When I sit back down I am wearing large cotton knickers from a Marks and Spencer multipack and a matching boring bra.
‘Very utilitarian,’ says Lloyd admiringly, capturing me in his arms again. His dressing gown is silky, slinky, against my skin.
I see myself saunter on to camera, rather more exotically garbed in a sheer black lace-edged mesh dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. It has suspenders and stockings sewn on to it. I give the camera the finger and shake my hair over my face. God, I hate cameras. I was drunk when we made this film – it was the only way I could do it. ‘Look at you,’ says Lloyd, giving my thigh a squeeze. ‘What a sexy little tramp, eh? Look how hard those nipples are.’
I stiffen. How am I going to get through this? I could pretend to be a film censor, who watches skin flick after skin flick all day long and has become desensitised to it. But desensitisation can’t happen just like that, so I abandon the idea. Perhaps I could just keep my eyes unfocused, or slightly to the right of the action.
I try it, but it’ll be tough to sustain for longer than five minutes.
The only other option is to concentrate on fooling around with Lloyd – but where will that get me? Up arousal creek without an orgasm, that’s where.
Lloyd pulls me onto his lap and starts kissing my neck while the TV-me bends over and shows the split nutmeg of her – my – whoever’s – pussy to the room.
‘You were wet,’ whispers Lloyd. ‘Tight, hard nipples – oh!’ He touches mine, which are prodding the M&S cotton with some force. ‘Are you cold, Sophie?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘The opposite? Aw. All lubed up and nowhere to come.’
TV-him is in shot now. He drags TV-me over to the bed and we start making out. It occurs to me that I don’t know what happens in this film. I can’t remember. I am glued to the sight of his lips on mine. Kissing is so sexy; I could watch montages of kissing scenes all day. When his tongue slides in, I squirm on Lloyd’s lap.
He mirrors his TV-self, tipping my head back and giving me his most thorough attentions, all the time keeping one eye on the screen. I hadn’t realised that the challenge would involve touching, or any form of intimacy. Suddenly, I am flooded with the realisation of exactly how difficult this is going to be.
Especially when the flood of realisation is accompanied by a different kind of flood, in my knickers.
Lloyd kisses like a bandit, all plunder and bravura confidence, taking what he wants because he wants it. I’ve always found that hotter than hot, and I’m not about to stop.
He breaks off when TV-us stop writhing. TV-him has got me over his lap. There’s no way I can watch this without the prickle of heat between my legs turning full forest fire.
‘Oh, you’re going to get spanked,’ he crows. ‘Just the way you need it. Look at that little white arse – it won’t be that colour for long. That dress doesn’t even cover it. Tut.’
I’ve never watched myself get spanked before and I’m fascinated. Part of me wishes I could see my face, but a bigger part is relieved that I can’t. I’m pretty sure I’d screw an already sketchy collection of features into nightmare configurations.
‘What am I getting spanked for?’
‘Duh. For having a little white arse.’
He tightens his grip on me. TV-him raises his arm and brings his hand down hard. The sound is lovely. I never hear it properly when I’m on the receiving end; maybe it’s muffled by my own mind working overtime on sensation analysis. But on TV, it comes across beautifully, a sharp, crisp percussion.
Of course, it’s interesting to see my bottom under the palm, the way it flattens and then springs back into shape, the way it blushes pink, then pinker, then red, then redder. But what I really can’t take my eyes off is Lloyd. His face, his intent focus, the set of his jaw, the determination. Christ, that’s sexy. Sexier than the strong arm rising and falling, sexier than the hand printing its emblem onto my heating skin. His missionary zeal makes my hairs stand on end.
‘I think you’re enjoying this.’ His voice cuts in to my reverie.
I take the breath. Hadn’t realised I needed to.
‘Do you wish you were her?’
‘I am her.’
‘Do you wish you were in her position?’
‘No. Today I like watching. And besides, what’s the point of a spanking today? A spanking without sex. It’s like a birthday with no presents.’
TV-him stays his hand. TV-my bottom is cherry red. He rubs it considerately, saying words I can’t quite catch, low croons of post-spanking pre-sex seduction.
I’m saying something, fussing – I think I’m refusing to show my face on camera. He gives me one more smack to my bottom, then shrugs and says, audibly, ‘OK then, if you insist.’
He kneels up on the bed and I, with my back to the camera, lower my head to his cock. He holds my shoulders while I suck, throwing his head right back so his Adam’s apple juts out.