by Joey W. Hill
Des drew a dark rectangular object from his back pocket. A dramatic snap of his wrist revealed and released the blade of the knife, and he swept it across Missive’s body. In the same fluid movement, he threw the knife down so it plunged quivering in a rise in the earth, a firmly anchored piece of layered foam board. Des caught her curled body as it unraveled into his arms.
Billie had clutched her at the waist at the same moment Julie had increased her grip on him. Des swayed with the flute piece, turned, turned again, a slow pivot on the ball of one foot. He removed the smaller lengths of ropes from her eyes, around her wrists, casting them away. A new length of rope shook out from his hand on the turn, a silver metallic nylon that reflected the moonlight.
“Now from a static form to ichinawa,” Myers murmured. He’d drawn closer for a better view. Since he was her other rigger performer, Julie wasn’t surprised to see him. At her quizzical look, he explained in a whisper. “It means one rope. For Des, it’s kind of a foreplay before he moves into more demanding disciplines.”
Des had Missive on her feet but was holding her with one arm. He spun her away from him and the rope was looped on her wrist. He used that hold and his other hand to spin her back to him, the rope now wrapped around her body, holding her elbows to her sides. Then back out again. He turned and twisted with her, bringing one arm over her head and pulling it back so her hand brushed her shoulder blade, elbow pointed up.
Keeping their movements like two dancers, he turned her and brought her to her knees, her head and back in a convex shape, a position that showed her surrender and his strength. Then he had her down in a turtle-like pose, the rope coming through her legs as he tied it to both ankles and plucked on the line, obviously to stimulate her between the legs. He’d looped the rope over the back of her neck, so when she quivered and shuddered, it emphasized how she was unable to lift her head or move out of the compact position.
Des knelt over her, slid an arm under her waist and then flipped her, loosening the rope in several graceful movements and drawing them both back to their feet. Missive was a bending willow in the circle of his arms.
Another rope was lowered. Des picked her up, did that slow turning dance again to bring them to it. As he put her feet on the ground, he attached Missive’s bound wrists to the hook at the end of the rope.
“Now the semenawa,” Myers whispered to her. “Torture rope, mixed in with other styles. He’s like watching a sidewalk painter with no formal training, but endless raw talent. You never know what he’s going to do or combine, but it’s always a work of art.”
Strings had joined the woodwinds, interjecting a note of danger, like a flight through the woods. Des had Missive netted in a matter of breathless moments, taking her off her feet and then tying ankles to thighs, bending her body back in a far more extreme curve than he’d done with Julie. He’d turned Missive into a pale crescent, straining from all the emotions gripping her. The audience could hear her gasps, sounds that revealed both her excitement and the stress the torturous position was putting on her body. At this angle and this close, Julie could see her reaction glistening on her thighs, and Des rewarded it by bending and pressing his lips reverently over one damp streak.
The moon above was the same crescent, as if he’d put her in that position to honor its light. He tied Missive’s hands in a marionette’s supplicating pose, reaching up to the moon, but as he continued to craft and shape her, she became a fairy dancing in air, contorting in a way only a fairy could. Des drew a pair of wings from the side stage and added those to the knots of rope beneath her shoulder blades. The wings looked like a moth’s, a pale silver green color.
Once he had them on her, a discreet and deft movement of his hand made it appear as if flame had leapt from his palm, rather than the lighter he had concealed there. He set the tips on fire and backed up, sending her spinning so the flame fanned out, eating through the paper that formed the wings. A blink before the fire would have gotten too close, he whipped them off of her and doused it.
Some of those in the audience began to applaud, but Julie noted they were quickly shushed by those around them who’d remembered the rules. While she hoped the firm admonishment hadn’t alienated new patrons, she understood it now better than she ever had before. No distractions could be permitted between a Dom and sub, not even for adulation.
When Missive stopped spinning, she was moaning, incoherent pleas. The theater was so still, Julie was certain even the back rows could hear. Des raised a finger and the music stopped. One second, two seconds. He did that deliberate circling of Missive, his gaze taking in everything about her state, and her eyes followed him as if she would do anything he asked her. When he reached her legs, he settled his fingers on her cunt, and lightly stroked.
Once, twice…perhaps a half dozen times, and then she began to come, her cries and the jerking in her bonds the only sounds in the theater. Julie couldn’t look away, caught in something she couldn’t explain. It was both pain and arousal, fear and longing. Then Des’s gaze lifted and locked with hers.
