand for one of the lesser posts in due time, and then for President. That meant winning support from as many quarters as possible but never committing myself so fully that I alienated anybody. Inevitably I gained a reputation as a Chamber hack, but I’d known that would happen from the start and made a point of being pleasant to my detractors.

I also made a point of being pleasant to Giles Lancaster, as he was not only Recorder but he also had considerable
influence.
He continued to treat me with easy condescension, but he was seeing more and more of Stephen, which meant I was spared his most barbed comments and having to reject any advances, or so I thought.

He had taken to enlisting my support for the various projects and campaigns he was involved in and had hinted that he’d want me on his team the next time he spoke at a debate, so I wasn’t at all surprised to get a note in my pigeonhole inviting me to lunch at a restaurant called The Perch on the Saturday of my fourth week. I’d bought a bike by then, and cycled out, mildly intrigued by his request but no more. Even when I discovered that he was alone I thought nothing of it, and accepted his invitation to join him at a table in the bay of a window overlooking the river. He had ordered a bottle of white wine, and gave an airy flourish of his fingers towards the ice bucket as he sat down.

‘I do adore Oxford, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose I do. I’m beginning to anyway.’

‘That is good, because so many of the students view being here, rather than at some ghastly redbrick, as no more than a stepping stone in their careers, while it should be so much more.’

I poured myself a drink. ‘How do you mean?’

‘To a man like me Oxford is an essential part of life, as it was to my father, and his father before him – my great-grandfather went to some obscure institute in the Fenlands for some unaccountable reason – but with each succeeding generation it has become harder to get in, to the point at which I fear my own children will not only have to be brilliant, which I expect of them, but also impossible little swots, which I’d rather they weren’t. It’s very sad.’

‘But surely merit is the only fair criteria for admission?’

‘Certainly, but what is merit? If it is merely the ability to
regurgitate
what has been drummed into our heads at school, then I want none of it. Memory, my dear, is not to be confused with intelligence. No, it would be better by far if the swots contented themselves with Bristol, Durham and suchlike places, and left Oxford to dream. For you I shall make an exception. One must have beauty. Besides, I believe that Mitchell told me your father was at Boniface?’

‘And Grandpa, and his father.’

‘A West Country college for a West Country family. I approve.’

It was unlike him to compliment me on anything except my looks and I began to wonder where he was leading me. More likely than not he wanted something, perhaps for me to exert my influence on one of the women’s groups. I decided to tease him a little. ‘Do you know who you remind me of, Giles? Anthony Blanche from
Brideshead Revisited
.’

To my surprise he smiled. ‘Ah, to be compared to one of the aesthetes of the 1920s, even a fictitious one! Thank you, Violet, and yes, I suppose I am rather like him. I even took you to Thame, didn’t I? But don’t worry, I have no intention of warning you off Stephen, who is essentially sound, despite being a bit of a rugger bugger. But then, you like it rough, don’t you?’

He gave me a conspiratorial wink. I found myself blushing and wondering what Stephen had told him.

He smiled and reached out to pat my hand. ‘You mustn’t be embarrassed, Poppaea. It’s not as if you’ve been up to naughties with Dr James McLean.’

The heat in my cheeks flared higher still, but he carried on blithely.

‘No, there’s no cause at all for embarrassment, just the opposite. A fine young girl like yourself should be proud to enjoy a spot of hearty sex, don’t you agree?’

‘I suppose so. I’m certainly not ashamed of myself.’

‘That’s the spirit! Now, shall we order? The pheasant suggests itself. It would be my first of the season.’

I was glad to change the subject, and he didn’t return to it, speaking of game and wine, then drawing me out about sailing on the Exe Estuary, so easy and polite that I’d soon begun to let my defences down. We had a bottle of red with the pheasant, and glasses of something sweet and heavy with slices of treacle pudding, leaving me feeling full and more than a little tipsy as he settled the bill and guided me outside.

‘Walk by the river with me.’

‘I’m rowing at three o’clock.’

‘I’ll drive you over.’

‘I’m not sure you should drive.’

‘I’m certain you shouldn’t cycle and, besides, I have a proposition for you.’

‘Ah, I thought you might. Chamber business?’

‘Nothing so mundane, and not something for common ears.’

He had taken my arm, a gesture so old fashioned I felt sure it was affected, but it wasn’t intrusive and so I let him. We’d reached the riverbank and I let him steer me upstream, along a well-worn path that faded gradually as we came out among fields and little copses of willow and hawthorn. He didn’t speak again until we were completely alone.

‘As I was saying before lunch, you belong here. You are a part of the real Oxford, or rather of the ideal Oxford, and you are also the most spirited, the most sporting and quite the prettiest girl at university.’

‘No I’m not, and you know it.’

‘Not at all. Some might beat you if you were to compete in some tawdry seaside beauty contest, it’s true, but you are fire where they are mere embers.’

I wanted to tell him he was drunk and that I wasn’t that easily flattered, but I was too curious and no more sober.

‘I’m little Miss Perfect, but what are you after?’

‘Very well, you have forced my hand. I shall tell all. The Hawkubites have finally managed to find somewhere to hold our Michaelmas dinner; a new restaurant in Goring-on-Thames, the owners of which are quite delightfully innocent. I would like to invite you as my personal guest.’