Dance For Me Savannah

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “You need to be at the studio by ten thirty.” It was an clear-cut, “no questions asked” command.

  “I do?”

  “Let’s just say I need a little more penance before I’m satisfied.”

  “More?”

  “I told you last night it was only round one.”

  “But so soon?”

  “You’ll handle it,” he assured her.

  Savannah closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You know, my love, you’ve changed,” she said.

  “Changed how?”

  “You were so mild-mannered when we met.”

  “And now?”

  “More like Guillaume, but even more than that . . .” She couldn’t put it in words.

  “So which Michael do you prefer?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied.

  “Maybe they’re both still in me, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s just that I need to exercise the nastier one for awhile. After all, it was you that brought out this demon.”

  “I’m not complaining,” she said. “I’m just a little scared.”

  “Because it’s not just a fantasy you toy with anymore, is it?” He was referring directly to Guillaume.

  “No,” she admitted quietly. He could hardly hear her voice.

  “Well, dear, if you’re going to be here by ten thirty, perhaps you should get out of bed.”

  She offered him a hasty answer, and then put down the phone, realizing only when the receiver fell off the nightstand, that the machine was still resting askew on her floor.

  The studio looked bright with the late morning sunshine streaming through the bank of windows across the back of the room. Michael kept the curtains open as he figured out his plan for photographing his subject. There were already over two hundred photographs of the woman he loved in his files, but it was just one perfect one that he wanted this day. His intension was to capture her with the sexual brilliance he’d often seen in her. Perhaps he just needed to let his creative juices flow and allow the perfect picture to appear.

  When he heard the door open, it was nearly ten forty-five. She didn’t wait for him to greet him, but came directly into the studio.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “You gave me very little time,” she reminded him.

  “Enough to shower I see,” he said, noting that her blonde hair was still wet. To his satisfaction there was only a little make-up on her face. For his purposes, he liked the natural look. Just a light blush on her cheeks and the rose on her lips, and nothing at all around her eyes. He loved her eyes when there were made up dark with colored lids, but he loved them now too.

  “I felt like a mess after last night,” she explained. “Are you going to punish me for that?”

  “I just may perpetually punish you because I like it. But I only wanted you here this morning because I didn’t want you to think I was running out on you altogether.”

  “So we are reconciling?”

  “Reconciling? I’m not sure that word’s appropriate, at least considering how I define our relationship.”

  “Maybe it can be a new beginning.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted, but he wasn’t making any commitments. “How about in the corner.” He motioned her to a place in the studio he often used when he wanted a simple sculptured background. The meeting of the two walls had been enhanced by what looked like a columned arch etched into the plaster, rising from floor to ceiling and creating an exquisite line against which he could photograph his subject. “Now, remove your clothes.”

  Wearing just shorts and a bulky sweater, it was easy to do as he asked. It was interesting to her that after all the photographs he’d taken of her, he required more. To accommodate him one more time gave her a familiar body joy she savored; and yet, she’d soon find this episode curiously disturbing.

  Once Savannah was nude, Michael studied her for some minutes. His eyes scrutinized her with such intensity she thought he was peeling her away layer by layer.

  “You know, this is awfully uncomfortable,” she finally spoke.

  “All the times you’ve been in here parading your sexual body parts in front of me, and you’re feeling uncomfortable?”

  “Michael, you know this is different.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re in control.”

  “And so I am.” He smirked. “Turn around,” was the next order and she obeyed. “And now your arms above you against the wall.” She obeyed again, the two lithe limbs rising like tree branches above her, swaying softly as she waited for his next instruction.

  “Part your legs,” he said.

  Accomplishing that, Savannah realized how very vulnerable she now was to her photographer.

  “Now on your toes.” Michael had a clear picture of how he wanted her to look. “And bow your head.” He stood off to one side with his camera, looking through the viewer as she struck the submissive pose. After playing with the shutter for several seconds, he took only one picture, then set the camera aside. Savannah saw from the corner of her eye that he had the wooden paddle in his hand. Moving to her side, he began spanking her bottom with a blazing ferocity.

  “Oh, Michael no!” she cried. She tried to twist away, but he jerked her back in place. He paused only to make certain that she wouldn’t be moving again, his unyielding hands holding her firmly. Starting the spanking again, he applied the paddle with the same ruthless zeal. The spanking stopped only when her rear was a flaming shade of crimson, as though scorched by a hot summer sun. His second photograph of her would be a stunning contrast to the first.

  With that photograph done, Michael moved away from her to the other side of the room. When she tried to relax from the stretched out position, he called back to her. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

  The announcement was stern enough to make her resume the torturous pose. When he finally returned to her side, he’d added a filter to the camera lens, and spent some moments inspecting her carefully.

  “Bend over,” he finally said.

  Savannah was grateful for the reprieve, never realizing how difficult it was to remain frozen with her arms above her head. Her body ached from the effort.

  “Now use your hands to spread your ass cheeks,” he added.

