The Director's Cut

by JS Taylor

  “I’m going to tie you up now,” he says, “and use a vibrator on you.”

  I nod, not sure if he’s waiting for a response. Right now, I would agree to anything.

  James slides open a bedside drawer and removes a soft length of black rope.

  “Raise up your arms,” he whispers, “I’m going to tie you to the bed.”

  I raise my arms up and let him secure my wrists. As I feel myself bound up, another arc of sensation comes into play. This helplessness lends a new fission to the desire already coursing through my body.

  Then James takes a silver vibrator from the drawer. I’ve seen it before. This was one of the toys which James put in my chalet, back in London. I remember the pulsing feeling as I turned it on, and feel myself swell with expectation.

  It’s curved and elegant looking, but it’s also fairly large. I wonder if he means to use it inside me.

  “I’m enjoying making love to you,” whispers James as he climbs onto the bed and positions himself between my legs. “Everything I’m going to do to you is about giving you the most pleasure.”

  He leans forward and kisses my mouth deeply. Knowing where his mouth has been should make me uncomfortable. But in the riot of sensations hitting my body, I don’t care about a single thing but how much I want him.

  I feel the hardness of the vibrator in his hand.

  “I’m going to slide this inside you,” he says. “It’s large enough to open you up a little. But you’re already wet enough that it won’t hurt you.”

  I nod, finding it easy to put my faith in him utterly.

  And then he slides the smooth vibrator deep inside me.

  Ahhhhhh. The sensation of it, hard, deep, but not him. It’s difficult to describe. I feel filled up, but in a different way, to having James there.

  I look into his eyes, and he moves forward and kisses me again. As his lips meet mine, he twitches his finger, and the pulsing vibrations light up inside of me.

  “Oooooo,” I moan aloud, sighing into his mouth as he kisses me.

  It’s a deeply erotic sensation, rooted inside my body.

  “I want you to know how much I love you,” says James, his eyes on mine. “I want to see your face whilst I’m giving you pleasure, Issy.”

  Inside of me, the vibrations are building up and up. As though I’m about to explode.

  “I want you,” I whisper, lost in his eyes. “I want you inside of me.”

  “Not yet.”

  He moves away and slides off his trousers and boxers, freeing himself. I see his hand reach out to take a condom, and then his mouth is back down between my legs. And now the sensation is like nothing I have ever felt.

  “Oh God!” I am writhing in total ecstatic bliss as James’s mouth works me expertly, and the toy pulses inside. “Please James.”

  Slowly, he slides it out of me, and keeping his mouth tight against my wetness, moves the vibrator to make a shimmering path over each of my nipples.

  I feel my breasts lift as the vibrations feather other them, sending a deep pulse of pleasure right through my chest.

  Then James pulls away his mouth from between my legs, and he’s naked, on top of me. His hand rolls on a condom, and his mouth hits mine again.

  I can taste myself on his lips, and the headiness of knowing this makes me kiss his more fervently.

  He brings his hand down between our bodies, continuing the stroking contact on my clitoris where his mouth left.

  And then he’s deep inside me. Deeper than he’s ever been, making measured thrusts.

  “Oh James!” My arms are restrained. And I push against him, moving my mouth and arching my body as far into him as I can. I want every part of me touching him as he builds a relentless rhythm inside of me.

  “I’m going to come.” As I say the words, my orgasm hits like a starburst. I feel myself lift up away from the bed, and James’s hot sweat is slick against my naked skin.

  He reaches up and pulls on the ropes, securing my hands. I feel my wrists come apart, and my arms fall freely to the bed.

  Automatically, my hands grip his behind, driving him as far into me as possible, and as I clutch at him, I feel him gasp and thrust harder.

  White hot heat sweeps across every part of me, and then a shuddering wave of orgasm hits me again, taking me into another stratosphere of pleasure.

  “Issy,” says James, “I can feel you. I’m coming.”

  I lock my legs around his back and feel my whole body shake around him as he moans in orgasm.

  And then the ripples begin to fade out a little, and I feel each cell in my body tingling. It’s as though every sense is super aware, and I cling to James, breathing his smell and holding his hot body tight.

  I feel his rapid breathing begin to slow a little, and his arms tighten around me as he looks into my eyes.

  “You were serious,” I gasp, reaching up to grasp a handful of his hair.

  “I was?”

  “That was the best orgasm of my life.”

  He laughs softly.

  I let my head thud back onto the bed, and my eyes thud up onto the ceiling.

  “That was just incredible.”

  James lounges beside me, rolling his arms across my body.

  “For me too,” he admits. “There’s nothing I like more than giving you pleasure, Issy.”

  “I think that makes you the perfect man,” I say, turning to him with a smile.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had a hidden agenda,” James admits.

  “And what was that?”

  James’s face suddenly turns more serious. “I want more of you, Issy. I want all of you.”

  “You’ve got all of me,” I say. And I mean it. If I were in any doubt before, right now, there is no question in my mind. I am completely and utterly his.

  “We’ll see,” says James. “You might be called upon to prove that.”

  “How exactly?” I frown.

