Fuck! Sinclair is behind the camera. What is going on here?
“Aw, Sinclair, you should
sing! Use that lovely voice.” Mel winks to camera. “Sinclair here is my birthday treat. I wanted a proper good old-fashioned birthday arse-whipping, and nobody tops quite like Sinclair. No offence, babe.” She throws her head round at Rob, who waves a hand. “Rob is going to help him out. I’m a bit of a handful and sometimes it takes two. But now I’m going to get this thing off, and I’m not doing it for camera! This rubber is a bugger to get out of.” She shimmies off, humming “You’re the tops” and the film goes grainy for a second.
I feel sick already, but the scene changes so that the camera is pointing to a sofa set in the middle of the room. Rob, now in an open-necked shirt and smart trousers, strolls into shot and sits down, back straight, looking slightly uncomfortable if truth be told.
“Mel, I want you here now,” he says peremptorily. Mel scurries on screen, now nearly naked but for a cupless leather corset and a pair of hold-up fishnets. “Kneel.” Rob points to the floorspace between his knees. Mel kneels, her back to the camera, so her tight tanned bottom faces the audience. “Now, Mel, as you know, we’ve been having some difficulties with your attitude, haven’t we?”
“Spose so,” says Mel sulkily. She is not a great actress, so it is clear from the start that this is role-play rather than a genuine disciplinary scenario such as I get from Sinclair.
“You suppose so? I know so. A bit too much backchat. Staying out late without calling. Sulking when I remind you how you should be behaving. It’s not good enough, Mel, not good enough at all. So I’ve decided that it’s time for a lesson.”
“A lesson?”
“Yes. You don’t seem to have any respect for me, so I’ve called on somebody you do respect. He is going to help me deliver this lesson.”
“What? You’ve done what? Who?”
“Sinclair.”
“Oh God, please, not Sinclair!” I almost giggle at the corny way she delivers the line, but I remember to be appalled when a pinstriped Sinclair appears at the side of the shot, carrying a briefcase in one hand and some longer implements…a cane, and I think a crop…in the other. They must have stuck the camera on a tripod or something. Unless there’s someone else…bloody hell. Sodom and Gomorrah, right here in my living room.
“Please not Sinclair?” his distinctive voice is low and silky, with a definite edge. “Why would that be, young lady?”
“You’re so strict!” wails Mel. “I can’t negotiate with you like I can with Rob.”
“Indeed. Hence his need to call on me. Perhaps this will have the positive effect on your behaviour that is so sorely needed.”
“Very sorely,” grins Rob. “How do you advise we start this off?”
Sinclair comes to sit on the sofa next to his odious friend. “I’d like you to take her over your knee and show me how you discipline her first.”
“Fine.” Rob motions Mel to her feet and she drops herself sideways over his lap. Sinclair nips up and adjusts the camera so that it zooms into her expectant globes. No fourth person in the room, then; just the fourth wall.
“Begin,” says Sinclair once he has returned. Rob raises his hand and commences spanking Mel, the slaps raining down fast and moderately hard, though Mel does not even try to move and appears scarcely affected. “Is that your hardest stroke?” asks Sinclair politely.
“Oh no, I can go harder than this. Would you like to see?” The mild splats turn to earnest smacking sounds and Mel starts to jerk around, voicing the odd complaint beneath Rob’s intransigent palm. Sinclair occasionally offers advice, pointing out areas that seem less reddened, or urging Rob not to slack off when he seems to tire.
“It’s all very well, Sinclair,” protests Rob. “But don’t you ever find that this hurts your hand? I can’t seem to go for longer than five minutes or so.”
“You need to stiffen your palm,” says Sinclair. “Although it’s probable that your skin is more sensitive than mine. I find I can spank very hard for twenty minutes before I feel an adverse effect. Perhaps you should move on now.” He takes his briefcase, snaps it open and removes an oval-backed wooden hairbrush. “This will spare your precious palms.”
“Thanks.” Rob takes the hairbrush and spends another five minutes achieving full coverage of Mel’s rear. By now she is starting to suffer, her breath coming in short gasps, though she does nothing like pleading or crying out, like I would.
“Good,” says Sinclair. “Nice and red all over. Put her in the corner and I’ll take over from here.” He lays one hand on Mel’s bottom, seeming pleased with the heat that transfers from it. Mel jumps up and allows Rob to escort her to the corner of the room. He comes back and picks up the camera, moving it closer to Mel’s humiliating billet. Sinclair moves out of shot for a second or two, then returns, swishing his riding crop through the air. Ah, I feel a slight thrill of recognition. It’s the same one he uses on me; the one I’m supposed to have between my teeth right now. Oh, weirdness, weirdness. This is not like recognising someone you were at school with on the local news – this is a SEX FILM and the star is YOUR BOYFRIEND. Heh heh. Boyfriend. That sounds so wrong. Look, I should be getting worked up and hysterical. I should stop drifting off into silly mental alleyways. Though I suspect this is all a coping mechanism. Anyway, he is up behind Mel now and he is going to say something.
“How does this feel, Mel?” he says. “To know that your behaviour has been so unsatisfactory that Rob has had to call in a disciplinarian for you?”
“Uh…” Mel is lost for words. The crop cracks down on her arse. I feel squirmy on her behalf. I imagine it’s me in that corner, taking the stroke. I certainly know how that feels.
“Well?”
“I’m ashamed, sir,” she mumbles. The crop lashes once more.
“I didn’t quite catch that.”
“I’m ashamed, sir.”