by Kitty Thomas
I'm glad at least she gets to dance with Henry. It feels less like we're all being split up.
10
When I walk down the darkened aisle in the theater of the opera house, his voice booms out over the speaker. “Congratulations, Ms. Lane, I hear you'll be replacing Natalie. And the new Firebird. I hope you won't forget the little people... like me.”
Right. Like I could ever forget. Like he didn't orchestrate this. I wonder briefly if he pulled the puppet strings behind Natalie's departure as well. Did he know about the boyfriend? It feels like he knows everything about everything, at least at the company. Did he nudge another dancer out and make room for her to audition so he could maneuver me into this role?
I shake the thought from my head. That truly is crazy. I know this guy has a lot of money and a lot of power, but he's not an actual god. Get a grip, Cassia.
“Undress,” he says. “Take everything off. I want you nude except for pointe shoes.”
Even though he's seen me naked, this request startles me and makes me self-conscious. “C-can I warm up first?”
“You can warm up in just the shoes.”
“Leg warmers?” I ask. “Please... Sir... I need...”
“I will allow leg warmers, but just until you're finished with your barre.”
I swallow hard. This man is both completely strange and completely familiar to me. There’s a certain shyness I'm sure I can never overcome until and unless I'm allowed to see this man's face.
I fear I'll never see it. He's a disembodied voice, hands, and cock. A swirl of demands, threats, and promises—interweaving pleasure and pain.
Dark strains of cello music play over the sound system as I take off my clothes. I sit nude on the ground and put my pointe shoes on. I slip the pink leg warmers over them, then rise with all the poise and grace trained into me for two decades, and go to the barre.
I wonder how far away he is. At what angle does he view me? Is there any possible angle of nude pliés that isn't grotesquely lewd? I push past these thoughts and complete the exercises. I wonder if he's stroking himself as he watches this. The idea excites me even as I know it should repulse me.
The music fades, and he speaks, interrupting my warm ups. “Cassia, have you ever paused to consider that I might not be your only audience? The theater is dark. The spotlight is bright. It would be quite impossible to know, not only where I am, but if I have friends.”
I freeze. I'm horrified by this idea. Embarrassed. Scared. I want to grab my things and run, but if there are others, what might they do? Could he stop them? Would he bother?
But behind the sharp tang of fear—this almost overwhelming sensation of anxiety and panic—is that old familiar throbbing pulse between my legs as my body grows wet at this idea, practically eager for an audience to voyeuristically observe my fall to this dark and powerful man. Some twisted part of me wants an audience. Maybe it's an occupational hazard.
“You aren't finished warming up, Ms. Lane. Continue,” he says.
I consider my options and realize I have no options. Of course no one else is here. I know that. Intellectually I know that. It would be far too risky to bring others into this. But you can't tell this to my emotions. You can't tell this to my fear.
I imagine who he could have out in the audience. Other powerful people, no doubt? Or people from the company? Male Principals? Mr. V.? No, Mr. V. could never behave in the professional way he does with me if he were privy to what happens on this stage. I feel the blush creep up my neck as I consider this.
I marvel at my ability not to cry, scream, beg. Not to flee from the stage. To simply stand at the barre and obey. I'm an utter professional.
When I've completed my warm-ups, he says, “Good girl. Put the blindfold on.”
The trigger.
I put the blindfold on and wait, my body surging with anticipation, wetness flooding me, preparing me for whatever he might choose to penetrate me with. Fingers, toy, cock, tongue? I'm ready for any and all of it as my ears strain to hear his approach.
As always, I feel him before I hear him—this almost extrasensory perception I have where this man is concerned.
“You did very well this week. Not only was I impressed with your performance the last time we danced together, but your technique at all your shows was flawless. I spoke with the decision makers after Friday night's performance. I paid the necessary money to free them from Conall's demands.”
“Were they worried about upsetting him?” Most people seemed to worry about upsetting my husband. I wonder if they had reservations even with the extra money to supposedly free them.
“I let them in on the gossip about your husband.”
“Gossip?” I ask.
“Irish Mob. Fled the country,” he confirms. “They were very excited to be able to promote you. V. was especially pleased.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I say. Because gratitude seems appropriate in this moment. I knew he made this happen, and so I can't not thank him. He just changed my life completely. He just made me the star of the company, a dream I thought would never materialize into solid reality.
All the roles I thought I'd never dance suddenly stretch out before me. Mine to claim. I could have a long, bright future ahead.
I flinch when his hand presses against my cheek.
“Shhh, you're safe.”
I really do feel like his well-trained dog. These commands he gives, my trained responses. How easy it is for him to calm me with a word, even in the face of this twisted arrangement between us.
He slowly strokes my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his touch.
“Does it excite you to think others might be watching? That someone might touch themselves watching me fuck you?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.
“Say it louder, cupcake. We want our audience to hear.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say louder. I still don't know if he's fucking with me. Is someone else in the audience? Of course not.
I may have committed a felony, but he's engaging in one as well. He can't risk anyone else knowing about this. It has to remain a secret. I tell myself this over and over, but suddenly I can feel other eyes on me. Is this my imagination? Or is it real?
