by J. A. Bailey
The Dancer and the Dom
J.A. Bailey
Copyright 2013 ©J. A. Bailey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Prologue
Marguerite
The Royal Scottish Ballet. Paquita. The final moments. Paquita and Lucien are to wed. The harps tinkle and that is my cue.
As I make my entrance across the stage, I glance across at my Master in the wings and a sadness I almost cannot bear crosses my heart, for at the end of this performance I will be free. A dancer since I was six, a slave since I was twenty nine and a retiree at thirty four. Retired as a dancer and retired from Matthieu.
I daren’t change my expression in front of the audience but he locks his eyes dead onto mine and a glow fills me. I can see he is pleased, though he rarely smiles and his pleasure fills me with pride. The vibrator strapped to me underneath my long gypsy skirt suddenly bursts into life as I throw myself into the most technical section of the dance and just for an instance, I am overwhelmed with fear that I will stumble or... compromise myself in front of him and the audience. Somehow I manage to stay composed, even as I want to buck against it. The pulse between my thighs grows stronger and my sex is throbbing, twitching and crying with need. There is no escape, I cannot run off, I cannot rush the dance. There is nothing I can do except complete the routine. I am almost panting with desire, reaching the furthest shreds of my self-control when the vibrator stops dead. The sense of loss is incredible and I manage, Lord knows how, to retain a sense of elegance and limit my shock to pursed lips and a furrowed brow.
Suddenly it bursts into life with a vengeance. I whirl through the final steps, a fire burning in my pussy and with a final gasp I explode. Through long training in restraint, I manage to resist the compulsion to clench my hands, I ride out the coiling tension and release in my groin but my breath? No. I pant like an animal. Or like a dancer coming to the finale of a complex routine. The dance is complete and I turn my face to the audience with tears of gaudy happiness streaking down my heavily made up face. Oh my Master...
I perform my curtsies, smile broadly, wave at the cheering crowds, collect my bouquets from well-wishers who are here for me, for the final performance of the famed prima dancer, Marguerite Dusolier—and dash off stage as quickly as is decent into the arms of my Master, into a tight embrace.
“So this is it, Marguerite. You are free.”
I look up at him and my tears start free flowing, my lip trembling. “Can I not stay? I can still be your slave while I teach...”
He shushes me, tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, fingertips lingering on my neck. “You have been such a good girl. It hurts me to let you go now. But I cannot be the master you deserve. Not without retiring myself. You deserve a master who can be as devoted to you as you were to me.”
I sniffle and give a sad little giggle. “I don't think I would still be a good girl otherwise.”
He smiles ruefully, those incredible hazel eyes staring deep into mine. “And that would not do.”
The memories flood back. The beatings. The bindings. Sharing me with the wealthy patrons of the ballet. The night when I serviced five patrons in one night. Three at once. The memory makes my sex flutter. I sigh and pause.
“It would make no difference if I were to beg?”
His smile falters and he shakes his head. “No, Marguerite. It may seem cruel now but you will come to understand.”
I sigh. I already understand. I nod and he brushes the tears from my painted cheeks before kissing my forehead.
“Farewell, little slave.”
***
Emmeline took a deep breath and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She just didn’t know what was up with her today. Maybe it had been the latest row with her flatmate this morning about Emmeline’s refusal to restock the milk despite Emmeline's strict gluten and lactose free diet. Maybe it was just that it was a really hot day and the studio, windowless, surrounded by mirrors and filled with forty three other sweaty dancers, was sweltering. Maybe it was the fact that this was the seventeenth damn rehearsal for Giselle and there were at least another twenty two to look forward to. Perhaps it was even that the tinkling piano was just out of tune enough to grate on her ears.
For whatever reason, today she was just not getting into the flow of her dance.
Madame Dusolier prowled along the balcony, looking down at the dancers over half-moon glasses and crossed arms. Her instructions resounded across the room, her shrill tones at odds with Giles's piano accompaniment. “Plie! Sissonne ferme et plie! Un, deux, trois—”
In perfect formation, forty four perfectly tight, muscular female legs pointed to the ceiling in a penchee. A heartbeat later the room thudded as one as each dancer bounced from penchee to plie to pas-de-bourrée.
Emmeline took a deep breath and worked through the motions but she knew that there was none of her customary emphasis or feeling in her steps. She thought about Madame Dusolier and the demands she placed on her dancers; thought about the flecks of sweat on the polished floor that were easily visible within the first fifteen minutes of practice; thought about the mosaic of evaporated marks and smears that would be within touching distance of their noses as they did their floor stretches at the end of rehearsal. Maybe her parents were right. Twenty-three years old and still not lead dancer in the Royal Scottish Ballet. Hell, not even in the main corps of the Ballet but in the stock retainers. Her father’s “helpful” suggestion that perhaps she consider taking up night classes “as a back-up plan, perhaps in bookmaking”—that had stung. Perhaps she really wasn’t good enough.
“Dancer thirty-three! What are you doing flailing like that?”
