by Kitty Thomas
“You covered well,” he says. “Don't worry. I'll handle it.”
“What do you mean, you'll handle it?” How can he handle it?
“I asked you if you knew how much power I had. Conall had good money. I have god money. I will handle it. They will be moved off your trail. Trust me. You do not have to worry about this. The only person with the power to put you in prison is me. And I refuse to relinquish that power to whatever jackass reported your husband missing.”
By this time, I'm standing at the barre, going through my warm-ups, trying to calm my anxiety and the trembling in my limbs that doesn't want to go away.
“Did you cancel your waxing appointment? That was today, right?” he asks, changing the subject as if this issue with the police truly is nothing.
“No, I didn't cancel. But I didn't go. I was distracted and forgot.”
“Yes, you've been distracted all week. What was going on at your performances? I counted thirty-two mistakes spread across four shows. What am I going to do with you?”
I swallow hard. “P-punish me?”
“Yes.”
I take a long, slow breath. My body immediately wakes up at this possibility. Should I be scared? Should I be aroused? I don't know what to feel, but he's going to touch me. Beyond the pas de deux. Something profoundly personal is about to happen here. And I don't have the luxury of pretending he's some secret lover and not my blackmailer, not after the words that just passed between us. And yet, still I want him.
But first he wants to see the new solo I've been working on with Mr. V. It's another one of Odette's solos from Swan Lake. He gives me some corrections, sounding irritated, losing patience with me, and I'm crying the next time I run through the solo.
He turns off the music mid-stream. “Enough,” he growls. “What in the fuck is wrong with you?”
He doesn't shout at me, but this level of displeasure from him aimed in my direction makes me flinch.
“Do you or do you not want to be a principal dancer?”
“Yes, Sir. I do.”
“Tell me what's going on with you. You're dancing like someone else. You're dancing like someone who is never getting out of the corps. Why?”
I shield my eyes against the spotlight on me and stare out into the vast darkness. I shake my head.
“Tell me!” he demands. “Why are you so distracted?”
I shake my head again.
“Are you still afraid of the police? I've told you I'll handle it.”
“No, Sir.” I am, but that's not why I'm tripping over my feet like some gangly teen. Finally I tell him. The words just spill out of me. “You didn't touch me last week.”
“Of course I touched you. We danced.” There’s a silence, and even though I can't see him, I imagine I can. And in my mind's eye, I see the light bulb go on over his head.
“Oh,” he says. It's the most smug, self-satisfied Oh I've ever heard spoken aloud. A moment later he says, “Put on the blindfold.”
My body responds to this immediately. The words put on the blindfold create a pulsing throb between my legs, and I'm sure this will be my new normal. It's a trigger, a prompt. Those four words slip inside me, make me wet like some kind of arousal drug.
I hope he doesn't expect me to do the new pas de deux with him, because I know I won't be able to focus on it. I put on the blindfold and stand at the barre, one hand braced against it as if I need it for balance just to stand. And I wait.
A few minutes pass, and he is there, standing behind me, his chest pressed against my back, his hand resting on my hand on the barre. He leans in close to my ear.
“You're going to be punished, and you're going to be waxed. And then you will dance the pas de deux with me without a single misstep. Do you understand, Ms. Lane?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” I gasp.
“Thirty-two errors,” he growls. “It's unacceptable. You're better than that.”
I need him to touch me. If he touches me, I can meet his demands for perfection. I can handle the pressure. What I can't handle is the thought that he might grow bored with me before I can prove I'm not a waste of his time.
Suddenly, his hands are in my hair, taking down the bun I so carefully put up. He runs his fingers through the long chestnut strands, letting my hair fall in loose waves around my shoulders. He pulls off my leg warmers and the soft canvas shoes.
I stand completely still as he slides the straps of my leotard down my arms. He takes the tights as well as he rolls the fabric down and off my body. When I'm naked, his hands reach around to cup my breasts. He tweaks my nipples, hard.
