by Kitty Thomas
When I get home, I take off tags and throw everything in the laundry to wash and put the roses in water. I sew my elastics into all my new shoes and try them on again. And then I'm a basket case for the next several hours waiting for my fate to unfold.
At seven p.m., I have dinner. I know it's morbid, but it's leftover lasagna from the other night. I didn't poison the whole pan, just what was on Conall's plate. I wasn't going to waste an entire pan of lasagna on that piece of shit. I just don't have the mental energy right now to cook something else. My mind is too full of what might happen tonight.
After dinner, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, as if this bit of housework is going to slow down the clock. I draw a bath in the oversized garden tub in the master bathroom and pour in the warm vanilla bath oil. I sprinkle the petals from a couple of roses on top of the water and light beeswax candles. I push play on a swan lake CD and slip into the hot soothing water.
For just a moment I let myself forget about tonight and why I'm taking this ritual bath. I lean back against the edge of the tub and close my eyes. My fingers trail through the water, chasing rose petals around the tub.
When the water turns cool, I hop in the shower to wash my hair. By the time my hair is in a bun, and I'm dressed according to his dress code, it's already eight-thirty.
4
It's a few minutes after nine when I arrive at the opera house. I fumble with the key to get in the side door and rush into the theater. I don't have time to be afraid about what I'm doing or to think too hard on it because I'm late.
“You're late, Ms. Lane,” the voice says over the sound system, filling the theater with its demands.
“I'm sorry. There was traffic.”
“There's always traffic. I expect you here at nine. You are stealing time from me. You know how to be on time, Ms. Lane. I know you do. Are you late to rehearsals? Classes?”
He's not yelling at me but his voice is so hard right now, and part of me wants to run out of here before this starts—before he hurts me.
“No, Sir,” I say. I can already feel the tears sliding down my face. I don't know what exactly I'm crying about, but he makes me feel like I'm the worst person in the world for being five minutes late to the appointment of being his slave for three hours.
“You will remain five extra minutes to make up for it. Go to the barre and warm up.”
When I get on the stage, I peel off my outer layer of clothing and run my hand over my hair to make sure no stray strands have fallen out. I put on my soft ballet shoes, hip warmers, and leg warmers, and I go to the barre. I see that the blindfold is draped over the edge, and my breath hitches in my throat.
Music begins to play over the sound system. Swan Lake. Does he get a perverse thrill out of reminding me he knows everything about my life, my world, my schedule? He knows when I'm in class. He knows which ballet we're working on. He knows everything. And he doesn't seem to miss an opportunity to remind me of it.
I still don't understand this. I mean sure, if he just wanted to fuck me it would make some kind of sense. If he wanted money, that would make sense, too. But what is he getting out of watching me warm up at the barre? I roll my eyes at myself, realizing I've answered my own question.
Maybe he does get off on it. Maybe he's turned on by watching dancers. That isn't a rare fetish after all. For all I know, he's jerking off right now. Who is this guy?
I spend about fifteen minutes running through my full warm-up routine, surprised when he doesn't interrupt me. Then I do some stretches at the barre and on the floor. When I'm finished, I stand, and wait for more instruction.
During these past few minutes, I've somehow been able to mostly block out why I'm here. Because I'm on a stage in a spotlight. I'm at a barre. This is all comforting and familiar even though I shouldn't feel comforted right now.
“I want to see your grand jetés,” he says
“I... why? Why are we doing this? I don't understand...”
“Because I own you. I own your body for three hours a week, and right now I want to watch you leap across the stage. Can you manage that, Ms. Lane?”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Good. Do it then.”
I move to one end of the dance floor, take a few graceful dancer runs, and leap across the stage.
“Again.”
I do it again. And again.
“Stop,” he says. “Take a few minutes and get some water.”
I notice for the first time that there’s a water bottle on the long rectangular table and am grateful for it. I don't know what I thought I'd be doing for three hours in this theater. I guess I thought something dirty and sexual. I didn't actually think I'd be dancing, like... training.
Am I disappointed about this? Did I want his hands on me? I think back to his finger pressing the pink buttercream frosting into my mouth. God help me, but... maybe.
When I return, he says, “Your grand jeté could go higher. You have the proper training and strength, but you're pulling your jump back before you even get in the air. Think of it like a rocket launch. You need a deeper plié going into the jump, and all the proper muscles need to fire at the right time. It's an explosion of movement. If you can remember and apply that, you should get more lift and also move farther across the stage with it. And don't try to use your shoulders to jump. Try again, please.”
He just corrected me. And I can't help this twisted happiness about that. In ballet, you learn to take corrections as compliments because the truth is, most instructors won't waste their time on trying to make you better if they don't think you’re capable. So even though this man is holding threats over my head, and it's not like we mutually agreed to do some outside-of-class practice sessions, I can't shut off years and years of training and the flush of pleasure corrections give me.
I go back to the edge of the stage, think through all the things he just told me, and then implement the correction.
“Good girl,” he says. “I want to see it one more time from the other direction.”
