The Choice (12 page)

‘Poppy? How nice to see a familiar face. You’re up very early.’

I could have made any one of a dozen excuses but found myself telling the truth. ‘I was bored at home. Everything had changed.’

‘The loss of childhood pleasures is the price you pay for growing up, I fear.’

‘My friends didn’t seem to have changed.’

‘But you have. I remember feeling the same when I first came up.’

I smiled, grateful for his understanding and he carried on.

‘But you must be bored stiff?’

‘There’s plenty of work I can do.’

‘And no play, what with the boats in and hardly anyone about. Come to dinner with me this evening and we’ll console each other over a bottle of something.’

‘Thank you. I’d like that.’

I had accepted without a second thought, and it was only after we’d parted that I began to have misgivings. Never once in the time I had known him had we been alone, while he had figured so prominently in my fantasies that I wasn’t at all sure if I could resist any advance he might make. I told myself I would simply decline, and that I had a dozen good reasons to do so – Stephen, Violet, his age and what he would no doubt want to do to me – but I knew deep down that only the knowledge that I’d be betraying my friends really mattered. Yet that was enough, while I needed company and didn’t want to find an excuse after having accepted his invitation.

He lived just east of Oxford on the Eynsham Road, a house I knew Violet had visited frequently, although I’d never been before. As I cycled out along the Botley Road I couldn’t help but think of what the two of them got up to, so that by the time I’d crossed the ring road I was imagining some vast and Gothic mansion with ravens flapping around the turrets and heavy iron grilles across the windows.

Nothing could have been further from the reality, a converted barn set back from the road in a neat garden, now colourless but which looked as if it would be beautiful by the spring. The interior was no more threatening, a single open space beneath the original beams with the bedroom and bathroom built into an upper level. Only one feature was remotely suspicious, a huge iron hook bolted through the width of a beam directly above the centre of the living room, but even that looked
ancient,
so no doubt was original and used for something to do with farming rather than hanging up recalcitrant girls by their wrists for a dose of the whip. He was friendly and relaxed, suggesting juice rather than wine as I would have to cycle back later, although his conversation was typically profound and difficult to follow.

‘… did you see the installation outside the Saïd? You must have passed it as you cycled over.’

‘Um … there was a laser show.’

‘Now that is a very telling statement. David Warburton says it is art. But is it?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s very pretty.’

‘You are very pretty. Violet is very pretty. But neither of you is art, because no skill went into your creation: presupposing the absence of a creator, that is.’

‘It’s your subject. Do you think it is?’

‘If you look in a dictionary you will see that the primary definition of art is skill, in which case it is not art, or if it is the credit should go to the people who designed the laser lights rather than to David for arranging them.’

‘But surely it’s the effect that counts?’

‘Given the equipment, I expect you or I could have done as well, if not better. You see, David’s argument is that it’s art because he, the artist, says it’s art, and he has managed to convince a great many apparently sensible people to part with a great deal of money on the assumption that it is art. On the other hand, a cynic might argue that he is forced into that argument because he wants to be an artist but has insufficient skill.’

‘And what’s the answer?’

‘The point remains open, but I suspect that should history remember him at all it will not be as an artist but as a charming rogue.’

‘A con-artist?’

‘Very clever! I’d put that in my review, but he’d probably sue me.’

‘Do you write reviews?’

‘I write whatever I can persuade people to take nowadays. I am, as you know, in disgrace.’

I found myself blushing, embarrassed for having inadvertently caused him to bring up the subject of his expulsion from Mary’s. It was tempting to ask what had happened, to see if he would talk about it, or lie; or, if he told the truth, how he would explain himself. I didn’t dare, instead I changed the subject.

‘Whatever you’re making smells delicious. Do you cook?’

‘Yes, but only in so far as a bachelor has to if he’d rather not sink to ready meals and take-aways. It’s tagliatelle with porcini mushrooms, and will end up as tagliatelle with mysterious burned bits if I don’t attend to it.’