  “I’m going to take you for dinner,” says James, stroking my cheek. “And then I’ll show you.”

  Chapter 25

  I return to my hotel room to change for dinner and discover that James, once again, has designed my wardrobe for this evening.

  A large box awaits me on the hotel bed. And I slide off the lid to reveal a swathe of sumptuous light-green satin inside. The fabric looks beautiful.

  I lift the dress out carefully from the rustling tissue paper beneath.

  Hmmm. Not a bad choice, Mr Berkeley.

  The dress sweeps low at the top, with an elegant halter neck cut from light ribbons. It’s designed to fit close to the body at the top and swirl out a little at the bottom in an asymmetric hem bordered with handmade silk flowers.

  I try and guess what the outfit might mean about tonight. It’s semi-formal, but not what I would call black tie.

  My class apprehensions make a sudden, ugly appearance. I hope he doesn’t mean to take me somewhere filled with titled aristocrats.

  I notice something else in the tissue paper at the bottom of the dress box.

  There’s a heavy cream envelope and a flash of green fabric.

  Carefully, I lay the dress out on the bed, and return to the box.

  I lift out the envelope to see it’s been pinned to a pair of satin panties, in the same light green as the dress.

  James Berkeley. We are going to have words, about you dressing me.

  I frown at the idea of him orchestrating my wardrobe so completely. But I can’t help but admit the panties are beautiful. There’s no bra, and judging by the low neckline of the dress, it doesn’t need one.

  Curiously, I open the envelope which had been pinned to the panties. There’s a single piece of card inside, and I pull it out.

  Inked in the elegant, curving handwriting, which I recognise as James’s, are the words: ‘all the better to spank you in’.

  I smile despite myself.

  We’ll see about that.

  Still smiling, I turn my atte
ntion back to the dress.

  It’s got a slight Spanish look to the style, with the curving hem and flowers. Light green is not the right colour, of course. A traditional dress would be red. But, the bias shape and flowered hem makes a definite nod to local culture.

  I peek at the label. It’s couture, by a Spanish designer.

  Hmmm. An established designer would understand fashion heritage. So this is no accidental look. My guess is that James is taking me somewhere local. And the style of the dress is a clue.

  I feel a little wave of relief. No need to worry about class anxieties then. If it’s a Spanish place, I’ll fit right in. I’ve been coming to this country since I was a child.

  I shower, remove the remaining smudges of movie-set make-up, dry my hair, and draw on the satin panties. They fit close against my behind, and I like the way they feel.

  I approach the dress reverently. I’ve never worn high fashion before. Carefully, I lift it up. It’s certainly a lot heavier than other dresses I’ve encountered. The satin is folded into perfect overlapping waves, and I’m guessing the material adds weight.

  I pick it up and stand in front of the mirror. At first glance, I can’t see a way into the dress.

  After a little searching, I find a hook and a zip, perfectly hidden at the side.

  I guess that’s part of what you pay a designer price tag for.

  I don’t even want to guess what James paid for this dress. I can tell, just by the feel of it, this is probably the most expensive item I have ever handled.

  Slowly, I slide it on, dipping my head through the delicate halter neck ribbon.

  The top is designed to fit tightly, and I see that expert corseting has been stitched inside the dress. I see the ends of two laces, which I presume are to tighten the body, and give them an experimental tug.

  Wow!

  In the mirror in front of me, my waist leaps from slim to non-existent. I stare unbelievingly at my reflection, hardly able to take in what I’ve just seen.

  Can a dress do that? No wonder A-listers look so amazing at events.

  I unloose the laces a little, giving myself a bit more room to breathe. The effect is still astounding. I no longer resemble Betty Boop, but my stomach is the flattest and tightest it’s ever been.

  I pull up the zip, closing the green satin across my bust. It skims a line, very low across my chest, exaggerating the hourglass effect of the waist corseting even further.

  I let the skirt drop down, bringing the silken flowers of the hem to rest in an asymmetrical line which starts high on my thigh and ends just below the knee.

  The light green has done something amazing to my eyes, making the blue-grey tones even brighter against my pale skin. Traditional Spanish red makes my black hair deeper and more dramatic. But this green colour makes my eyes the main event.

  I let out a breath, taking in my reflection.

  Now the dress is closed, the figure flattering apparatus inside is completely hidden. You would never guess that this dress contained corsetry.

  I shake my head in wonder. You can’t odds the genius of that.

  There’s no doubt about it, Issy. You look totally stunning.

  I stifle a grin at my own lack of modesty. But it’s true. I now understand why people have a love affair with designer clothing. If they can make this kind of transformation, then I see the appeal.

  There’s a soft knock at the door.

  “Hello?” I call, still glued to the strange novelty of my own reflection.

  “Are you ready?”

  James’s voice. As ever, I feel a stab of excitement.

  “Give me a minute,” I call.

  I’ve not had time for make-up, so I launch myself towards the mirror and make a few quick sweeps of mascara.

  There, that will have to do. I figure the dress will do a lot of the work for me.

  I walk to the door and open it.

