Free The Mak Collection by Tara Moss Page A

her that he was motioning to, she sashayed up to the door and gave him a sultry smile. There was no sense in waiting in line if it wasn’t necessary.
    “You a model?” he grunted. He stank of cigarettes and cheap cologne.
    “Yes.”
    He eyed her approvingly, which made her skin crawl, but her smile never faltered.
    “Which agency?”
    “Book,” she replied.
    With the magic words spoken, he opened the door. As she stepped cautiously into the smoke-filled nightclub, he mumbled something incoherent and shut the heavy door behind her. Her senses were immediately assaulted by a high decibel pounding dance mix and a throng of sweating bodies grooving to its beat. A long, neon illuminated bar held four,busy, steroid-inflated bartenders in skimpy black leather vests. She wondered for a moment whether she had stumbled upon a real S&M party, but on surveying the dancing crowd she determined that it was probably just a trend, and she would not at any moment be whisked away for a spanking.
    Squinting through the smoke she spotted what she had come for—the photos. A display area towards the back presented large black-and-white prints. She weaved through the whirling crowd and made her way towards them. When she looked down to pull her skirt further down her thighs, she caught a flying elbow hard in the jaw. It could have been any one of a number of the flailing limbs of several people crushing against her. Fists up at her face in a protective boxing position, she continued towards the far wall. When she finally broke through the other side of the dancing mob she discovered more people, seated at a series of tables, attempting conversations that consisted of little more than hand movements. It was a relief to stop moving, so she simply stood still for a moment, and instantly regretted it.
    Someone grabbed her by the shoulder.
    Makedde inhaled sharply at the surprise and spun around to look down at the man’s face. Her fist was clenched and ready in case she needed it, her whole body tensed. It took several seconds to register who it was.
    “Oh, Tony. How are you?” She hoped she managed not to sound frightened by his sudden appearance.
    “Good. How ya goin’?” he shouted above the din, sending a cloud of stale beer breath into Mak’s nostrils.
    “Fine. I heard about the exhibition. The agency’s raving about it,” she said.
    “Really?” His face lit up. “Have you seen it all?”
    “No, I just got here.”
    “Let me take you through it.”
    She managed a smile, and he led her by the hand to the first of the photos. Makedde felt decidedly uncomfortable. She wanted to know why Tony’s exhibit had caused such suspicion, but she hadn’t expected a personal tour.
    She ran through a series of excuses in her head: I have friends waiting? I have an early morning photo shoot? I’m allergic to smoke? Then why had she come here? Good question.
    The first photo immediately answered her questions about his exhibition. It depicted a young, naked woman, trussed in thick rope. Her long brunette hair was brushed forward over her face, and ropes circling her head held her mane in place. The faceless body was so tightly bound that the rope bit painfully into the woman’s flesh.
    Makedde was at a loss for words.
    “That’s Josephine. She’s a professional dancer,” Tony boasted.
    She answered his questioning look with a neutral smile. He led her to the next print.
    “This one is Josephine, again.” He stared at Makedde’s expression as she studied the print. It featured the same faceless physique, hands tied behind the woman’s back, bound in a restricting, leather corset and impossibly high stilettos. Her feet were so arched with the shape of the shoes that her ankles seemed to bend over her toes. The woman’s breasts were popping out over the top of the leather, and her naked hips bulged under the strain of the tiny corset. The body was contorted into an agonising, silent struggle with its bonds. Rather than arousing,