I don't know the answer. The blindfold has sharply distorted my reality. Not being able to see him... to only hear him and feel him, to be this helpless and isolated, I don't know what's real.
“You dirty little slut,” he says. But his voice is an approving growl. “I knew you were the perfect slut to train.”
I'm not a slut. I've never been a slut. I've been shockingly chaste all things considered. I've only slept with Conall. I wasn't in a convent or anything, but with dance, I never had time for much of a social life. I could have and probably would have gotten involved with a dancer at the company eventually, but Conall was there first.
Which was my bad luck.
A year ago, when the full enormity of my situation with my husband had hit me, I'd realized with utter horror that he might be the only man I ever slept with for the rest of my life. I couldn't imagine an affair—I was too afraid. And I couldn't imagine him ever letting me go. I would never know the touch of a man who knew what to do with a woman's body.
But this man now before me, this man whose hand still hasn't left my cheek... He knows. He knows exactly what to do with a woman's body. He knows every secret desire, every fantasy, even without me giving voice to it.
His hand slides down to my throat, gripping me, but not hard. It's an assertion of dominance, of his power over me. As if I need reminders. He releases me, his hand moving down to rest on my waist.
“Open your mouth.”
My mouth falls open, and his tongue sweeps inside. He could have just kissed me. I would have responded without the verbal command. But he enjoys keeping me on edge. He enjoys my obedience... all the ways he asks me to make myself vulnerable to him. All these risks he asks me to take in service of his demands.
He stops kissing me, and a mo
ment later, his mouth is latched onto my breast, sucking my nipple into a hardened point. He steps back from me, and a whimper escapes my throat at the lost contact.
“Please...” I whisper.
“Second position. And Relevé.”
I'm so frustrated. Last week he promised me pleasure. He promised if I was good that this week would be all about pleasure, and he's teasing me. But I do as he says. I extend my arm out to the side in a gently rounded curve, move my feet into a wider stance, and rise up onto pointe.
“Good girl. Under no circumstances are you to break your lines.”
As if I would break my lines. I've stood up on pointe for ten minutes at a time to strengthen my feet. People not in the dance world mistakenly believe that the toes take all the weight, but they don't. It's the box of the shoe supporting us. A lot of it is strength, of course, but the shoes are at least half the magic.
I'm sure this will be easy. But then I shudder as his tongue sweeps over my clit. I gasp at the unexpected contact and almost falter.
He smacks my ass. “Lines!” he growls.
I hold my position as he takes his time feasting upon me. He licks, and kisses, and plunges his tongue deep inside my welcoming body. After he finishes this exploration, he returns his attention to my clit. I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold, trying desperately to hold this precarious position he's put me in.
When I'm at the edge of my orgasm, he pulls away.
“No! Please... please...” It takes everything inside me not to move toward him, or at least toward where I think he is. I'm still holding my position. It feels like it's been a thousand years, but in all likelihood has been less than five minutes. I'm not tired yet, so it can't have been very long.
“When you come, I want you to be loud. I want them to be able to hear your moan all the way in the cheap seats. Do you understand, cupcake?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” I manage. I'm starting to really worry someone is watching us. At the same time there is this dark and decadent place within me that thrills at this possibility even as I'm horrified by it.
His mouth is between my legs again; his tongue is forceful, demanding. He sucks on my clit. There is such a frenzy in him that it demands my body's response. I grip the barre harder, but I don't moan; I scream out my pleasure. If we aren't alone, there’s no question that my voice is heard all the way back in the cheap seats.
His mouth latches harder on me, sucking the liquid out of me as though he's drinking me for sustenance. Finally, I'm able to quiet my cries. But he isn't done yet. He pushes his tongue inside me like a starving man licking his plate clean.
Finally he stops. Finally he's had enough. “Relax,” he says.
I lower myself out of relevé, and bring my arm down to the side, my limbs trembling both from the effort and the force of my release.
I feel him stand up, and then he's petting my hair. “Good girl. Stretch. Loosen up. Then we'll do the pas de deux.”
I don't know what possesses him to think I can dance after that. Even with as much as his tongue took, I’m still dripping wet. This sensation is made more dramatic by the bare flesh of my pussy, still fresh from where he waxed me.
“I...I need clothes,” I say.
“No. You don't.”
I knew before I asked that he would make me dance naked again. I stretch, and move around. I do some pliés and a few rond de jambe.
“Here. Drink.” He presses a bottle of water into my hands, and I gratefully drink.
He leads me to the center of the stage, the music starts, and we dance. It's a miracle I'm able to dance, that I don't miss the steps and trip all over myself—not only because of the world-shattering orgasm I just had, but because of the worry that he wasn't kidding about an audience.
He's behind me, holding me in an embrace as the music ends. He leans close to my ear. “You become the music. It flows into you, and you flow into it. Dancers like you come along once in a lifetime.”
I flush with pleasure at this compliment. It's enough to make me forget the mind-fuck of wondering if we are truly alone in this space.
