Mr. Peacock, played by a young, heavily-tattooed athletic guy, has called an agency for a girl to give him a masssage at home. She's at the door at 10 AM, a diminuative Indian girl in possession of her own towels and liniments. The scene is the usual white couch, the goofy glass coffee table, the electric guitar and music awards on the wall, and the throw pillows whose design reminds us of JANUS magazine.

The masseuse sets up, Peacock takes off his shirt--even the masseuse is surprised by his tattoos. Peacock asks about "extras" from the masseuse--she denies such a thing is possible, so he calls the agency: "It should be more than a little massage...you know that...I need to get my money's worth somehow." The folks on the phone know that, he knows that, and the sweet little masseuse is about to find out.

Peacock takes her OTK, tugs down her warmup pants, and spanks her on black bikini panties. It is slow and silly. He takes her panties down himself before she stands to complete the stripping just to bra. Formulaic uneventful CalStar stuff.

To the wonderful white couch for a bend-over for the soft oval paddle. Bra off. "Let me have a look a you...not too bad!" She is naked. Peacock picks up a large brown leather elliptical paddle, big, and heavy enough to draw some response, and it does, the girl turns liquid and sniffles through the rest of the film. Her bottom turns red. She struggles to hold position.

Peacock slowly creams her buttocks. "Let's see how good your oils and creams really are." He lies her down on the towel where he had been and continues a slow creaming, including some fingers where the girl's mother told her not to let them go.

She dresses and leaves, rubbing her bottom as she walks to her car, arguably having gotten the better of this visit, which we did not. Mild and meaningless stuff in the grand CalStar picture.