“Ow!” I cry out. But even though he just delivered pain, I'm even more aroused than before.
“Shhh,” he says. “You have to be punished.”
I wonder if that counted as punishment for one of my errors. Are there now only thirty-one small agonies left before he moves on to the next thing on his sadistic to-do list? What is wrong with me that I crave any touch from him?
He takes my hand and guides me away from the barre. “Kneel and spread your legs. Forehead on the floor. Arms stretched out in front of you.” He helps and guides me into the position he wants me in.
“Stay,” he says.
I take a deep breath as he walks away. I've spent the last week obsessing about him, fantasizing about him, wanting him to touch me. But now, the reality of my situation crashes into me hard. And I'm suddenly reminded just how fucked-up this is. He's going to hurt me. Conall hurt me. I thought this man was in control, but now I'm not so sure. If he isn't, what does that mean for me? And suddenly I'm crying again.
He returns, and I hear something heavy being set down on the ground near me. Then he sits next to me and strokes my back and that sweet spot on my neck, the same way he touched me in the shower two weeks ago.
“Shhh, you're safe,” he says. Which is so completely ridiculous. I am not safe. The police are asking questions. I'm kneeling naked on the stage of an abandoned opera house waiting to be punished for minor dance mistakes by a man I don't know. This is as far as I can possibly get from safe. But if the words put the blindfold on make me aroused, Shhh you're safe makes my entire body relax and press against his hand for more comfort.
Sensual piano music begins to play over the sound system. He lays something on the ground next to my hand.
“Explore it with your fingers,” he says.
This isn't a sexual command, but I swear everything he says now sounds like the dirtiest thing any human being has ever uttered. I move my fingers over long strands of leather, interspersed with ribbons. Both the ribbons and leather end in knots.
“It's a flogger,” he says.
He takes it away, and then I feel him standing behind me. I tense.
“Relax,” he says. “Just surrender to this.”
Why haven't I tried to fight him? Is this threat of blackmail really so powerful that I wouldn't fight at all? That I would barely plead? I haven't even done that tonight. I can't bring myself to.
I feel guilty for the thirty-two errors, even though they don't personally affect him. They displease him. I want to erase them. I want to be perfect.
I cringe at this thought, reminded of the movie I watched with Henry and Melinda. Suddenly I’m that neurotic girl on the screen. What would my friends think if they could see me now?
Drink. And then they'd toss back a shot in my honor.
I'm jolted out of my thoughts as he drags the flogger across my back. A tickling whisper of touch. This feels sexual. Intimate. And I realize I would rather he do this than not touch me beyond dancing.
The way he dances with me is intimate, but it's not enough. It's only a tease. Suddenly, I wonder about the women who have danced with him. Did he take them as lovers? I think it would be cruel to them if he didn't.
The flogger strikes in a stinging kiss across my back.
“Count,” he says.
“One.”
It hurts, but in a way I want to move closer to. It's complex, like a
finely aged wine. There are layers and notes. Flavors. Like peach and vanilla if peach and vanilla were tactile sensations instead of tastes.
He falls into a rhythm with the flogger, and I fall into one with my answering count. I assume there will be thirty-two. It isn't painful enough for that to seem like torture. Each strike, followed by a number, followed by an echoing throb from my pussy. The longer this goes on, the more excited I get, the more desperately I need him to rut into me like an animal in the middle of the stage floor. All I can think about is that long, thick, hard cock pounding inside me in yet another dark rhythm.
When will he fuck me? When?
“Count!” he says.
“Twenty-seven,” I say. Five more.
Except that the flogger doesn't fall against my flesh again. Instead, he walks a few steps away. I hear some things moved about, and it finally occurs to my addled brain that the heavy thing he set down was some sort of box that he's searching through.
He returns and lays something else beside me.
“Touch it,” he says.