  On the other side stands James, immaculately dressed in a dark suit. He’s holding a bunch of red roses.

  Red roses. Oh James.

  I smile up at him to see his face is frozen in amazement.

  “Issy,” he breathes. “You look…. Oh wow.”

  I smile shyly.

  He steps into the room quickly.

  “We’re not going out.” He sets his face in a comic expression of fear. “I can’t have other men see you like that,” he says, closing the door behind him and stepping towards me. “I’d spend the whole night fighting them off.”

  I laugh. “It’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  He’s staring at the dress.

  “Stop it,” I laugh. “Your eyes will pop out of your head.”

  “I think they might.”

  James hands me the flowers and takes a step back to assess my outfit again.

  “My God,” he murmurs. “Words do not do you justice, Isabella Green.”

  “Thank you,” I smile, sinking my head into the fragrant blooms. “They’re beautiful. I don’t know what I did to deserve an entire bunch.”

  “You deserve that and more, every day,” says James. His eyes haven’t left my figure since he’s stepped in the room.

  Divested of the flowers, I notice he’s also holding a pair of green high-heeled shoes.

  “Are those for me as well?”

  “They’re certainly not for me,” he says. “But I’m not sure I can let you have them.”

  “And why not?” I move to place the bunch of roses on the bed.

  James steps towards me, moving his arms around my waist. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate on a single thing all night, seeing you looking like this.”

  “I spent a long time imagining you in that dress,” he adds, “and now all I can think about is getting you out of it.”

  He pulls me a little tighter. “If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I would rip the clothes off your lovely body right now.”

  I feel a twinge of lust spark through me.

  “However,” he says with a sigh. “I’m looking forward to tonight. And I’d hate to be late.”

  I’m remembering his words from before.

  He wants me to prove that I’m his.

  Where could we be going?

  Chapter 26

  We venture out of the hotel on foot, and James assures me the restaurant is only a few streets away.

  “I chose it deliberately,” he says, “because I had an inkling of how beautiful you would look in that dress. And I didn’t want to have to wait too long to get you back to the hotel.”

  “That doesn’t sound too gentlemanly,” I admonish him.

  “My sincerest apologies,” James replies. “Lust and manners are not comfortable bedfellows.” He pulls me closer to him as we walk.

  We’re out on Las Ramblas now, Barcelona’s main thoroughfare. It’s lined with outdoor restaurant seating, colourful shops, stalls, and busking artists and performers.

  The warm night air feels light on my bare shoulders.

  “Besides, I regret the decision to be within walking distance now,” admits James. “I didn’t think about the consequences of taking you outside.”

  “Which are?”

  “Haven’t you noticed?” asks James. “Every single person on this street is staring at you.”

  I have noticed a few glances, but I’m sure he’s exaggerating.

  James shakes his head. “You are going to be a movie star in every sense of the word,” he says sadly. “I only hope I’ll be able to cope with it all.”

  I’m never sure how to take this line of conversation, so I say nothing, choosing instead to soak up the heady atmosphere of the Barcelona streets.

  James makes a sudden move left, drawing me to the side of the road.

  “Here we are,” he says.

  “We’re here already?”

  We’re stood in front of an empty-looking building, and I can’t see any clue as to a restaurant.

  “Up there,” he clari
fies.

  I tip my head and see glowing candles and a tiny sign in the window of the second floor. It’s written in Catalan, rather than Spanish, which is the native language of Barcelona.

  Must be a real local place.

  I turn to James, questioningly. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go in.”

  I follow James up a dark staircase, and we emerge into a typically Spanish-looking restaurant. There is a large bar of dark polished wood with a long sweep of ornate tiles behind it.

  Hanging from the bar are large sides of cured meat and an elaborate construction of tiled shelving filled with wine bottles and jars of olives.

  From what I can make out, it’s a very typical Spanish bar. I’ve seen this kind of set up a hundred times before. And I’m at a loss to know why James has brought me here.

  It seems like nothing out of the ordinary. Which from what I know of James, is not his style at all.

  I take a scan around. There is a clutch of low tables, each with a wine bottle bearing a candle. A few diners are enjoying tapas style dishes.

  I notice that the dress is conspicuously smarter than usual. The men are mostly suited. And the women wear evening dresses. But aside from the formal dress, it all seems very average.

  Maybe James just wanted us to go to a typical, local place for once.

  But something tells me that’s not the answer.

  “Can I get you a drink?” James asks, approaching the bar.

  “Sure.”

  “Cold sherry? I’m told it’s the drink to start with in Spain.”

  I smile at him. “Technically, we’re in Catalan,” I say with a smile, “so we should be drinking Cava.”

  “I’m impressed by your local knowledge.” He grins.

  I shrug. “I came to Spain a lot as a child. The Catalan distinction is a big deal here. You can accidentally insult someone in Barcelona by calling them Spanish.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  James orders two glasses of Cava, and we both sip the sparkling wine, staring out into the wider restaurant.

  “Can you guess why we’re here?” says James, after a moment.

  “No. I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Let’s go to our table,” says James. “It starts in a few minutes.”