Need replaced everything else. A need for him to be telling her the truth when he said he wanted to be with her. If he’d told her to come to him right then, she might have. She might have knelt on stage, laid her head on his leg and stayed that way. It didn’t make sense. What she was seeing should cause her to retreat, should have her doubting his intentions even more. But what she saw in his eyes was a different message.
This is what I love to do. And I want to do it with you, in a way I won’t do it with anyone else. Was she crazy for translating all that out of one look? She just didn’t know. She didn’t know what it would take to make her fully believe him, but she knew she wanted to do so, with every aching, pounding, throbbing inch of her body and soul.
Des’s attention returned to Missive as he made sure he gave her a full climax, wresting another cry from her lips as he slid several fingers inside her and removed them to paint her response on her lips. He lifted a hand and the music started again.
After he pushed her back into a slow spin, he retrieved his knife. With the same sweeping movement as before he cut the line, caught her in his arms once more. He rocked her, brought her to the ground, stretched over her as if he might take her then and there, except he still wore the dark trousers. Her legs wrapped around his hips, her arms splayed out on either side of her in complete surrender.
Rising on his knees, he held her that way as he rose to his feet, the muscles in arms and back rippling though he did it without any other obvious effort. He rocked her again, spun and brought them back down to the ground by him dropping to one knee and cradling her head so it didn’t hit the stage. This time he bent and buried his head in her bosom, a supplication. She wrapped her arms around him, over his head, her lips brushing his crown. Then they rolled and he was back in control. He came to his feet with her still wrapped around him. Taking them on a gliding waltz back through the forest, he returned to the tree.
Des rebound Missive in the roots, a different pose this time, not quite as tight a fetal curl. He left one slim leg and delicate foot dangling. When he was done, he sank to one knee by it and pressed his lips to the arch, holding that pose as the curtain closed.
The audience exploded in applause. At the calls of bravo, Julie knew Madison would be feeling what Julie had promised—and hoped—she’d experience.
“I think that was all for you and your show, baby girl,” Billie said. “He does performance-worthy sessions, but I’ve never seen him put that much pizazz into it before. Holy God, I wish he’d do it more often.”
The audience seemed to agree, because they were still applauding, as if they wanted a callback right now. Julie experienced an adrenaline surge that was a mix of nerves and ebullience, reflecting her muddle of feelings about all of it.
“Julie.” Harris barked through the radio, disrupting that. “We’ve got a problem. The act we have scheduled right after intermission is going to have to move to the end.”
; “What? Why?”
“Come on back to dressing room three. I’ll explain there.”
“Okay. Crap.” She cut the mic then pressed it again. She trusted Harris’s judgment like her own, and they had fifteen minutes to do damage control, which superseded her need for explanation. “Forget that. I’ll see if Shale and Troy can go on right after intermission and tell everyone else we’re moving up one scene for the second act.”
“Got it. And I’ll piss off the crew by making them adjust everything mid-show.” There was laughter in Harris’s voice, because humor was the best defense against hysteria.
Julie clicked off. “Billie, can you hold the fort here?”
“Do what you got to do, honey-chile. Though tell Harris it’s been my experience boys will forgive anything for a good blowjob. Girls too, though sometimes chocolate works.”
“He and I may be on our knees for every one of them by the end of the night,” Julie muttered, dashing away. She ignored Billie’s bark of raucous laughter.
After a panic attack she concealed so masterfully she was sure she gave herself an instant ulcer, she and Harris had everyone on the same page and Shale and Troy cued up to start right after intermission.
Madison had invited some of the local newspaper and blogger critics to this opening, sending them free tickets. While Julie didn’t know if they’d accepted, and amateur theater was usually given some latitude, not expected to be up to the standards of a professional production, that wasn’t the bar she set for herself. She wanted Wonder’s opening performance to blow those critics away.
Master Tony and his sub Charlotte, the couple performing the scene they’d had to move to the end, were doing a combination of role play, liquid nitrogen, knives and fire. While it might not have the same tone as the scene they’d intended to wind up the show, it would end the event with an exciting flair that would dovetail well into the post-event reception.
She hadn’t been in the wings to congratulate Des after his performance, which gave her a twinge of guilt, but a quick check with Billie said he’d been involved in aftercare for Missive. After that, he’d gone to help Tony and Charlotte. Apparently, Charlotte had epilepsy and, though she hadn’t seemed nervous during rehearsals, being faced with the reality of an audience had brought on an attack of nerves. Which had led to her worrying about having a seizure on stage, which had then turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy, though the seizure had happened backstage instead of on it, thankfully.
Charlotte had assured Harris that she’d be recovered enough to do the performance shortly. Tony firmly indicated she would need an hour of recuperation. