by Brianna Hale
We’re more than four weeks into a five week tour that has encompassed much of Southeast Asia. I’m so proud of the orchestra and what they’ve achieved. I’ve pushed them more and more in each city and they responded beautifully. This is what it means to be a musical director, having the proper control in order to tailor a performance to an audience and drawing on the strengths of my musicians. I want more of the receptive audiences like these in Asia. I’m tired of playing it safe.
Isabeau is a few meters ahead of me, sandals on her feet and a long skirt draped around her hips. I watch as she scoops her heavy red hair up and fans the back of her neck. She must remark on the heat to her companions as one of the violinists passes her a tie and she pulls all her hair up into a messy bun on top of her head. A member of her group points at something hanging from a stall and I see her laugh, her green eyes lighting up.
Beautiful girl.
I feel a throb of need and wonder when I’ll get to touch her again. I remember the feel of her heated flesh beneath my hands yesterday afternoon, the sharp intake of her breath around the gag as I spanked her. The burn of my hand and the way she melted into my lap as I worked her over, all her tension flowing away, my arousal growing the more she surrendered to me.
How, I wonder, bemused by the soporific heat and my sheer delight as I watch Isabeau, did we get here? It’s as unexpected as it is welcome after missing her for so long.
The morning after her eighteenth birthday I opened the paper as a distraction and found myself staring at a photograph of her in the Arts section. A photograph of me, as well, and the other youth orchestra members. My fingers touched the small, colored square in despair: Isabeau in her red satin dress and the birthday jewelry I gave her. Her whole being lit from within as she gazed up at me. I stared at her face, so tender and innocent, and grabbed my phone.
Call her.
No. Give her space.
Fucking call her, she’s upset.
But guilt always stopped me. Did I want to call her for her sake or for mine? And, more cowardly, would talking to her mean that I would have to confess my feelings for a girl who was only just eighteen? I cringe inwardly even now at the thought of telling her.
One of the viola players approaches Isabeau’s group, trying to get closer to a stall but not able to find a way through them. Instead of getting the attention of one of them and asking them if she can pass, she pushes through, knocking Isabeau aside and muttering something at the same time. The smile is wiped from Isabeau’s face and she watches the viola player pay for her purchase and leave, a hurt expression in her eyes.
Isabeau’s group seem to be exchanging annoyed words about the woman as they move off down the road. Suddenly they all laugh. Curious, I draw a little closer and hear the tail end of what my protégé is saying. “…into a dumpster without hitting the rim.”
The cellists and violinists laugh again, and I feel my eyes narrow. She better not be doing what I think she’s doing.
Isabeau speaks again and my suspicions are confirmed. She’s telling viola jokes.
Viola players have been the butt of orchestra jokes for hundreds of years, probably because viola parts have a reputation for being simple, though the instrument itself is no easier than any other to master. All the same, violas are demeaned and viola players have a reputation for being less than intelligent. I’ve heard all the jokes. What is the definition of perfect pitch? Throwing a viola into a dumpster without hitting the rim. How can you tell if a violist is playing out of tune? The bow is moving.
Isabeau’s opening her mouth to tell another joke when I clear my throat behind her. She jumps and turns to me, and the smile dies on her face.
“Miss Laurent, may I speak to you privately?”
Everyone in her group slinks away, stifling nervous laughter. I watch them till they’re out of hearing distance. Then I lean down, put my face close to Isabeau’s and say in a low and seething voice, “That is not how I expect a member of my orchestra and especially not my protégé to comport herself with her fellow musicians. Snide little jokes? If I hear one more unprofessional thing out of your mouth I will pull your underwear down in the street and spank you right here, do you understand?”
Her lips part in shock and she breathes in sharply. “Sorry, sir.”
But I’m not finished. “If you’re having problems with someone in the orchestra you go to your section leader or you come to me. You do not sink to their petty level.”
Swallowing visibly, she manages, “Yes, sir.”
