The Things That Make Me Give In Read Free

Passionate somewhere deep in my tortured soul?’
    ‘I hate you.’
    ‘I know you do. Read on.’
    She hates him even more for knowing she will.
    ‘– like a beast and she turned her face away, shamed by her own burning . . . pussy . . . more than by the sight of his . . . jutting . . . erection.’
    ‘Better. Fewer adjectives.’
    ‘“You will love this,” he breathed, and though she could not admit it in any part of her, she knew it to be true. A hot slick throbbing had begun in that secret place between her legs, andthe dastardly Lord Clemmings knew how to take full advantage.’
    ‘Dastardly? Is he, by any chance, a rake? And she’s a virgin, of course. But she has a hidden harlot’s heart and he really loves small children and little puppies and –’
    ‘Just stop it, all right. I’m fully aware of how ridiculous this is.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘If you find it all so stupid, why teach this course?’
    He doesn’t answer. She has to guess, just as with everything about him.
    ‘She gasped as he parted the lips of her sex, spreading her liquid over every secret fold, exploring her more thoroughly than she ever thought anyone could. Her own hands had never reached such hidden places, because, oh, how wrong it was, how wicked!
    ‘And yet she could not stop him defiling her thus.’
    His eyes gleam at her, on the word ‘defiling’.
    ‘Gently he stroked her, belying the debased nature of this act. She occasionally allowed herself to plead with him to stop, but her own will – so strong and strange – and his dominated her completely. It was something remarkable, to be so helpless in his arms, to be a slave to her own mounting pleasure.’
    Of course there is more. But it’s worse than the parts she has just read out, and it’s one thing to know he’s read them but quite another to speak them aloud. So she waits, and stares at the words, and wills him to tell her to leave.
    ‘Go to the board behind me,’ he says finally. His voice seems to . . . deepen when he does, but it’s hard to tell. Harder yet to understand what that deepening might mean. That he realises he’s doing something wrong?
    He’s about to do something worse, she knows. It’s obvious, even before he tells her to pick up the pen. Though maybe it’s just worse because she obeys, file now closed and pinned back to her chest.
    ‘Write fifty times: “I must write less ridiculous love scenes”.’
    ‘Is that what you think they are? Love scenes?’
    ‘I don’t know, Clara. Do you feel like you’re in love?’
    ‘Just shut up, all right. I’m not doing this, you know.’
    ‘Fifty times. “I must write less ridiculous love scenes”.’
    ‘Don’t you mean
fuck
? Fuck scenes.’
    There is a pause between her putting the pen to the board and his replying. It’s the heaviest one yet and she feels it pressing on her back – though maybe it’s just his presence that’s pressing, as he stands up behind her. Her legs are trembling and buckling under the pressure, she knows, but God, at least she hasn’t cried in front of him.
    ‘Yes, I mean fuck,’ he says, and then – too alarming to bear – he puts his hand over the curving top swell of her bottom.
    The pen slides up on its own and makes a scything smile of green that isn’t meant to be there. The word
scene
in her first line is now ruined – she can’t reach most of the shaking mistake to rub it out.
    She is about to turn and say something sharp, but he then
pats
her bottom. He pats it, and says, ‘Keep writing, Clara.’
    The face she had half-turned to him seems to want to turn back, but she doesn’t know if she can bear that. If she turns back, and keeps writing, what then? What then of flowery words and teachers and students and ridiculousness? This wouldn’t happen in her story. It wouldn’t happen. It’s too sordid.
    It feels
heavenly
.
    He just strokes her bottom, slowly, ever so slowly and in circles. And when she makes fumbling marks on the board once more,