He guides me back to the barre, placing one of my hands on the wood so I can steady myself.
“Kneel for me like I taught you,” he says softly.
I do, and he strokes my face as he guides his cock into my mouth. I suck him sweetly and obediently. I swallow when he comes. It has become another point of etiquette between us. Just as I would never falter in calling him Sir, or obeying his commands at the barre, I would never dare refuse to swallow.
There is something deeply and seriously wrong with me. The control he takes of me in these three hours each week is absolute. But outside of this time and space, my life is more my own than it ever was with Conall. I feel freer than I've felt in years.
And I'm so grateful for everything. For Conall being gone. For the police turning their attentions away from me. For the promotion in the company. For the pleasure I just received from my captor's mouth.
He pulls out of me and pets my hair. “Such a good girl.”
My face is turned up toward his waiting for more instruction.
“Are you on birth control?”
“Yes, Sir.” Birth control is an absolute necessity. An unwanted pregnancy can ruin a professional dancer's life. There's the morning after pill, and abortion, but we don't fuck around when it comes to birth control.
“Good. Stay on it.”
“Please...” I stop myself from begging again for him to fuck me, remembering the humiliation of the last time I asked and his rejection.
“I will fuck you when I'm ready to fuck you,” he says, knowing the words I forced back down my throat even though I didn't speak them aloud this time.
I nod.
I don't know how long we've been here tonight, but he guides me to the mattress. I don't know when it got on stage, and I wonder if it was there all along and I just didn't notice it before. Or maybe... someone else... dragged it out. I push that thought away.
I feel the brightness of the spotlight on me like sunlight as he lays me down on the mattress, spreading my legs wide. He spends the next forever languidly stroking every inch of me. He plays with my pussy, making me come so many times I lose count. Just when I think I can't take anymore pleasure, he pulls another orgasm from me along with my desperate whimpers and grateful moans.
He removes my pointe shoes and then carefully massages all the tightness and tension out of each foot. I can't decide which is better, this gentle, yet firm way he's touching my feet, or the orgasms. I sigh in contentment.
He rolls me onto my stomach.
“Stay,” he commands.
I stay. I always stay. I'm so addicted to this stranger that it doesn't even occur to me to beg or run. My will is bound to him more tightly than if he'd used actual restraints.
He returns and sits beside me on the mattress. My cheek is pressed into the soft silk of the pillow. I'm so sated. He does that wonderful rubbing at the back of my neck, causing my body to loosen even more. His fingertips trail up and down my back and over the curve of my hip.
A moment later, a cold, wet piece of metal presses between my cheeks. I gasp and stiffen at the invasion.
“Relax, and let me inside your ass.”
The way he talks to me... something in his voice makes my body helplessly open to him. It makes me long to fulfill every desire and demand. The only thing I want is to please him.
I breathe slowly in and out in rhythm to the agonizingly slow way he penetrates me with this toy.
“Don't worry. I'll fuck you long before I claim your ass,” he says.
I want to ask: What is this thing between us? Does it mean anything to him? Does he think of me like I think of him? Does he long for me like I long for him? Or is this all just a game of power and control? Is this some private inside joke for him to enjoy at my expense?
Finally he stops. A mewl of protest leaves my mouth as he takes the toy away. Moments later, I feel cold metal around my throa
t.
“I'm ready for you to call me Master now,” he says. “You will wear the collar any time you aren't at the company or performing—all of your private time at home. You will shower in it. You will run errands in it. When your street clothes go on, your collar goes on. You will sleep in it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” It's a whisper, and this time he doesn't ask for more. My fingertips stroke over the thin metal collar. He's slowly seduced me deeper and deeper into this... thing between us. I don't know what this means to him, but whatever it is feels more and more permanent with each passing day.
“Were there really other people here, or was it just us?” I ask.
He doesn't answer. Instead he says, “It's time for your shower.”
His footsteps recede. I wait an appropriate length of time and then take the blindfold off. As the water of the shower heats, I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the shiny platinum collar around my throat. The initials S. T. are engraved in the front. I simply stare at those letters and ponder this new clue.
11
Weeks go by. Performances and rehearsals. Night after night of masturbating according to his demands, screaming out my pleasure to satisfy his distant lust. The collar around my throat as I sleep. The meetings with him each Wednesday, this erotic fever dream pitching higher and higher. He continues to train my ass, the toys slowly escalating in girth, yet still he doesn't fuck me. Does he not want to fuck me? I can't believe I ask myself this question, that I'm somehow broken by the fact that my blackmailer has refused to breach this final barrier between us.
But it feels like rejection, and I can't help that I'm hurt by it.
I go through my free time out in the world wondering if anyone understands what this piece of jewelry around my throat means.
I've avoided invitations to hang out with Henry and Melinda, begging off with the best excuses I can come up with so I don't hurt their feelings. I don't want them to think I'm snubbing them because I'm a principal now and they're still in the corps. It's not that. It's that I can't bring myself to let them see this metal around my throat—I can't answer the questions I know would come. And I equally can't bring myself to disobey him by not wearing it at the specified times he's demanded.
