Primula Bond - The Unbreakable Trilogy

‘Did you ever try it? The whipping? Did you ever use that whip you nicked from the convent?’

Gustav is just behind me.

‘How did you know about that?’

‘I had a suspicion during your presentation. But I’m not entirely a mind-reader. We’ve been through your belongings at your cousin’s flat and in the gallery. Yes, I know that’s intrusive but I have to know everything about you, Serena. So. Did you use the whip?’

‘Once or twice. But since I was called home from Venice it’s never come out of the rucksack. At least, not until you rifled through my stuff.’

‘You can get down off your high horse, Serena. No harm done. Now, take a look at this.’

He waves a remote control at the television screen showing the empty room. A woman, a different woman from those in the photographs, walks calmly to the bed. It is the same bed as in the photographs. It’s all repetitive, a repetitive loop of perversion. I’m beginning to feel horribly claustrophobic. This gloomy house is hemming me in. The people in these photographs look hemmed in too. Cajoled. Diminished. But I am beginning to understand why they are feverishly delirious to be so.

The woman in the film takes up a pose on all fours, and spreads her knees. Then she looks directly at the camera.

Her jet-black hair is pinned up in its usual severe knot. She’s wearing a high-necked white blouse and even a string of pearls round her neck. She grips the edges of the bed with long claw-like fingers, and lifts her bottom.

‘My God, Gustav!’ I gasp, turning to him. ‘What’s Crystal doing at an orgy?’

‘We employed her to take part. This house, this exhibition belongs to me. I used to live here in the bad old days.’ He keeps his eyes on Crystal as she starts to move. ‘She used to be a model, and small-time actress. But most of all she was a muse for the guy who took these films and stills. And no, it wasn’t me doing the filming. I was – otherwise engaged. See? Even though she’s living another life now, in here she’s immortal. Looped over and over for anyone who pays to watch. She’s a permanent installation.’

‘I’ll never look at her the same way again.’ My hands are over my mouth to smother a mad giggle. ‘She was at my opening party, serving drinks, selling my work. She’s still hiring herself out for this kind of thing?’

‘No. She’s my sales director now. Turned over a new leaf. We all have. But she’ll be glad to know this film has opened your eyes.’ He is very close behind me now, his fingers tangling in my hair. ‘Shame, though. She would have been perfect in the role. She’s so nearly nailed the Mother Superior vibe, wouldn’t you agree?’

I giggle again. ‘I could have lent her my whip.’

‘You’re getting it, my little ankle biter.’ His hands are on my shoulders now, massaging them slightly. ‘But I’d rather see you wielding the whip. No, don’t deny it. I’m just drawing all the venom to the surface. Admit it. You skulked about in that convent because you wanted to get caught.’

‘I told you, I was locked in.’ My voice squeaks with embarrassment. He has me round the throat now.

‘You wanted the sisters to catch you and drag you down to the chapel to do penance in front of the entire congregation.’

I move away, afraid he’ll discover how wet I’m getting. All fight drains out of me. I remember the sensations flowing like warm water as I hid in the shadows watching Sister Perpetua.

‘All these sticky, wicked layers. So rewarding peeling them away.’ He keeps his thoughtful distance. ‘So you’re ready to see Crystal’s punishment?’

The answering jolt and thrill on my own skin is the same reaction as when I watched the nun’s whip first biting into her soft white flesh.

‘The further I travelled, the more I witnessed, the more I wanted to join in.’

‘And that’s why you’re not taking pictures of flowers and kittens for a living. You’re a gorgeous, inquisitive woman who’s been starved all her life but what you’ve seen through your camera lens, look what it’s done. It’s made you blossom. You’re ready to ripen, my exotic flower.’

His face has gone pale, his eyes dark and distant as if he’s peering at a mirage. Soon I’ll understand, but not yet.

‘Exotic flowers don’t grow in rural Devon.’ I try a shy smile. Take a risk. ‘But maybe they can be cultivated in central London?’

‘Those monsters did a number on you and I intend to repair the damage.’ The cloud clears from his face. ‘Let’s hope this next scene will be your catharsis.’

Crystal continues looking into the camera, her face white as a mask, her eyes black holes. Only her red mouth, with its strange little smile and snaky tongue, shows any kind of animation.

Someone else steps into the shot. Dressed entirely in black leather, including a cat mask. Dominatrix gear, black leather, studded collar. The figure is holding a thin black switch, like a riding crop, with a bunch of fine leather tassels dangling off it. I glance at Gustav. He is watching the video intently.

The rooms seems to shrink, the pictures and walls and ceiling sliding inwards as if to crush me, then spinning nauseatingly. I sway, nothing to grab on to. This isn’t art as I think of art. This isn’t soft-focus nuns in Gothic candlelit shadows, about to purge their sins on their own virginal skin. This is starkly lit domination.

Gustav wavers in front of me like a flame. He even splits in two for a second. I am afraid I’m going to faint. What’s the matter with me? It’s only a dirty home video masquerading as indie film. A bit of kinky behaviour, fetish dress, all up there on screen. Readers’ wives, but more skilfully stage-managed, more convincingly acted. If I look closely, surely I’ll see the joins.

Crystal spreads her arms and legs in a star shape. Sweat trickles down my back, in my hair, my armpits as I regain some focus. The black-clad creature plants its high-heeled boots on either side of Crystal and yanks her milkmaid skirt up to reveal her white bottom. Crystal is wearing no knickers, just black stockings. Her bottom and thighs glow in the dead lighting of the interior. Then the creature lifts its arm. No-one is uttering a sound. All I can hear is the sliced air as the leather-clad creature brandishes the whip so clearly that it practically lifts the hair from my forehead in its breeze.

There’s a swish like a wasp’s wing as the whip is brought down on Crystal’s buttocks. The stroke rings out like a cruel gunshot and I run my fingers quickly over my own bottom. Her skin quivers under the blow as I gasp out loud. She is so skinny. She jerks involuntarily, showing a quick flash between her thighs, and I see her fingers clawing at the bed cover. My own fingers dig into my backside, try to quell the dirty excitement growing in me. But still she makes no sound.

‘Don’t you move, Crystal, or you get double.’

The dominatrix’s voice hisses out of the film. Fills the room like the humming of a bees’ nest. She leans down and strokes Crystal’s butt cheek, where a livid red stripe has come up. I stroke my own bottom to soothe the imaginary pain. And still Crystal lies there as if she is in a trance. Remember, she’s an actress. Or she’s been doped. The dominatrix is stroking her on the one hand as if she is preparing a rare steak, but on the other she steps back and swipes the whip down a second time, squarely on the second cheek.

I squeeze my legs together as the dampness pricks up in excited response. On the screen Crystal flicks her head as her bottom jerks up again involuntarily. Again the frail flesh quivers under the blow, and again there is a tantalising glimpse of her sex as she bounces off the floor. My own is tightening frantically in response.