  Savannah hesitated. It was a detestable thought, the rudest thing he’d ever asked of her. When she didn’t immediately obey, he picked up the paddle, which was just an arm’s distance away, and reddened her fading cheeks with a dozen sharp whacks.

  “Oh, gawd no!” she gasped. Tears streamed down her face.

  “Now pull your cheeks apart,” he abruptly ordered, the words ripped from his tongue.

  Although, it was a balancing act to maintain the position, Savannah reached around to her behind, grabbed a handful of hot flesh in each fist and pulled the two cheeks away from each other, leaving a exposed view of her anal cleft, bum hole, pussy and all. This shot Michael captured on film from several angles, even one in profile where he could get a view of the pained grimace on her face.

  “That should do it,” he finally announced. Savannah took the comment as permission to rise.

  The humbled submissive then waited in silence, as if glued to the corner. What she hoped for was some gentle gesture of affection, but what she got was something else altogether.

  “This should keep me busy this afternoon,” Michael finally announced.

  “Busy?”

  “Developing,” he explained.

  “I was hoping we might spend the day together,” she said. A winsome look in her eyes pleaded with him to consider her suggestion.

  “Sorry, love, I don’t have time.” He had only time enough to give her a tender peck on her cheek. “I’ve got a pile of work to do, and if I’m going to see you tonight I need to get these pictures developed.”

  “Why these?” she finally asked, her curiosity eating away at her.

  “They’re for my bedroom. Blowups.” He smiled. “How does it feel to be rendered life-size?”


  “You’re doing that?” Her eyes widened, a montage of mixed expressions on her face: horror, thrill and certainly confusion.

  “It’s been the thought in my head since you first walked into my studio. Something submissive and blatant; the same way you announce yourself to the world.”

  “The world being your bedroom?”

  “If I could get away with it, I’d hang them in here.” He sounded deviously wicked making the threat.

  Savannah knew he was telling the truth, but thankful that he wouldn’t go ahead with the idea. It was hard to know if she should feel flattered or abused for her willingness to accept this. Was it punishment for past crimes? Admiration? A form of torture? All three states were likely, given that Michael Renz had become as mysterious to her as she knew she’d been to him. Did she really know him? They lived together in a strange world of fantasy and sex where few play so fervently. Though Savannah was sure she didn’t understand her lover, she was also sure there was an abiding love for him that was rare among loves she’d known.

  “I’ll see you tonight, your loft,” he finally said. “And you won’t even have to get naked.”

  “Tonight, my loft, for what?”

  He smiled. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and find out.”

  It was nearly eleven before Michael arrived with a bottle of wine in hand. Savannah had been dressed for him since seven, restless when he didn’t appear by eight, angry at nine o’clock, and ready to put on flannel pajamas when he didn’t show at ten. It hadn’t even occurred to her to worry that some mishap had befallen him. She knew he was manipulating her, going for control. When he knocked at the door at five minutes to eleven, she tried to gain a degree of control herself, letting him wait.

  “Savannah,” she heard his voice.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, sounding smug as she peeked into the hall.

  “Who did you expect?”

  “Other lovers,” she retorted. Angry as she was, she stood back and let him pass. His step was jaunty and so was the expression on his lips, something akin to amusement. She imagined that any moment he’d pucker up and whistle some jolly tune.

  “You thought I wasn’t coming?” he asked, strolling about the loft. Since he’d never been there, he was taking in the sights one by one: the efficiency kitchen, for a woman who rarely cooked; the glass table with an artful spray of blush colored roses in the center, for a woman who enjoyed the romance of dinner for two; and the dark cozy corner with the sofa and the lounging bed, for a woman who fancied herself the center of any man’s attention. He stopped for moment and contemplated that corner, imagining Savannah bathed in rich perfume lying there on her brocade divan like Cleopatra holding court.

  Moving on, he could see behind a screen to her winter bed. At the foot of it a large, framed mirror. It might have been suitable for a bordello. Spotting the French doors that led to the conservatory, he would have strolled out there on a summer night, but now that place of summer luxury was closed for the season. The entire loft was a perfect boudoir for a woman of Savannah’s proclivities. “I should have been taking photographs of you here,” he said turning around.

  “I suppose you still could,” she said, coolly.

  “You think I’m late, don’t you?”

  “Late? You didn’t tell me when you’d be here. But I did expect you before now.”

  A casual nod was his only reply. But sauntering back to her, his arms went around her waist. She could feel the wine bottle in his hand resting against her ass, reminding her of the pain she suffered that afternoon.

  “It’s good for submissives to agonize at little, since they’re so ephemeral with their charms.”

  “You think I’m flighty?”

  “As inconstant as a spring breeze. You’re always going to hold a little piece of you aside and not let me have it. But what I do have, I intend to control.”

  “Like you did this afternoon?”

  “Exactly like this afternoon.”

  “And you’re really going to hang those photographs in your bedroom?”