Again, my mind goes to a dirty place even though I know he means for me to touch whatever he took from the box. It is long and thin, hard.
“It's a cane,” he says, as if I would never have divined this on my own.
I understand on a certain level that this man could make any implement hurt if he put enough of his power behind it. Likewise, he can use each implement in a gentle way—in a caress—no matter what that implement is. But a cane is... serious. A cane is meant to hurt. In countries that use these in punishment for crimes, it often scars people for life.
Tears that didn't trouble me during the last few minutes, stream down my face in fear and anticipation of this abrupt escalation in my punishment. He pries the cane from my questing fingers and presses it lightly against the top of my head which still rests on the floor.
“Raise your head and kiss it,” he says.
I do this, my lips pressing reverently against the bamboo as if this act can appease him, as if this obedience will make him say the magic words, I think that's enough for tonight—words I didn't want to hear two weeks ago, but desperately want to hear now.
“Please,” I whimper.
“Thirty-two errors, Cassia,” he says as if this explains everything about why we're here. “You will count. Start at twenty-eight.”
I feel the brush of air as he moves behind me.
A moment later, the cane slices through the air to land against my ass. I cry out.
“Count,” he demands.
But the breath has left me for a moment. “T-twenty-eight,” I manage when I catch my breath again.
“Good girl.”
This praise irrationally pleases me. I should be angry. What is this man doing to my suddenly fragile mind?
Before I can think about that, the cane falls again, just below the first strike. I shriek. I know he's holding back. He's not trying to actually harm me, but still it's an intense screaming sort of pain. “Twenty-nine,” I say, tears coming faster.
After the next one, I beg him to stop. But he is implacable.
“Two more.”
I count the thirty-first and beg again. “Please... please... I can't take anymore... please...” I'm sobbing now. Even though I know it's just one more, one more is still too many and seems impossible.
The cane falls again, this final sting feeling as though it grips me and shakes me and breaks me apart.
“T-thirty-two,” I gasp out.
“Good girl.” He sits beside me, pulls me into his arms, holds me, strokes my hair and my back, runs his fingertips lightly over the welts he left, and just lets me cry it out. A hand slips between my legs, his finger pressing into me.
“You are so fucking wet. So perfect,” he growls against my ear.
I cling to him, my hips moving in answer to his exploring fingers. He presses his lips to my forehead, then tilts my chin up, claiming my mouth in a searing kiss.
Yes, my mind sighs.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.” And I am. The cane hurt. It was intense, but I know he hasn't damaged me. And he wasn't angry. This wasn't anger. This was controlled. I can feel his erection through his pants. What just happened was as stimulating to him as it was to me.
He stands with me in his arms and carries me a few feet, then he gently lays me down on the dance tarp. The vinyl material is cool against my warm back and ass.
He leaves me for a moment. I'm dimly aware that the piano music is still playing. He returns and spreads my legs wide. I feel my face flame, knowing he will get a close-up visual of just how aroused I am. But he makes no comment about this.
He just quietly waxes me. I've had this done so many times that I just lie there, soaking up the warmth of the wax. I'm so used to waxing that the pain of it doesn't bother me. It's kind of soothing in a strange way. It's usually a huge endorphin rush, though I can already feel the endorphins flooding me from the flogger and the cane.
If he had started by waxing me, I would probably be more self-conscious, but after what just happened, something has shifted deep within me. I’m so completely his in this moment that although vulnerable and exposed to him, I don't feel what I expected to feel. It's as though my body truly is his, to punish, to pleasure, to groom in whatever way pleases him.
When he's finished, he cleans me off with a wet rag. It's cool. I have no idea where he got the water—maybe one of the water bottles that seem to appear by magic. I hear a jar open and smell the distinct scent of coconut oil. He massages the oil into my freshly waxed skin.
