The Director's Cut by JS Taylor Page A

feel like. But I don’t dare with him sitting next to me.
    “Are you imagining what it might feel like?” he asks.
    “Yes,” I admit.
    “Good. I want you to keep that image in your head,” he replies.
    The car slows, and he pulls into a side street. Then he gets out of the car and walks around to open my door.
    “Bring the crop with you,” he says.
    My fingers close around it uncertainly as I get out of the car.
    “Where I’m about to take you,” he says, “I want you to keep an open mind. But remember. Your obedience is required.”
    “And what if I don’t want to be obedient?”
    “Then you will be punished,” he says simply.
    I let out a breath and get out of the car, the crop held tightly in my hand.
    He takes my arm and leads me towards a tiny door. Where are we going? Multiple possibilities flit through my head. Some sort of club or party? He told me to keep an open mind.
    T he riding crop feels ominously heavy.
    James eases the door open, and we’re faced with a staircase. He gestures that I should go ahead.
    There is a familiar smell in the hallway, and my mind shifts to identi fy it. Linseed oil. I’ve smelt it a thousand times in my mother’s studio. It’s what artists use for oil painting.
    Are we in an art studio?
    As I get to the top of the stairs, my suspicions are confirmed. We enter an almost empty studio filled with canvases.
    The floor is bare boards, and the walls are plain. A few shafts of sunlight burst through a half shuttered attic-style window, lighting swirls of dust. If this room was empty, you’d imagine it had been abandoned.
    But various paintings and artist’s materials give it a bohemian look. The paintings are in oil, and they’re all of nudes. Beautiful women, of all shapes and sizes.
    In the centre of the room is a luxurious-looking chaise lounge. And to the far side, a large desk covered in paper, paints, brushes and pencils.
    James emerges on the stairs after me.
    “Do you like the paintings ?” he asks.
    “I… Yes.” Now I’m even more uncertain. “You’re going to paint me?”
    James shakes his head.
    “These have been painted by someone far more talented than I am,” he says. “As much as I would love to paint you, Isabella, I would not do you justice. And I cert ainly wouldn’t have anyone else paint you.”
    “Why are we here then?”
    “Be careful , Isabella,” he murmurs. “Too many questions sound like insubordination to me.”
    The riding crop in my hand feels hot, suddenly.
    “I’m going to take some photographs of you,” he says.
    Oh.
    “The artist who owns this place was kind enough to lend me his studio,” he continues. “And I can’t think of a better setting to shoot the kind of images I’d like. Of you.”
    Of me. My heart starts hammering. I’ve posed for pictures before. But something tells me these won’t be regular modelling shots.
    His eyes move to the chaise lounge.
    “What kind of photographs?” I venture.
    His look is enough to silence me. James leans forward and gently removes the riding crop from my hand.
    “Take off your clothes.” His mouth is inches from mine.
    I feel a surge of uncertainty.
    “Now.”
    Something about the tone of his voice is impossible to resist. I feel my hands reach up and unhook the back of my dress. Then I let it slide to the floor.
    I am left standing in a set of black underwear, which he bought me.
    I he ar him make an intake of breath.
    The bra is low, and my nipples jut over the top. The panties are little more than an arrangement of ribbons.
    James steps back, and assesses.
    “Interesting that you should choose that underwear,” he observes. “A man might assume you were looking for a certain kind of treatment.”
    I lick my lower lip nervously. I wore this underwear for him. But I hadn’t envisaged it being revealed in quite these circumstances.
    James walks towards a desk in the corner and opens a drawer. When he turns around, he’s holding a camera with a professional