Close Up and Personal by JS Taylor Page A

all so confusing.
    “I… I need to think,” I say, not wanting to admit how tantalising the prospect of spending more time with him is.
    “Sit down, Isabella,” he says, “and finish your wine.”
    The tone in his voice has an almost physical effect on my knee joints, and I buckle, sitting back down on the floor.
    This confuses me even more. Do I want this? This man telling me what to do?
    “I have never felt the way about anyone that I feel about you,” he says softly. “And if you decide you can’t have a relationship with me, then I understand. I will still cast you and do my best to bring out the best in you. Although,” he adds, his green eyes darkening, “it will take all my physical control to see you through that camera and not take you on the studio floor once we finish filming.”
    I flush and force myself to stand, still holding the wine glass. I need to retain some semblance of control.
    “I need to think things over,” I say, taking a nervous sip.
    “That’s exactly what I want you to do,” he says, eyeing me from his position on the floor. Something about his stance reminds me of a tiger about to pounce.
    I let my eyes roam around the flat, anxious for some distraction from the intensity of our conversation.
    Was it the English boarding school which did this to him? I wonder. It’s common knowledge that the masters still cane the boys at school.
    “I need to know more,” I decide. “I need to know more about why you want this from me.”
    His face takes on a troubled look.
    “Was it your school?” I press, “ Were you beaten as a boy?”
    “I was beaten as a boy,” he says, “but that is nothing to do with why I want your obedience. Almost the opposite, in fact,” he adds, more to himself than to me.
    “What do you mean?”
    His eyes lock with mine. “Isabella, my past is my business, and if you continue to press me then I really will put you o ver my knee and give you a spanking, whether you’ve agreed to it or not.”
    I flush.
    “Have all your other girlfriends agreed to this?” I ask.
    “Only one,” he says.
    Only one?
    “After her , there were no other girlfriends,” he adds, “only sexual liaisons.”
    Oh. So he’s telling me there was some great love of his life, and she let him beat her.
    “Why did you split up?” I say, hoping this doesn’t count as the kind of enquiry which merits physical discipline.
    “We didn’t,” he says shortly. “She died. Of a drug overdose.”
    The look of pain in his face is so acute that I can’t stand it.
    I move back over to where he’s sitting and seat myself beside him.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, taking his hand. “I truly am.”
    He looks at me distractedly. Suddenly , I catch a glimpse of something. Is this demand for obedience his way of salving some great pain deep inside?
    Can I agree to it? Could I be helping him?
    “I’ll think about it,” I say, and I see relief light his features. “But you have to do something for me.”
    “What?”
    “You say you are gentler around me.”
    His features soften. “Yes.”
    “Perhaps you could try and find out what it is that makes you gentler, so you can practise it more.”
    He nods, looking down at the floor with a little smile. Then he meets my eyes.
    “I’m going to let you go now, Isabella, so you can think things over. And believe me, nothing is quite so exquisitely painful as watching you leave.”
    He pauses for a moment and I realise he must have felt this on another occasion. Maybe even more than one. Was it as painful for him to leave me at the restaurant earlier than it was for me? Certainly he looked hurt when I left him in his suite last night.
    “But you must grant me permission to take you out tomorrow night, so that I might persuade you to my way of thinking.”
    I’m not sure how I feel about being persuaded.
    “You don’t need to be anxious,” he adds . “I am not taking you anywhere that you couldn’t tell your mother about.”
    My mother.