“As you should be.” Another stroke. “We are going to rectify the situation so that Rob can be proud of you rather than ashamed. What do you say to that?”
Another stroke.
“That’s good, sir.” Another stroke.
“You won’t be forgetting this lesson in a hurry.” Another stroke and she jumps slightly to the left; the first real physical reaction I have seen from her. Sinclair moves her back into place with a stroke to the thigh, the cruelty of which makes me protest on her behalf. “Ooh, you bastard,” I say under my breath.
“Now then, Mel, you will be bending over the arm of the sofa and receiving thirty strokes of the cane.”
Thirty?! And Mel echoes my thought, yelping “Thirty!?” Swit swat, on the nasty spot between thigh and buttock.
“That’s right. Thirty.” One final smack of the crop and he throws it aside (but not before he is sure it will land on the sofa rather than the floor). “I have to make sure you are going to take this seriously. Now take your place over the arm of the sofa, legs apart at shoulder-width, if you please.”
“I’m not sure I can do thirty with the cane,” mopes Mel, possibly regretting her choice of birthday entertainment now. “Can’t you use the strap instead?”
“As you mentioned yourself earlier on, Mel, I am not a man you negotiate with. Now bend over.”
I am agog as the caning commences. I cannot even imagine what thirty strokes would be like. Eight was barely tolerable; after thirty I doubt I’d have any arse left to speak of. Mel grits her teeth and rolls around on the balls of her feet as Sinclair swipes on, having her count each stroke. Her voice gets weaker and weaker, her fingers scratch the upholstery and clutch, but somehow she keeps position. She must be very experienced. Will I ever be that experienced with caning? Fuck, what a thought. If I really want Sinclair, I suppose I’ll have to be.
She makes it to thirty, her bottom a clutter of red stripes. “Thirty, sir,” she whispers faintly.
“One to grow on,” prompts Rob from behind the camera, and Sinclair gives the most savage stroke yet, through which Mel can no longer keep still. She leaps to her feet, shrieking and clutching at her bum. I can see it is on the tip of her tongue to swear at Sinclair, but even she does not dare. He places his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers pressing into the flesh there.
“I should bend you back down and give you six more,” he says in a voice that makes me, and presumably Mel, shiver. “However, since it’s your birthday….”
He goes to sit on the sofa, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers. “…I shall let you off with an appropriate expression of gratitude for the correction I have taken time out of my schedule to administer.”
Mel knows the score. She goes to kneel between Sinclair’s knees while Rob zooms the camera down on to her plentifully striped and alarmingly red backside. “Lovely job, Sinclair,” he comments, just as my beloved’s tool makes its guest appearance on the show. I have to admit, he’s a natural in front of the camera. I wonder what the History Matters team would make of this little presentation though. Mel bends her head obediently down and sucks his tip into her mouth. Rob messes about with the angles, presumably unsure whether to go for Mel’s bottom, or her mouth sliding wetly up and down that magnificent shaft, or Sinclair’s face, or…not sure why that shot of the bookshelf is in there; it seems Rob is getting a bit distracted now.
“Put the camera down, Rob, and join in,” invites Sinclair, a bit groanily, staring avidly down at his eager cocksucker. “I think she needs some attention below. I’m sure she must be quite wet by now.” Mel moans. Rob needs no second bidding; he clunks the camera down so it catches Mel and Sinclair at a slight angle, diagonally on to the lens. Mel’s oral (and rat
her vocal) exhibition is caught in its full effect, while Rob dances around trying to get his trousers off as hastily as possible, needing release for his substantial erection.
Within seconds he is kneeling behind Mel, his hands on her naked breasts, pushing his cock up inside her from behind. “Oh God, Mel, your arse is so hot,” he breathes. “You’re going to be feeling that for days.”
“S the idea,” says Sinclair, struggling a little now. Mel has got him almost all the way down her throat; no mean feat. She is caterwauling non-stop while Rob bangs in from the back and Sinclair is holding tightly on to her hair, forcing her movements.
It’s as if I’m caught up in this frantic three-way shag, unable to step away or avert my eyes. I don’t know how to feel…part of me is bereft at Sinclair’s part in this, part of me is just shocked and part of me is…jealous of Mel. Not that I think I could….But I think, in a way, I’m turned on. I’m imagining I’m her…and it’s….oh…
I have seen that look on Sinclair’s face; it means he is about to come. And he does, hard, into Mel’s mouth, while Rob continues to jackhammer in and out, slapping up against her decorative rump. Sinclair pulls out slowly, inch by inch, still holding Mel’s face. There is utter dispassion in his eyes as he looks at her slightly smeared features.
“When you’ve finished there, Rob, I want her arse,” he says. I gasp.
And then I gasp again when I look up to the doorway and see that Sinclair is back.
We both dive for the VCR at the same time; he gets there first. “What are you doing, Beth?” he asks, and there is something like fear mixed with the exasperation and the sternness.
I kneel up, having lunged too far and fallen almost on my face into the carpet. “I…just…” I cannot think of a single thing to say.
He removes the cassette and stands with it in his hands, boring down on me with flinty eyes.
“I…just,” I try again. “I…didn’t know you were a…I didn’t know you were for hire.” I spit the words out, wanting to reel them back in instantly, and collapse, sobbing hopelessly, face-first into the deep pile. He drags me up by my elbow, pushes me over to the sofa, sits down beside me and allows me to unleash a monsoon of woe on to his expensive shirt. Thomas Pink, I think. This’ll be the world’s priciest snotrag. It’s all a bit strange. Why isn’t he scolding me? Why is there no threat of the caning to end all canings being made? Why is he holding me firmly against him, running fingers through my hair, shushing me, rocking me? Come to think of it, why am I so devastated anyway? What am I actually crying about? I’m not sure I even know.
My piteous outpourings dampen down to juddery snuffles. “Hush, Beth, hush,” soothes Sinclair, betraying no irritation as yet for the lamentable state of his shirt. “Come on. Better?”
I nod into his chest.
“I’ll get you something to drink.”