by Kitty Thomas
I hear a zipper. He strokes my cheek in a mirror of what I attempted to do to him only moments ago.
“Now, Ms. Lane. You will open your mouth and accept me.”
His cock prods at my lips.
An erect cock is all rigid hardness with soft skin on top, but the softness is far softer than I remember, experiencing it now without the ability to see or have any distractions from the tactile sensation. I open my mouth, and he slides inside.
The way he's spoken to me from the moment I've met this stranger should make me angry. I should be offended or at the very least scared. But that voice. Those demands. The way he says these things... It all has a purely erotic effect on my body.
I'm so wet right now that he could slide into more than just my mouth without the slightest resistance. But that isn't what he wants in this moment. What he wants is me kneeling blindfolded and helpless at his feet, accepting him.
“Good girl.”
He's so gentle with me. He is large and hard and thick. The scent of his body makes me want to mount him like a bitch in heat. His hand is at the nape of my neck, guiding but not forcing as I mouth him, kiss him, lick him, suck and stroke him with my free hand. I can feel how close he is with the hardening grip on my neck. He's thrusting inside my mouth, and I accept him, taking him deep into my throat.
His other hand covers mine on the barre as though we’re lovers holding hands in a much more innocent situation.
He comes, and I swallow. It doesn't occur to me to do anything else even though I've never been that girl who swallows. I am that girl right now.
He pulls away, zips up. I feel bereft for a moment. I'm so wet and needing right now. I need him. I need him to touch me. He moves behind me, and his hands are on me.
I'm still kneeling, still holding onto the barre with one hand. I need to hold onto something, so I'm not sure if my hand still on the barre is obedience or necessity. He strokes my breasts over my leotard, and then his hand is grinding between my parted thighs. He's on the ground with me, pulling me back, my body flush against his chest as he touches me.
This goes on for a few moments, then he stops and gets up.
“No! Please... please...” I whimper. He can't stop. Why the fuck is he stopping? I know this is not the question I should ask. If I were a good person, if I were a decent or sane person, I would be relieved by this merciful cessation of his hungry hands devouring my body. But I am not a good person. How can I hold onto that myth any longer in light of the harsh relentless truth between my legs?
“Please what?” he asks, his voice hard again. And I can feel his distance from me. He's too far away for me to touch even if I reached out. And I want to reach out. I want to beg for him. I want to crawl.
“Sir, please... please... don't stop. Please.”
I'm still holding onto the barre. My arm is aching, but I can't bring myself to break the position he ordered me into. Mercifully, he takes that hand in his, and pulls me to stand. Then he leads me away somewhere. Off the stage... backstage... I don't know where we're going, but I don't protest.
When we reach the bathroom backstage, I know that's where we are. I feel the tile floor through my soft ballet shoes. I hear the water go on in the shower. A zipper. Clothing hitting the floor. Then he's stripping me. First the shoes, then the leotard and tights. But the blindfold remains in place. The glass door slides open, and he pulls me into the enveloping wet warmth with him.
I know he's seen me naked before on the screen, but realizing his closeness, feeling the hard naked length of his body pressed against mine is another thing. He’s so tall and strong. So much stronger than me. Suddenly being in this confined space with water pouring down on me, naked with a stranger—with my blackmailer—jars me out of his seductive spell.
He could rape me. He could fucking drown me. He could tilt me back and hold his hand over my mouth and just let the water take me. I panic, and then tears come. I’m so isolated from the rest of the world, from anyone who could help or hear me. Suddenly being this vulnerable with this man I don't know scares me in a way I haven't been scared since the note in my locker.
“Shhhh,” he says. “Shhh. You're safe.” He pulls me into his arms, which should feel more confining, more terrifying, but I can feel his steady heartbeat against my skin, and he's stroking my back in the most delightfully soothing way. I shouldn't melt into him like I do. I shouldn't feel this sense of trust flow out of me and into him. Especially not after Conall. This is a dangerous man. This is not a romantic comedy. This is something dark and disturbing and wrong.
But my brain can't process that reality anymore because he's being so gentle. My arms go around him, clinging to him, my head pressed against his chest, sighing like a contented house cat as he strokes the back of my neck.
“I think that's enough for tonight,” he says.
I want to say no. He can't leave me wanting. Even as he says these words, the desire comes flooding back, overriding all doubts and fears. I grip him harder, as if I can stop him from pulling away.
His mouth grazes my ear. “Do you want more?”
“Yes, Sir.” I am nothing but adrenaline. Fear and desire blending together until I don't know where one thing ends and the other begins. But I need him to keep touching me.
“Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” He doesn't say it in the same hard way as usual. And it doesn't come out in a growl. The command is soft, calm.
And suddenly I am soft, calm.
I do as he says, and a few moments later he's washing me, lathering my body, the relaxing scent of lavender permeating the space.
“I'm going to remove the blindfold. Stay facing the wall, and keep your eyes closed. I really don't want to punish you right now. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” It's barely more than a whisper. But he hears me.