Shit. She looked up at Madame Dusolier’s outraged eyes and nodded. She winced inwardly, willing herself to get a grip.
Pick yourself up girl, you need to stay in this production.
It was then that she saw him.
Matthieu Bartoli. The most prestigious director ever to grace the company. Stood to the left of Madame Dusolier and staring at Emmeline right as her embarrassment was at its peak. Emmeline felt her stomach flip several times before sinking to her knees like a cartoon balloon deflating.
Come on girl!
She picked herself up and threw herself back into the dance. She leapt higher, flicked toes with more emphasis—and yet she just felt more and more self-doubt. Was she overcompensating now?
"Droit et sissonne et..."
Was he still watching her?
She looked across as discreetly as she could and gulped as she spotted him. He was evidently engrossed with something on his phone now but goodness, he was a handsome devil. Tousled salt and pepper curls framed cheekbones that could slice diamonds.
"Et droit—"
A step to the right and she snuck another peek. He was tall and slender, but muscular—the typical dancer’s body shape. Somewhere in his late thirties or early forties, he wore expensive looking glasses but then again, he wore expensive looking clothes. Elegant and tasteful, she thought. A cross between a Monaco millionaire and a university lecturer.
Emmeline caught herself and gently shook her head. It really had been too long since she had been with a man and it was evidently showing. She was behaving like a teenage girl.
“Dancer thirty-three, remain behind after practice.”
&nb
sp; Time held still for a blink before she again nodded her acknowledgement. She could sense the gaze of every other dancer upon her. Just how much trouble was she in? If I'm lucky, I'll only be fired from this production and not... Not the entire company....
Nerves gave way to sheer terror and her body responded accordingly. She danced like a dervish. If she were to leave the company today, it would be after she had danced and enjoyed every step and felt the music in her soul. Her muscles could tear, her ankles could snap and there was a fair chance that some of her toes already had. If everything broke, well, she could study to be a bookkeeper. No ankles needed for that, after all. No need for knees that bend without creaking or for pretty feet. Right now, she just needed to dance and let all the emotion drain through her.
Four hours later, practice was over.
The piano came to an end, limbs were stretched and water bottles were emptied into mouths and over faces. Emmeline laid her foot onto the bar and leaned into the stretch, felt her breasts press into her thigh. She hated that she was the only dancer who needed a sports bra. Sarah, one of Emmeline's oldest dancing friends, had always laughed that if she had a rack like Emmeline's, she would be like a tomcat, out on the town every night to get laid. Sarah didn't have to leap about with them on her chest, Emmeline noted wryly.
She felt the pull of the stretch and the relief that coursed through her thighs but still there was the residual tension in her limbs like tangled elastic bands twisted into her muscles. That and the pulsating knot of nerves in her stomach. Nausea curled around her abdomen as the memory of her call back returned. Emmeline’s pulse hammered as she watched the other dancers file out of the room, glancing back at her with barely concealed curiosity. All too suddenly, the studio was empty. Even Madame Dusolier had gone. The door clattered shut and Emmeline was alone with Bartoli.
He stood, disinterested, polishing his glasses with precise, rhythmic swipes before putting them back on, pushing them up his nose and looking over the balcony at her.
Matthieu Bartoli. Matthieu Bartoli is looking down at me.
He looked at her much as a professor might observe a particularly interesting butterfly pinned to a display cabinet. She took a step from one foot to the other. Then to the other. He still did not speak, holding his chin between finger and thumb and began walking the length of the balcony, appraising her. Moments passed. Already very nervous, her knees started to tremble and she wondered whether this silent treatment was some sort of test.
“M-Monsieur Bartoli, it is a real—”
“Speak when spoken to.”
Curt and clipped and no possibility of misinterpretation. She shut up and looked at the floor, aware of his continuing pacing in her peripheral vision.
“Your performance today. You have some natural ability. You are also—” he rolled each syllable in his mouth like a boiled sweet “—undisciplined.”
Her eyes, still looking towards the floor, flashed wide. That was surely a provocation and she should absolutely not allow herself to respond. She couldn’t help but bristle though. How on earth could eight hours a day, five days a week, fifty weeks a year be considered undisciplined?
“You imagine that ballet is any less a source of expression than speech. You danced this morning with an attitude that was painful to watch. You ended today with much more promise. A professional would not have found herself in such a position, offering such inconsistencies to the audience.”
Emmeline continued to look at the floor, face heated with shame. She knew she had been distracted but she did not think it could have been that noticeable. He continued to pace. She bit her lip as her eyes welled up.
“Do you imagine that if you don’t apply yourself, if you just turn up and approximate the moves, that somehow your dancing ability will magically be of the standards required in this company?”.
“No, sir,” she whispered, voice shaky.
He stopped pacing and turned on his heels, with all the grace and elegance of the retired prima dancer, a look of smug triumph on his face. “We are going to need to apply some training methodology to you. Some additional training that I am not so certain that would be suitable for the other dancers. And yet. And yet I have a feeling, an instinct, that you have the necessary potential. You have a natural grace and a reverence, a submission to the music. These can be developed.”