I do it again from the other direction, my mind scurrying like a helpless mouse back and forth over that Good girl. What the fuck? We may hear “Good”, in class, but no ballet teacher says “Good girl” like that.
When I stop and wait for more direction, he says, “Do you know why you aren't a principal?”
I brace myself for some insult about how I just don't have it. Whatever it is. “No, Sir,” I say.
I know from his correction that this man knows dance. He's been in this world a long time, so he probably does know why I'm not a principal. And I desperately do not want to hear it. I don't want to hear that there is no hope for me. I want to believe Melinda and Henry's opinions that I'm the best—that there’s something wrong with the decision makers at the company, not something wrong with me.
“The company was struggling financially until your husband started making very generous donations. At first, they thought he was trying to buy you a principal role. But that wasn't what he was doing. He said: 'Keep her in the corps. She can have the occasional small solo, but nothing more. And if you want the money to keep flowing, she never hears of this.' That’s why you aren't a principal. It's nothing to do with you or your talent or dedication. It's business.”
I grip the barre for support, shaken by this revelation. Conall and I fought over and over about dance, about how much time the company took away from him, about my dance partner, about everything. He was jealous of my relationship with the stage, but it never occurred to me that he'd do something like this. He'd seemed like my savior when I met him, someone who could give me comfort and security and let me follow my dreams to dance without the near-poverty that often goes with this career choice.
I thought I was winning—even when he became so possessive and angry all the time. Even when he got violent. I still somehow thought I was lucky.
The stranger continues, “Conall obviously won't be donating anymore, but that's okay. I can match and exceed his donation. I had plan
ned to do that anyway. Prove to me you can be a principal, and I will elevate you.”
I stand in stunned silence. Why is my blackmailer handing me everything I want? There’s a catch. I know there's a catch.
“You want me to fuck you for a promotion?” I ask, a flutter of unwanted excitement in my stomach.
“Language, Ms. Lane. You know dancers don't speak that way in rehearsal or a class environment.”
“I'm sorry, Sir. Is that your price? For a promotion? Sex?” Because honestly, I might happily pay it.
He laughs. “No, Cassia. You will fuck me with or without the promotion. I'll see to it that you're promoted because you're the brightest rising star in this company, and I’ll get zero push back when I insist on it. Now go back to the barre, and put the blindfold on.”
Suddenly the fear is back again because I know the blindfold means he's leaving his hidden perch and coming into my space. My mental bravado about how I would probably happily fuck him is replaced again by anxiety as I tie the blindfold around my eyes.
Then I wait.
I feel him before I hear his footsteps or his voice. His presence is so palpable that I'm not sure this man could sneak up on me if he tried. I can tell he's a few feet away when he speaks again.
“First position, two demi-pliés, one grand plié with the standard arm movements you use in class, then a port de bras forward and back”
I hear a tiny click, and music begins to play. It's beyond strange doing this blindfolded, but my free hand rests on the barre, and I've done this so many thousands of times that I don't need to see anything. I move fluidly through the exercise. When I bend forward in the port de bras my fingertips graze the dance tarp beneath my feet, and I sweep my arm back up.
When I arch my back, my arm going with the movement, that's when he touches me. His large hand encircles my wrist, gently stroking the pulse point, and I gasp. It feels as though something electric passed from him all the way through me from that simple touch.
The music stops.
I feel the strength in his hand even though he isn't gripping me hard. The way he touches me reminds me just how small I am, how tiny my wrists, how absolutely breakable. He could snap any bone in my body in half with no effort at all.
Before I can dwell on this thought, his hand leaves my wrist and skims down my back until he's touching the back of my hips with one hand and the front of my hips with the other. His hands are placed so intimately on my body I can barely breathe.
But it's not a sexual touch. It's a normal touch for correcting a body position. Intimate, yes, but still normal for me. His hand spans my hips completely, his wrist grazing one hip bone, while his fingertips rest against the other.
“Such a beautiful turnout,” he murmurs.
There’s a long beat of silence while he holds me in this position, his hands warming against me while the weight of the absolute imbalance of power between us settles on me in a way it couldn't before. There was no space for it before. No silence. But the way he holds me in place... the subtle way he lets me know my new reality through this gentle touch... tells me everything.
He leans in close. “You want me to fuck you, don't you?” He practically growls these words in my ear.
“Y-yes, Sir.” I whimper. I've never been in such close proximity to someone who could make me feel so much sexual need so easily. I'm getting so wet for him with almost no provocation. It's embarrassing.
I do want him. I don't care how fucked up this is. It isn't the power he has to promote me—if he's not lying about that—or the power he has to destroy me, whether in his physical strength or by a simple call to the police. I viscerally want this man.
I've never wanted someone so completely in such an animal magnetic way. He takes his hands off my hips, and I almost beg him to put them back. I need his hands on me. The list of reasons I'm crazy just keeps getting bigger with every second I fall into this seduction.
This man is evil. If he would blackmail me like this... I don't even know who he is. He could be anybody. But I don't care. I don't care. Please please please touch me again.