He removes the fabric from my eyes, which has miraculously mostly remained dry, since my face wasn't in the water. Then he releases my hair from the bun. He runs his fingers through it. He shampoos my hair and washes my body, and I stand there, obeying him—my eyes closed, turned toward the shower wall, my hands flat against the tile.
Why the hell am I doing this?
“Good girl,” he murmurs in my ear as if it's the answer to my internal questioning.
His hands stroke over my breasts, lingering there. He lingers in this same way on my ass. And then, finally, he's stroking the bare flesh between my thighs, rubbing soothing circles over my clit with one hand as he uses the other to penetrate me. My body begins to move and grind with his thrusting and rubbing fingers.
Desperate vocalizations escape me. Whimpers, moans. Moans that turn to loud, erupting screams of pleasure as he draws the orgasm out of my body. He shatters me and puts me back together as he touches me. He won't relent. He won't stop. He continues until my body can't take anymore. Until my arms and legs are trembling. Until I'm crying from the intensity of it all.
“Shhhh,” he whispers in my ear, as he removes his hands. “I'm going to let you go early tonight. You need time and space to process this. This week, I want you to masturbate to orgasm every night. And I want you to think about what happened tonight while you do it. I want you to make those delicious sounds when you come alone in your bed. I'm going to leave now. Don't open your eyes or leave this shower until you're sure I'm gone.”
The shower door opens, and I hear him step out. I hear him dressing. I hear him leave. I stand in the shower, my head pressed against the tile. I wait. I have never felt this much pleasure with a man before in my life. I've never wanted like this
I take a deep breath, turn the water off, and step out of the shower. I look up at the camera when I get out, wondering if he's watching me on the monitor. I wonder if he can see the fear in my eyes. I'm afraid of what I feel, afraid of what I want, afraid of this dark slithering thing he's awakened inside of me.
6
Yesterday Mr. V. taught me more in the small private studio. People are beginning to notic
e this attention he lavishes upon me. There are whispers when I pass in the hall. There are questions. Are we having an affair? What are we doing in that studio for two hours?
I swear if Mr. V's voice wasn't older and so much different from the stranger in the abandoned opera house, if his dancing style weren't so different, I would be sure it must be the same man. There’s nothing sexual in Mr. V.'s manner, but his sudden interest in me is just as intense—even if channeled in an entirely different way.
I'm pondering all this as I pass by Mr. V.'s office. The door is partly opened and there’s a man with dark hair facing away from the door, staring out the window at the view of the city. The man is tall, broad, athletic. Even though I can't see his face, I know he's beautiful. A new dancer?
Then he speaks. “I'll be here for the board meeting tomorrow afternoon. We can discuss it then.”
That voice. It's him. I move closer to the door. Has he already been discussing me with Mr. V.? Is that why the ballet master started teaching me more? Does Mr. V. know what's happening? No, that doesn't seem right. But I could confide in him. I could tell him this man is hurting me.
But is this man hurting me? I'm so confused. I don't know what to think anymore. If I speak up, nothing will stop him from revealing my crime and ruining my life. More importantly, if I speak up, everything ends. And I'm not sure I want it to end. And now, seeing the smallest glimmer of his sheer physicality... it's even harder to want to break away from this beauty.
I've felt him against me. I could have guessed. But to see it is something different.
Turn around. I silently beg. I need to know who this man is. Would I recognize him?
Mr. V. is suddenly standing in the doorway. “Can I help you, Ms. Lane?”
I look over his shoulder and see the other man's body go rigid. I'm supposed to be in Studio A right now, and I'm sure he knows that. One of the choreographers is in there working with the company, but I'm not in that part, so I slipped out to get some air.
Mr. V.'s stare is dark and inscrutable. And his question is obviously rhetorical because he doesn't wait for me to answer him. He simply shuts the door and locks it. The blinds to the window facing out into the hallway shut in a sharp snap of disapproval.
I return to rehearsal, trying not to think about who is in Mr. V.'s office, how well Mr. V. might know him, and what, if anything, I can or should do about this new knowledge.
When we break for lunch, I knock on Mr. V.'s now open door.
“Yes?” he asks, looking up from a pile of papers on his desk.
I scan the room, searching for any sort of evidence from the earlier meeting that may have been left behind. But there is no glaring sign with my blackmailer's photo and name on it anywhere.
“W-who was that man in your office earlier?”
“He is our most generous benefactor. He wishes to remain anonymous.” Mr. V.'s eyes hold a challenge. He stares me down like an alpha wolf waiting for the beta to lie down and offer his belly.
I look down at the ground instead—close to the same thing, I guess. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... eavesdrop.”
“What did you hear?” he asks.
“N-nothing. I-I swear. Nothing.” I chance a glance up at him. “Are you upset with me?”
My real question is... are you going to stop teaching me in the private studio? But I don't ask it.
He smiles kindly and shakes his head, causing me to release a slow breath.
“No, Cassia. It's my fault. I shouldn't have left the door open. He'd just arrived, and I got distracted. Don't worry. Everything is fine. No harm done.”
I quickly nod and excuse myself before he has a chance to change his mind.