I watch her for a long moment, driving my point home. She doesn’t try to excuse her behavior and I’m glad. Even though the viola player was exceedingly rude to her Isabeau’s not trying to shift the blame for her own bad behavior onto someone else. “All right. You can go back to the others.”
“I’m really sorry, sir,” she whispers again, more emphatically this time. Her face is flushed and tight with remorse and she can’t quite meet my gaze.
In a softer tone of voice, I say, “It’s all right, I believe you. Now off you go.”
“Can I just—walk beside you for a minute?”
I nod, and we start to move down the street. As we walk I keep an eye on her, and there’s something wrong. Her eyes are on the ground, her lips are parted and her breathing’s shallow. I stop and tug her gently into an alcove, out of the view of the others up ahead. She won’t meet my gaze even when I gently lift her chin to mine. “Hey. Sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, her eyes confused.
“You don’t know?”
She nods.
“Is it what I said before? The way I said it?”
She thinks for a moment, then nods. She still hasn’t said anything and she looks dazed and perplexed, and I suddenly realize what’s wrong. After I spank her she becomes like this, pliable and quiet and unable to talk a great deal, but we’re alone then and she’s safe and able to come back to me in her own time. This time she’s dropped into subspace on the street. Shit. I didn’t mean to do that. I just wanted to pull her quickly and sharply back into line.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. You come back when you’re ready, I’m right here.” I watch her, my hand on her shoulder. She stands quietly while people move past us and I know she’s not aware of any of it. She’s only aware of me so I keep myself very still, close to her, letting her know she’s safe.
Isabeau takes a deep breath and blinks several times, finally meeting my eyes. They’re so large and green and vulnerable that my heart catches in my throat. I can only look at her, helpless, her lips close to mine. It’s not just me who has an effect on her. She affects me, too, knowing I’ve made her feel this way.
“Laszlo…” She trails off. Her green eyes are mesmerizing and I can’t tear my gaze away. She raises her chin, tentative, and kisses me. Her lips are soft and full and she presses them against my mouth, and then again. Her tongue flicks my lips and the whole world around me evaporates to nothing. There’s just her body pressed closed to mine, her lips against mine. A bold kiss. Inviting me in. Inviting more. I kiss her like I’ve wanted to kiss her since she was seventeen and I knew I was the worst kind of man for wanting her in that way. It’s still wrong because even though she’s twenty-one now I have too much power over her. And I like that power too fucking much.
She whimpers in my arms as I kiss her harder. I can’t seem to stop and she opens her mouth, needing me. But I have to say something and I make myself pull away, cupping her face between my hands and breathing hard. “Isabeau. I didn’t mean to do what happened just now. I didn’t realize I could do it just like that. I’m sorry.”
She reaches up hesitant fingers to touch my face, that punch-drunk look still in her eyes. “What is this feeling?”
“I put you into subspace.”
She traces the outline of my lips with a forefinger. “Oh, is that what it is? I like it. I feel like I’m floating.”
I capture her fingers in mine. I like it, too. I like it very much an
d that’s why it’s dangerous. She seems to know what I’m thinking and a woozy smile crosses her face. She presses herself closer, her lips just a hair’s breadth from mine. “You like me being in your power. You like it when I slink over your lap and beg you to spank me. You like putting me into that place with just a few sharp words. Don’t you, daddy?”
My breath catches. Daddy. A few years ago if a woman had called me that I would have thought it was cute, but told her that I preferred sir, or master. Master is very pleasing, so close to the maestro I’m called on stage. Get on your knees for your master. Show me I’m your whole world. I would have said that daddy is silly. Pouty. Sugary. I’m not a silly, sugary sort of man. But when Isabeau first called me daddy three years ago it didn’t sound silly. It sounded fucking delicious and caused thumping, pounding arousal to course through my body. I want it from her again. I want it only from her, my sweet little Isabeau who wants to rub herself against me in my lap while she calls me daddy. I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers, her eyes searching mine.