As if hearing my silent prayer, his fingertips brush against my nipples, which harden instantly against the fabric of my leotard. Maybe they were already erect. I can't think. I've never felt so out of control of my own body's reactions. He takes my wrist again and brings my arm down into a low resting position in front of me.
He moves into my space even more. I almost flinch away even as I want to lean into him. His mouth presses against my throat in a devouring kiss. Then he pulls away.
“I will fuck you soon, but not tonight.” It's a promise, practically a vow.
Then he leans in again and smells my neck. “Good, you used the bath oil. Did you follow the rest of my orders? Rose petals and candles? Soak until the bath goes cool?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.
There’s a pause, a long pregnant silence, as though he’s assessing the truth of my words. “Good girl,” he finally says.
I feel him move away from me then. And I wait. I stand exactly as he placed me, and I wait. I want to cry. I want to fall to my knees and beg this man to fuck me. The need for him is so primal, so consuming that nothing else matters. No, I'm not scared he'll fuck me. I'm scared he won't. I'm scared that along with whatever other mind games he designs for me, that he will lead me on and tease and torment me, but never let me experience the bliss of his body inside mine.
A few minutes pass like this, then his voice comes out of the speaker again. “Remove the blindfold and go to the center,” he says as if nothing happened. As if he never left his hiding place. And for a moment, some hysterical part of me thinks everything that just happened was all my imagination.
I step away from the barre, shaky and flustered. I feel the warm wetness surging between my legs. He leaves me desperate and wanting, craving. He's all business now. For the rest of our time together, he runs me through my corps choreography for Swan Lake—all except for the parts I dance with Henry.
“That's enough for tonight. Go backstage to the dressing rooms. Take a shower, change back into your street clothes, and come back to the stage.”
I'm a bit surprised by this order. I thought he'd work me until the very last second when he promised to release me, but a hot shower sounds really fucking good right now. I go backstage. He's left me a trail of lights along the hallways, through the dressing rooms, all the way back to the shower.
The bathroom has been newly renovated. So work has been done on this place. Everything is clean white tile and sleek steel lines for the counters. Fresh pale blue towels wait for me on an elegant slatted wooden bench—like something you might see in a spa. There’s lavender soap in the shower.
I look around, half afraid and half hoping he'll come in while I'm undressing, but I know he won't. He won't let me see him. I look up to find a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling, angled down over the shower. Is he sitting in a control room where he can observe the screen I'm on? Is he touching himself?
I swallow hard, but I strip off my dance clothes, free my hair from the bun, and step into the shower. I feel his eyes on me through the camera lens. I half expect his voice to sound through a speaker in here as well with a new list of demands, but it doesn't. The only sound is the spray of the shower. Here I’m allowed both the sweet privacy and relentless torment of my own thoughts.
I clean up quickly, use one of the towels to dry off, and change into my street clothes. My hair is wet and flowing past my shoulders. I put my things back in my dance bag and return to the stage, like a good girl. I don't stand on the black tarp. Not in my street shoes. I would never.
“Homework,” he says over the speaker. “I want you to learn Odette's first solo in Swan Lake as well as the first pas de deux.”
“I need a partner for that.”
“Just learn what you can,” he says. “You're dismissed. Be ready to work on it next week.”
Once again, the lights go out, and I'm
left in darkness and confusion.
It's opening night of Swan Lake. Every time I'm on stage with the rest of the corps, I feel his gaze on me. I wonder if I'm paranoid. Maybe I'm losing it. How do I feel him so strongly? How could I possibly know he's out there, watching me? I miss one small step in the second act, and somehow I know he saw it.
It's such a small mistake. No one who doesn't know exactly what the choreography should be would know. And they would have to be watching my feet specifically. But I know he saw. And I'm suddenly seized with an irrational fear about this. I somehow make it through the performance with that mistake gnawing at the back of my mind the entire time.
While we're all out on stage taking our bows, I look up to the box seats. There is a man in the front box closest to the stage on my left. He's by himself, no date. That alone makes me believe it's him. There aren't many men who would attend the ballet alone.
He's tall and broad, in a suit. But that's all I can make out—and only just barely. His face—in fact his whole body—is cast in shadow. I can tell he's standing, clapping with the rest of the audience as Natalie and Frederick come out onto the stage to take their bows, but somehow I know he's not watching them. I feel his gaze on me.
After the performance, the dancers go out for drinks. The principals keep to themselves at their own private table, while those in the corps hang out at the bar. At least half of us drink club soda. We have another performance tomorrow night, so we can't get drunk. And we've got too much adrenaline going to want to dampen it with alcohol. Opening night is the best night in the world.
Henry and Melinda sit on either side of me abuzz with excitement, rambling on about how well they think it went. But I barely hear their words. I leave early, feeling exhausted, but once I get home, I can't sleep. I have to know who was sitting in that box.
On Friday, I go to the box office. My friend Lilah works there, managing ticket sales for all the ballets.