7
It's Wednesday. Two weeks have passed since the thing happened in the shower. At our last meeting, nothing happened. Nothing sexual at least. I danced. We danced together. I showered. Alone. Is he upset with me? Has he lost interest? Did something happen in the shower that night that made him not want me? Did he decide I wasn't something he wanted after all? Is he angry? Is he punishing me for almost catching him in Mr. V.'s office?
I've spent the past week obsessing about this like some pathetic lovesick teenager. Why doesn't he want me? Why hasn't he called me? That's basically the thought train that runs through my head even though I know he would never call me. It would leave a record. Evidence. A thin string tying the two of us together—not that I would ever pull the string. I can't. It's mutually assured destruction.
Suddenly his whispered soon seems farther and farther away—a broken promise lying in shards between us. I have masturbated like a sex addict since that night together in the shower, thinking of him each time. Each time my fantasy gets dirtier, darker, so disturbing I wish I could make it stop. But the more completely he owns and controls me in the fantasy, the stronger my orgasm, the louder my moan, which bounces off the walls of my bedroom. There’s no one there to hear it, but he told me to make these sounds. So I do. And somehow it seems to make the pleasure stronger when I don't hold them back—like a small reward for my obedience.
He didn't even ask at our last meeting if I followed this order. And yet still, I follow it as though there is no expiration date on his demand on my body.
I made several mistakes the last few performances. I can't believe how upset I am about him not touching me last week. I’m way off my game. If it gets any worse, the director could notice. I could be out of a job.
I've been in a fog. Henry and Melinda have noticed, but it's not like I can talk to them about this. How the hell would I explain it?
Does he want me to beg for it? Does he want me to shamelessly kneel and beg for him to come to the stage and fuck me? Is that what this is? I'm afraid to do that. What if he still rejects me? And why do I care? How have I allowed myself to become so wrapped up in this man? Have I forgotten why he's doing this?
I've had dinner and my bath in the warm vanilla bath oil. I'm dressed for him, and my hair is in a bun. I've just finished buttoning up a pair of jeans over my leotard when the doorbell rings. It's a few minutes after eight.
I look through the peephole, and terror grips me. There’s a police officer standing on the other side. I take a slow, deep breath. I knew this would happen eventually. Someone would notice Conall was missing. Questions would be asked. Should I have reported him missing?
I should have reported him missing. I should have gone in there and cried at the police station. Or maybe that would be bad. It would call too much attention. For fuck's sake, you can't get away with murder when you're the wife. You have a link to the person. Of course they're going to question you. It's always the wife or husband. The boyfriend or girlfriend. Almost always.
The enormity of my crime hits me all at once. This strange way I've been living life like a normal girl—not a killer—is shattered in an instant.
I open the door, my face a mask of calm. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Walsh?”
“Yes?” I don't bother to tell him I kept my name when I married. In some weird way I think it makes me look even more suspicious—like I was never that emotionally attached to him, so of course I must be guilty.
“I'm Officer Jenkins. Do you know where your husband is?”
I mentally count back the amount of time it's been since I killed Conall. I think four or five weeks now. Shit that's a lot.
“He's supposed to be away on business,” I say, hoping like hell they don't know when he was supposed to have left. He's gone away for weeks at a time before, so this isn't that unusual, but it's edging into that territory where it would look strange to anyone.
“Someone reported him missing today.”
I start to cry. I can't stop the tears. Did my blackmailer give them a tip? Why? Why would he do that? I'm doing everything he wants. Even if he's lost interest in me, he told me if I obeyed him... until he was done... he wouldn't report me. He promised he'd let me go.
“Ma’am?” the officer says.
There
’s this part of me that knows I should ask for a lawyer, but I can't ask for a lawyer because it will just make me look guilty of something. Why would I need a lawyer in this situation if I haven't done anything wrong?
“H-he and I had a fight before he left. W-we talked about splitting up,” I lie. “I wasn't sure if he was coming back. He talked like he might find an apartment or something. I've been mad at him, and things have been so crazy at the company with the dance season starting. I-is... do you think he's okay?”
This better be an Oscar-winning performance, or my life is over. Or maybe the stereotype of the weak, fragile ballerina will save me. Maybe I'm not even on their radar.
“We don't know, ma’am. Is there a good number I can reach you at? We'll let you know when we learn more.”
I give him the number, and he leaves. I watch the police car pull away, then I shut the door and slide to the floor, the tears continuing to fall.
It's nine fifteen when I get to the opera house. I'm still crying, still shaken over the visit from the police.
“Did you do this?” I shout into the seemingly empty theater.
“Did I do what?” the voice fills the space. He sounds irritated at having an accusation aimed at him—as if he's an innocent. Even so, his voice is comforting at the same time it's upsetting—especially in light of the police showing up at my door.
“Did you tip them off? Did you report Conall missing?”
“No. Tell me what happened,” he demands.
His voice is so sharp and urgent that it actually stops my crying. I go up onto the stage, wipe the tears off my face, and set my ballet bag down. I change out of my street shoes and into my soft canvas ballet shoes and finish getting ready while I tell him everything that happened.
I finish with, “They're going to find out. I'm going to go to prison.”
“No. You will not.” He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him.
“I didn't report him missing. It looks suspicious.”