“What’s that, baby?” The words slip from my mouth as if I’m the one who’s been put in a trance. I think maybe I have, by Isabeau and her deep green eyes and her plush kisses. I know only my hands on her waist, her breasts pressing against my chest.
She goes on in that soft tone of voice, pressing kisses to my lips between words. “You pretend you’re so disinterested all the time. So in control of yourself. But you’re not, are you? You try to hide so much from me but I see things in your eyes. I hear them in your voice, because I’m older now. I’ve learned things.”
I can only stare at her, my heart starting to pound. How much does she know? Isabeau’s never talked to me like this before and I don’t know what to do. She’s still close enough that she doesn’t need to speak above a whisper. I notice every little detail about her. The tendrils of hair sticking to her damp neck. The swell of her breasts in her thin shirt. She lets go of me and steps away, her chin raised and her eyes challenging. Focused. She’s come back into herself and I’m the one who’s adrift.
“I adored you when I was eight. I wanted to be yours when I was twelve. I thought about you touching me when I was fourteen. I touched myself thinking about you when I was fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Only ever about you, Laszlo. I kept it to myself until I was eighteen because you’re a good man who couldn’t touch me, would never, when it wasn’t right. I was so very patient.”
Isabeau slinks close to me again and tilts her mouth up to mine as if she’s going to kiss me, but doesn’t quite. “And I’m still waiting. I feel you hard against me as I lay across your lap. When I go back to my room I make myself come, over and over, thinking about you fucking me. You want me, too. You make yourself come thinking about me. Don’t you, daddy?”
She kisses along my jaw until her mouth is very close to my ear. I can only listen to her, paralyzed by her closeness and the things she’s saying. All those years she thought about me in that way. Only ever about you, Laszlo.
Isabeau keeps whispering in my ear. “You’re not a closed book to me anymore. You’re a piece of music I can read as easily as a symphony. I’ve realized that there are two Laszlo Valmarys. The Laszlo Valmary who took a sad little girl off the street and gave her a life of music she’d only ever dreamed of. Kind, clever and patient Laszlo. Generous and sweet Laszlo.
“But there’s another Laszlo Valmary and you try to hide him from me. He’s the Laszlo who told me I was a good girl as I rubbed so sweetly against his lap on the night of my eighteenth birthday. The Laszlo who looks at me like he’s never heard anything so delicious as when I say yes, sir in my best, most obedient little girl voice. The Laszlo who looks like a starving wolf when I ask him to tie me up. I want to get to know this Laszlo Valmary. I want him very much. Did you want me then, too, daddy? Is that why you’re so conflicted, because you wanted me when I was only seventeen?”
I feel myself nod stiffly.
She doesn’t seem shocked by this admission. “I used to make myself come thinking about you taking my virginity. I wanted that so badly. Did you do the same?”
“It was just once.” I hear the defensiveness in my own voice. Once is too many times when she was a teenage girl.
Isabeau puts her hands on my chest and then slides them up around my neck, slinking closer. “Did you make yourself come thinking about me, daddy? What did you imagine?”
“I don’t remember.”
She rubs a forefinger over the bristles on my chin and my eyes close briefly. I can’t do anything, say anything but drink in the sensation of being so close to her. “I hear you, Laszlo. I hear all the things that you try to hide from me because you think it means you’re not a good person because you wanted a seventeen-year-old girl. I can still see that fear in your eyes but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t matter anymore. You never laid a finger on me. You never did one thing that you should feel remorse for. If you still want me, I’m yours.” She presses her lips against my ears and breathes, “And I’ll let you do whatever you want, daddy.”
Isabeau plants a slow, tender kiss on my cheek, achingly sweet and innocent in a way that belies her seductive tone.
Whatever you want, daddy.
She detaches herself from me and saunters back in the direction of the others, as serene as one of Tchaikovsky’s swans. As if she hasn’t just taken all my beliefs that I’ve held dear for so long, snapped them one by one in front of my eyes and thrown them to the ground.
