Spellbound and Swallowed

White script – unedited

EXT. MILAN – STREET – DAY (FLASHBACK / VISUAL REEL)

A blur of high-end boutique windows. Black satin, lace, silk. Ollie is stood by the shop entrance. Indecision initially but goes in.

INT. HOTEL ROOM – NIGHT

The space is suffocating, lit by harsh, exposing fluorescent overheads. Breeze-block walls reflect a cold, clinical glow. Tiny high up window and one wall painted ox blood red. The bed has a tartan bedspread on which looks odd and out of place and a peculiar abstract painting all black and red swirls hung above it. The furniture is tubular metal and plastic . The room is cell like.

OLLIE (Dark hair needing a wash, jeans and white shirt. Wax 3/4 length jacket) unceremoniously dumps a suitcase onto the bed. He pulls out a battered, squashed carrier bag with a high-end Milanese logo.

LIZ stands near the foot of the bed, visibly exhausted, radiating anger.

OLLIE

I bought us a present.

He tosses the bag onto the mattress.

OLLIE (CONT’D)

Have a look.

Liz hesitates, then reaches into the bag. She pulls out an exquisitely made black satin basque, trimmed in lace and crisscrossed with vivid red silk ribbons. Beneath it in the bag sits a small, leather-tailed whip.

Liz runs her fingers slowly over the satin, mesmerised by the texture, feel of the material.

Ollie sits back on the mattress, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curls around his face.

OLLIE (CONT’D)

What do you think?

Liz stares at the leather tails of the whip, then up at Ollie.

LIZ

About what?

OLLIE

The basque.

LIZ

It’s beautiful.

OLLIE

Put it on.

LIZ

(voice flat, bone-weary)

I’m shattered, Ollie. Not now.

OLLIE

Go on, Lizzie, put it on for me. I want to see what it looks like on you.

Liz stands frozen for a beat. Uncertain.

FAST CUTS – DRESSING SEQUENCE:

— Liz’s trembling fingers fight fiddly, metallic clasps down the front of the basque.

— She pulls black stockings up her thighs, her breathing shallow.

OVERLAY FLASHES (LIZ’S INTERNAL REEL):

— LIZA MINNELLI in Cabaret, striking an iconic, sharp pose.

— TIM CURRY as Frank-N-Furter, staring back with dark defiance.

— AVA GARDNER in raw, vintage glamour.

— A PAGE 3 MODEL pouting into a camera lens.

VOICEOVER / INTERNAL CHORUS (V.O.

Cabaret! Liza Minelli as Sally Bowles in the iconic poster, a single frame of Andy as Frank-N-Furter, Ava Gardner in her provocative glamour photos, she was stunning. Everything about the basque, the stockings, feels wrong, it also feels unbearably sexy, the feel of it, the look of it. I instantly want to be that Page 3 girl, pouting and posing and striking suggestive poses and to be lusted after, to be wanted, to be irresistible, to be crushed under the weight of the male gaze. To be able to do that, feel that my body is enough, is good enough, that it’s perfect and my tits are firm enough and my bum pert enough and that, like them in their barely-covering-anything bikini bottoms, I’m hiding a young, tight, inviting pussy, to actually not give a fuck what anyone thinks. To be a hot, come-hither-eyed mess of invitation and feel comfortable with that. But, the shame, the enduring shamefulness that grew with me from childhood, the sermons about not flaunting my body, about ‘covering yourself up, you look like a slut’ and the dangers of showing off too much flesh, is constantly policing any decisions I make about how much body to show and never feeling that it meets some benchmark of perfection. Too fat, too hairy, too blemished, too hallmarked from pregnancy. Ollie has added a whole new layer to that confusion. He seems to see something quite different and now I flounder in a semi-dressed uncertainty. Here, in this moment, I want to grab one of the horrible tubular chairs and sit Christine Keeler pose astride it and dare him not to come and fuck me, but the chorus of ‘don’t throw yourself at men’ and ‘have you no shame’ is full volume. How do I reconcile all of it? Why am I so terrorised by my own sexuality and this pervasive guilt about wanting to be fucked and how much I love it and, god, I love it.

(Overlapping, harsh whispers from mother)

Cover yourself up… You look like a slut… Have you no shame?… Don’t throw yourself at men…

Liz stands frozen in the centre of the room in the basque, hands hovering uncertainly over her body, caught between desire and shame.

Ollie sits stripped down on the bed, running his fingers idling through a secondary pair of stockings. His eyes lock onto her, intense gaze

OLLIE

Let’s try something for fun, shall we, Lizzie? Come here.

Liz moves toward him hesitantly and sits on the bed.

Ollie kneels before her on the bed. With slow, deliberate precision, he weaves a stocking back and forth between her thighs and ankles, binding them together like a string game.

LIZ

(staring down at his hair)

VOICEOVER / INTERNAL (V.O.)

Which version of you is this? The one from Aberdeen? The one farting in the bath? Or this?

OLLIE

How does that feel, Lizzie? Does it feel good?

Liz doesn’t answer.

Ollie reaches out. His thick fingers begin unfastening the clasps down the front of the basque, fumbling with the tiny hooks.

The lace parts. Her breasts spill free, nipples hardened. Ollie leans forward, trailing his mouth briefly over them before sitting back up to retrieve the small leather whip.

He balances it in his palm, then gently trails the thin leather tails across the tops of her exposed breasts. Liz shivers, arousal, but hesitancy

OLLIE (CONT’D)

(quietly, echoing against the walls)

Are you a good girl, Lizzie? Do you deserve a reward? Or do I need to punish you?

Liz looks down at him. Heavy silence.

Ollie hesitates—a rare flash of uncertainty in his eyes, searching her face for permission.

Then, he reaches out and pinches her nipples firmly between his thumb and forefinger, twisting.

OLLIE (CONT’D)

How does that feel, Lizzie? Does it hurt?

Liz tilts her head down, watching his hands on her skin.

LIZ

Not enough. It doesn’t hurt enough.

FADE OUT.