He descended the stairs by Giles's piano, hands held behind his back and stepped with deliberation towards her, then behind her. She continued to look towards the floor and gulped. A whiff of bergamot and mandarin aftershave swept across her. She heard a click behind her and she looked up immediately to the mirrored walls. Bartoli held a switchblade. Why on God’s Earth has he got a knife? Before Emmeline had chance to ask the question, he lifted the shoulder band of her leotard and slid the blade through the material with a snap.
“What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.
Slap
She cried out as his free hand swatted her thigh, leaving a scarlet palm print on her pale skin.
He took her other shoulder band and slit the material. “Do not move.”
Stiff as a bolt, she stood to attention. He peeled the top of her leotard down to her midriff, a wry smile crossing his face as he saw the sports bra underneath and her breasts crushed against her chest. Holding the handle of the blade to her skin, Bartoli drew the blade down the fabric of the leotard, the blade humming down the length of the material, until he had cut the fabric from its armpit down to hip. He repeated on her left side and the leotard peeled away from her sweaty skin to the ground. He withdrew the blade and with another click folded it away. Bowing down, he collected the shredded leotard and inhaled the scented crotch deeply, never taking his eyes from her. The embarrassment was overwhelming and she looked away, flushing scarlet.
“Remove the bra.”
With trembling hands she slowly pulled it over her chest, tugging at it firmly with her thumbs as it clung to her skin before she dropped it to the floor, her breasts gently swaying. Her brunette chignon, impeccable throughout the dance, now fell half up and half down in dishevelled locks of wet loose hair. Naked except for her ballet shoes, she instinctively hugged her arms to herself, cupping her full breasts with her folded arms.
“No!” he snapped, pulling her arms away roughly. “You will not hide yourself.”
Taking a step towards her, he brought one hand to the base of her spine and brought the other to her pussy and cupped it, his middle finger probing beneath her folds before gently pressing into her. She murmured with pleasure despite herself, a thrill shooting up her spine like a lightning bolt. Why on Earth was she letting him do this? Even if she did think he was hot, she had never let anyone touch her until at least the fourth date.
He leaned in to her, his lips brushing her hair. “What will it be, little one? You can leave the company if you are only going to run through the motions when you feel like it. Or, should you be obedient, I may accept you as my slave and allow you to call me Master and I shall reforge you as a dancer truly worthy to be part of this company.”
Emmeline stood agog, eyes wide, sure that she couldn’t possibly have heard what she did. He pressed his finger deeply into her, penetrating her and she felt her blood rush to her pussy. Why was she finding this degrading treatment so exciting?
"Call you Master? You mean—" she swallowed, too embarrassed to say precisely what she intended.
"Do I mean what? I do not believe I was unclear."
"Like sex dungeons and gimp masks and that weird shit? I'm not into that!" she blurted the words out, cheeks heating furiously. Panic bubbled within her that Bartoli would be angry at her. As if he would be into that weird stuff or even know about it! But her pussy flushed with warmth and wetness.
Bartoli smirked but did not move. "My slaves would be expected to do whatever I ask to please me. I might suggest judging by your reaction that perhaps you are not such a good judge of what you are and are not 'into'."
As though waiting for i
ts cue, her cunt quivered around his finger and she moaned quietly.
"What if I... If I can't do it? If I'm no good at it...?" Why am I even considering this?
"A good slave trusts in her master." He looked into her eyes, his hazel gaze bearing down upon her.
"You will be my slave," he stated.
His finger pressed more deeply into her and she gasped. It was no good. She was lost. I've fallen down the rabbit hole...
“Ye-yes.”
He nodded. “I own this cunt. I will do with you as I please. I do not care if you are embarrassed or uncomfortable. This is how things will be from here on out, do you understand?”
The heel of his palm pressed into her clit and she gasped. “Yes.”
“Yes, Master.” He pressed her nub harder to the point of pain and she squirmed.
“Yes. Master!”
Bartoli studied her for a moment as he watched her pained expression before he nodded and withdrew his hand, wandering towards the piano whilst licking his fingers. She inhaled sharply as the blood and sensation returned to her mound. What had she let herself in for?
With an ease and strength only a retired dancer could muster, he picked up Gile’s stool with one hand and carried it into the centre of the studio. He sat down, legs wide and looked her dead in the eyes.
“Place yourself over my knee now.”
Slowly she walked over, sure that at some point that she would wake up or find that this had been some elaborate hoax.
She almost hoped not.
She had read about BDSM in magazines and had been mildly amused by the idea of people turned on by pain. She felt pretty certain that pain was definitely not sexy and something to avoid at all costs but it was impossible to deny that her pussy had very different ideas right now, pulsing languorously, moisture gathering between her legs. The adrenaline was coursing through her. She felt scared, that was true, but she felt invigorated, alive. She approached him slowly and started to lean over him, savouring another waft of the mingled scent of his aftershave and his skin that drifted upwards from him.