He went to the cooker and I sat down at the table, sipping my juice as we talked. There was nothing sexual in his conversation, no sly innuendos, no hints that there might be something between us, nothing beyond the casually delivered remark that Violet and I were pretty. I wondered if he was trying to lull me into developing a false sense of security before he pounced, but if so he was in no rush. We ate, drank coffee and talked, covering subjects as commonplace as the approaching election and as obscure as French theatre in the late nineteenth century. He seemed to know a little about everything and a great deal about many things, rather like a younger version of my dad, except that he had few firm opinions, preferring to keep his mind open at all times.

It was nearly midnight by the time I left, and he had not made so much as a suggestive remark, despite having drunk the best part of a bottle of strong red wine and a glass of whisky.
I’d
been tempted to flirt, just to see if I could provoke a reaction, but thoughts of Stephen and Violet held me back, along with the possibility that I might get more than I’d bargained for. He didn’t even kiss me goodnight.

Cycling back towards Oxford, I was conscious of a strange sense of disappointment, almost of loss, as if something import ant was supposed to have happened but hadn’t. I tried to tell myself that his behaviour had been perfectly correct, and it had, between a don and a female undergraduate, only he wasn’t a don any more, but an ex-don who’d been disgraced for seducing a much younger girl into kinky sex.

I stopped outside the Saïd to look at David Warburton’s light installation, which before had seemed a pretty display if nothing more. Now I found myself wanting to criticise it for being pretentious, or write some suitably scathing comment on the pedestal. Fortunately I had no way of doing so and moved on after a few minutes, wondering why I felt so strange.

The next few days passed slowly. With the empty college and the cold clear air, Oxford had taken on a dreamlike quality for me, very different to the bustle of my first term and yet more compelling. I took to exploring, on long walks beside the different waterways or among the smaller streets of the city’s heart, but never far into what I’d come to think of as town. Again and again I found myself following Jackdaw Lane.

On the Saturday I decided to treat myself to lunch at The Boatman’s, drinking beer and then gin and tonic to leave me feeling pleasantly tipsy and nostalgic. I visited the little space among the trees where Stephen and I had made love so often, then turned down the bank and past the sight of my boat wreck, where I’d seen Violet picking birch.

The tree was now bare, the twigs black and scratchy against
the
eggshell blue of the sky and the silvery bark, each one outlined by a trace of frost where the feeble sunlight had yet to reach. I reached out to touch, imagining I was Violet as I rolled the thin brittle stem between finger and thumb. She’d had to pick a bunch in the knowledge that she would be beaten with it, a thought that set my stomach fluttering.

I could imagine her feelings all too easily, vexation at the thought of what was to be done to her, resentment for having to make her own implement of chastisement, embarrassment for the watchful eyes of people along the river, some of whom might know what she was doing, but those same emotions causing an irresistible thrill and kicking off an arousal that would not be satisfied for hours, until she’d been exposed, beaten and put on her knees to suck her tormentor’s cock.

Just the thought had my breathing ragged, and I’d have picked some birch if there had been anybody to deal with me – that wonderful expression James McLean had used, implying that a good thrashing with birch twigs was something I’d benefit from and which he could give me. As he’d deal with my request for a book or an application to join a society, only what he’d be dealing with was my bottom, my bare bottom, after which I’d have to say thank you.

I almost ran to get away from that tree, and would have done had it not been for the two bar staff from The Boatman’s smoking in the otherwise deserted beer garden. Instead I walked, frightened by the intensity of my own reaction, despite having thought I’d got it under control. At that moment I realised that fantasy would not be enough. I had to at least try it, and maybe that way I could break the spell.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, there was nobody to do it for me, as Stephen was still away and I’d never have dared ask Dr McLean. That did nothing to reduce my need. As I continued my walk down river I tried to tell myself that I was
being
silly, but it was no good. I needed to know how those twigs would feel across my bare skin, and to suffer the whole awful ritual, and I needed it soon.

I walked fast, telling myself I shouldn’t have drunk so much at lunchtime and the disturbing feelings would go away if I got some fresh air. The path grew fainter, then gave out altogether and I found myself skirting some allotments that ended at a road. Not wanting to turn back into the city, I crossed Donnington Bridge and set off down the river again, along a well-worn path.