Chapter Nineteen
Isabeau
Now
I walk away, willing my legs not to shake. I can’t believe the things I’ve just said to Laszlo. It was that…place he put me in. I felt vulnerable and powerful at the same time, like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do, because he was there.
Did you want me then, too, daddy? How had I known? I look sightlessly at a young woman cooking noodles amid clouds of fragrant steam, remembering all the odd little things from the last year that I lived with Laszlo. How he pulled away from me physically, denying me his big, generous hugs and kisses goodnight. How he seemed afraid to look too long at me, or tell me I’d done well. His fleeting expression of pain when I asked him to play Vocalise with me. Then, the tight grip of his hands on my hips the night of my eighteenth birthday. The way he kissed me and said good girl.
My eyes graze stacks of colorful silk and carved wooden elephants. I was so preoccupied with his angry rejection that I never wondered why he seemed so conflicted that night. Why he kissed me so hungrily.
I spend the rest of the afternoon browsing the stalls with my fellow musicians and then we all head back to the hotel to rest and freshen up for that evening’s performance. At the concert hall I’m getting out my cello to begin tuning when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It’s an email from Laszlo and the subject is, I lied. I remember.
I frown. He lied? What about? Then I remember our conversation. Did you make yourself come thinking about me? What did you imagine?
I don’t remember.
I open the email with a shaking finger and start to read.
You in that white lace t-shirt you used to wear. Pulling it up and seeing your breasts spring free. Ripping off your underwear. Getting my mouth all over you. Licking your clit and hearing you whimper my name. Spreading your legs open and watching as I penetrated your sweet little cunt and feeling how tight you are. Pulling out and seeing your blood glistening on my cock, and then pushing slowly back in as you clung to me and cried out. Being so, so gentle as I pushed every hard inch of myself into you, taking my time and seeing that you were well fucked your first time. I knew you were a virgin because you never let any man get close to you but me. I don’t think you’re a virgin now and I don’t give a damn, I even prefer it because now I don’t have to hurt you and if some other man had managed to make you happy you wouldn’t be here, would you? Wanting me.
I take a shuddering breath and read his words t
hrough again. And again. Laszlo fantasized in lurid detail about taking my virginity. How did we get it so wrong when we both wanted each other so much?
I turn off my phone and start to tune my cello, playing scales but barely knowing what I’m doing. When the time comes I file out onto the stage and sit with the orchestra, dimly aware of the rumble of the audience in the enormous concert hall as I continue to tune up under the lights. Finally Laszlo walks out onto the stage and the audience applauds. He bows to them and takes his place at the front of the orchestra. The baton is held in his fingers just so, and he gives the first downbeat. We play, all the instruments in harmony with each other. I wait for Laszlo to catch my eye and I mouth, slowly and carefully, Please fuck me, maestro.
He swallows and looks away, his eyes darting over the second violins. Then he comes back to me and pins me with such look of naked lust that it makes my knees clench tightly on my cello. He doesn’t stop the precise movements of his hands but he holds my gaze for several bars, his gaze hard and unrelenting.
Of course no other man has managed to make me happy. How could they, when there’s no other man for me. There’s only Laszlo.
As I pack up my cello after the performance I marvel at how outwardly normal I am. I switch my phone on and find a text from Laszlo from just a few minutes ago.
My room at half past twelve
That’s in an hour’s time. My heart races as I type, Yes, sir
Yes what?
Yes…I’m not sure what
You know what. Call me daddy
I whimper and clutch my phone. Does he really want me to call him that? I think I called him daddy in the street earlier because that’s what he is to me, my sweet, stern man I want to be so very good for.
Yes, daddy
There’s a good girl
I feel my toes curl. I’m not even sure how I get back to the hotel as the next thing I know I’m walking through the lobby on the way to the elevator, pretending to listen to the others talk about that night’s performance. I see Laszlo in his black tuxedo and bowtie just as the elevator doors close. Something dark and lustful flashes in his eyes when he meets my gaze and my stomach swoops in response.