  “I certainly am.” His eyes lit up, and he drew away from her. Setting the wine down on the table, he pulled some prints from his jacket pocket. “Come see.” Laying them on the table, Michael reached to the wall to turn up the light, and a Technicolor rendition of her ass greeted her eyes. The raw red appeared against the white of her skin that remained untouched by the paddle. And in the black and white shot of her ass where she opened her cheeks for him, there was a surrealistic feel to the awkwardly posed portrayal of her private places. Lusty and overt, she was shamelessly baiting her audience for a penetration of her nether regions.

  “I was thinking of submitting these to an erotic arts festival,” Michael casually remarked.

  “You wouldn’t!” Savannah gasped.

  “Oh, but I would, and I will,” he said, taking her in his arms again. “You can’t see your face, darling, and these have such submissive appeal.”

  “You’d advertise that you do this kind of work?”

  “It’s art.”

  She was put out, practically pouting, but then Michael fondled her ass, bringing back reminders of the afternoon when she’d been dismissed without even the tiniest sexual moment to compensate her for her trouble. He felt her rear cleft again, searching for the bumhole he’d violated once before. It was likely he’d do it again before the night was over.

  “You want it, don’t you?” he asked.

  “I want you,” she said, in spite of the dozen put out angry things she might have said. Groin pressed to groin, she could feel his cock rising. With two fingers at her rear door, she was thinking only of how he’d move inside her. They swayed against each other, hips locked, performing a sultry dance that took them to her bed. Their clothes piece by piece were cast to the hardwood floor.

  “So you like to watch,” he said. Michael noted how the mirror swayed with the subtle breeze their bodies created.

  “I’d like to see your cock in me, if that’s what you mean.” It had been some time since she’d had a lover to view with her in her brothel mirror.

  To that end, Michael had her bent over on hands and knees. Squeezing her cheeks he brought back the red he’d seen there that afternoon. Fondling the opening more still, he poured lotion from a bottle he’d brought with him to ease the entry. He planned to stay in her rear a long time, much longer than the first time. He wanted her opened wide to accommodate him, submissively relenting all that she was, even that little piece of herself that she held back. He wanted her orgasmic before he came himself. He wanted this breach of her dark place to show his power to have her, sending a message to her reluctant brains cells that this was the way they should be together.

  Savannah let the invasion take place without protest this time. All the anger now forgotten there was just the physical need in her that needed to be fulfilled. That great need, having mounted steadily since he came through her door, was at the perfect orgasmic edge. She wouldn’t fight him. Accepting his vision of their evening, she did as he commanded and let his erection ease inside her dark channel. Such visions! They seemed to swim around her in bright colors. The invasion was as brisk as before, but desiring it this time, she cried for him to move in her faster.

  Michael was in heaven. He pleasured in her swinging breasts, in the cheeks of her ass as he reddened them with slaps and squeezes, and in her clitoris when he pinched it gently between his thumb and index fingers. All Savannah could do was hold on, claw the sheets anxiously with her fists, pound them when it seemed too much to take, and then when she wanted more, ease herself back into his warm lush groin to gather all the energy that he poured out on her.

  The slow frenetic build-up ended with Michael’s explosion first, just as he wanted it to be. That way he could enjoy the outcome of her ending much more. With him still inside her, she bucked, jerked hard, and rode the fingers he inserted in her vagina as if they were an invading cock.

  When their eyes finally focused a
gain, the two were an exhausted heap of flesh gazing up at their reflection. Behind her Michael held her close, one hand caressing her mound. He suspected that she was good for another orgasm or two before the night was over. And he expected to be there all night and the next day. She wouldn’t be slipping through his fingers until he had the commitment from her he desired.

  In the wee hours of the day, the pigeons outside the loft were beginning to fly in and out. The songbirds Savannah fed in winter flit noisily about. Savannah and Michael’s warm bodies moved against each other unconsciously like lazy cats, a little purr of satisfaction now and then. About five they awakened simultaneously, their bodies so in tune with each other it was hard for them not to sense the other moving, the heartbeats or the cries from their sexual parts when they needed more sex. They made love twice more before dawn, and then they were ready to talk. At least Michael was ready to speak.

  “So, I can expect your willing surrender?” he declared.

  “You know me too well now, Michael,” she replied, drawing up on one arm. Looking down on him in the pale light, she ran her hand along his chest.

  “What is that suppose to mean?” He brushed back a stray lock of blonde hair from her face.

  “That I have no choice but surrender,” she answered in a dreamy voice. She leaned down and kissed him. She really only wanted to sleep at that hour, so she returned to the sensuous comfort of his arms. “Either that or I skip town,” she added absently.

  “Afraid of it, aren’t you?” He grinned.

  “Of course I am. I’ve been afraid of everything I’ve done. But I’ve done it, haven’t I?”

  “With a little coercion,” he said.

  She opened her eyes so that she could see his face. There was still one light burning in the loft, enough for them to see eyes and reflections and body parts looking glorious in their glimmering state of satiation. His eyes blinked open to reveal the darkness ever apparent at this hour of the day. Michael’s dark soul never seemed so obvious as it did now, that element that had been born in the erotic substance of her vivid sexual imagination. That was the power she had over him: the power to inspire. She’d given him everything else.