That path was my sole protection against an idea that had begun to form in my mind; too busy and in plain view of the river for what I wanted to do but was telling myself I shouldn’t. Not that there was anybody around, but there might have been, and that kept me safe as I followed the river, under the ring road and out onto a spit of land where the two main channels of the Isis join together.

A weir crossed the lesser branch, the high water passing over it with a steady roar, while a long walkway would have allowed me to cross to the far side. I didn’t, telling myself I should turn back but knowing full well that I had no such intention. Instead I followed the lesser branch, beneath gently humming pylon lines to where a fringe of trees flanked the water, oak and ash, holly and yew still in leaf, and birch.

I had to do it, my need too great to resist and the risks of being caught too slim to allow me an excuse. There was nobody to be seen, just the empty meadows, still flooded in places, the river and the trees, under which I was completely sheltered. I found the perfect place after a minute or two of searching, an open space beneath a single huge oak with a screen of holly bushes to hide me from sight. Nearby was a clump of birch, the twigs hanging low and inviting.

My fingers were shaking as I began to pick the birch, twig
after
twig, all the while telling myself I was only doing it to push my ridiculous fantasies out of my head once and for all, that the pain would soon make me see sense. I knew it was a lie, because as the bunch in my hand grew my arousal was soaring, until my nipples had grown painfully stiff and I felt damp and warm between my legs.

Violet had used a ribbon from her hair to tie the bundle tight and make a handle for James to hold, but I hadn’t worn ribbons since I was six. My belt served instead, making a cruder, but perhaps more businesslike birch whip. Just to hold it made me want to take down my clothes and stick my bottom out for punishment, and I scampered back to my hiding place full of embarrassment and anticipation for what I was about to do.

Having made absolutely sure that nobody was about, I put the birch down and unfastened my jeans. I was still glancing guiltily from side to side as I pushed them down, careful not to take my knickers as well, because that was a moment I wanted to savour, as Violet had done. My shaking had grown uncontrollable as I pushed my thumbs into my waistband and closed my eyes.

She’d been in ecstasy as she was stripped and, as I let my bottom come slowly bare, I felt I could appreciate something of the thrill. Certainly it was stronger than just stripping to show off, when I knew I was baring my cheeks not to tease or for the caress of a boyfriend’s hands, but to be whipped. Being bare, always a pleasure save in the most mundane of circumstances, now felt vulnerable, almost frightening as I tried to imagine James and Violet watching, her eyes bright with excitement and amusement too, he cool and full of authority as he swished the birch through the air to test its weight.

I picked it up, deliberately bending at the waist to make my position as revealing as possible. That felt good, both exciting
and
shameful, emotions I’d come to realise could enhance each other in a delightful and unexpected way. I knew how much I was showing behind, which any man about to whip me would be able to see, enjoying my exposure while he himself was fully clothed.

The birch felt evil, somehow wicked, the braided leather of my belt around the hard twigs giving it a harsh rustic feel, ideal for whipping a naughty girl in the country. As I hefted it I let my imagination run, pushing thoughts of James away so that I wouldn’t feel guilty for Violet. Instead I was to be beaten by a young farmer who’d caught me trespassing and given me the choice of the police or taking down my jeans and panties for a dozen strokes of the birch.

I’d stood up again, my bottom pushed out, and brushed the twigs across my cheeks. It tickled, making me giggle, and I thought of the farmer teasing me, deliberately taking his time so that he could enjoy my half-naked body and my rising consternation as he held off from punishing me properly. A gentle smack tingled slightly, a firmer one slightly more, stinging in places, but no more than I could have taken on my breasts.

Sure that my farmer boy would want to see everything and remembering what James had done to Violet, I pulled up my top and bra. A moment playing with nipples and holding my breasts as I imagined myself being made to show them off and I took the birch to my chest, just hard enough to sting a little. It felt nice, but my bottom was definitely the proper target and I stuck it out again, this time landing the birch across my cheeks with a solid flick of my wrist.