There is no possible way I can dance after this. I'll only mess up. I'll only earn more punishment. I'm about to say this, to beg for whatever small amount of mercy this man may have. But before I can give voice to these thoughts, he lifts me up and carries me to the table. He sits me in the chair and gives me water. Then he hand feeds me a ham and cheese sandwich. I'm not hungry, but I'm grateful for the food. It helps me return to myself after such an intense experience.
“Stay,” he commands.
I sit in this darkness behind the blindfold, waiting, straining to hear whatever he’s doing. I do hear things, like something being dragged across the floor. Something soft and thuddy more than hard and scrapey. But I have no idea what it is. I'm so tired. I just want to rest.
He returns to me, picks me up, and carries me a few feet. He lays me down gently on a mattress with soft silky sheets and a pillow my head sinks into. He covers my naked body with a blanket and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Wait ten seconds, then remove the blindfold. I want you to rest for a bit. If you fall asleep, I'll wake you when I'm ready.”
His weight lifts off the mattress, and I feel more than hear him recede into the distance. I take a deep breath and count to ten. When I remove the blindfold, I'm alone on the stage. I sit up and blink slowly. He's dimmed the spotlight so the light I'm exposed to now isn't overpowering, but is instead soft.
I lie back down and close my eyes and rest.
I don't know how much time has passed when he wakes me. I don't know what time it was when I lay down. I'm gently roused from sleep with warm lips pressed against mine, a strong hand stroking my breast.
“Wake up, and dance the pas de deux with me.”
I feel rested and refreshed, as though he timed my nap just right so he would wake me just after a REM cycle. I don't feel groggy. I do feel a little sore and achy from the cane and from the waxing. But otherwise, I feel kind of amazing like I spent a full day at the spa.
I realize the blindfold is covering my eyes again. He helps me sit up and just holds me for a few minutes.
“Are you ready to dance? It's almost midnight. We'll do the pas de deux once, and then I'll let you go.”
A very strange Cinderella story, I decide.
Once I'm awake, he helps me into my pointe shoes and then pulls me up to stand. I'm still naked except for the shoes. This feels so strange, so exposed—even a
fter all that has happened tonight.
“Stay,” he says softly.
The mattress is dragged away. He guides me to the middle of the stage—or what I assume must be the middle. The music starts.
We dance together so perfectly that I'm sure I must really still be asleep. This must be a dream. Every time we dance together, I trust his holds and lifts more and more. I know he won't drop me. He won't let me fall. If I stumble, he’ll catch me.
The song ends.
“Good girl. Do well at this week's performances, and next week I’ll reward you. All pleasure. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whimper. I want to stop there. I really do. I try so hard to stop there, but I can't. “Please Sir... please fuck me.” The shameful words tumble out of my mouth beyond my control.
“I'm sorry, no. Next week.”
“You don't have to let me come. Use me. Take your pleasure. Please I need...” I clamp my mouth down hard. I swear I will bite my own tongue to shut myself up if I have to. I can't believe that many appalling words slipped out before I could stop them.
He chuckles. He has me. He knows just how far I've fallen into his snare. It amuses him that I would trade my pleasure away just to feel his cock inside me.
“Next week, cupcake.”
Warmth moves through me at the introduction of this pet name, and it's almost enough to make up for the absence of what I need from him so badly. My mind immediately goes back to the buttercream frosting on his fingers that first night.
On any other man's lips, cupcake would be offensive, demeaning. But when he says it, it makes me feel cared for, like the care he took to bake for me even if it was wrapped in so many threats. It's hard to remember that last part.
He dismisses me to go shower. As the water heats and steam fills the bathroom, I stand naked in front of the mirror, avoiding my eyes, twisting my body to see the perfect row of cane welts across my ass. My fingertips graze over the indentations.
I glance up to see a second camera has been installed since the last time I was in here. It's a few feet away in a corner next to the ceiling, and I know he's watching me as I look at and touch these welts. I wonder if I'll bruise. I wonder what it says about me that these hidden marks seem so different from the ones Conall gave me.
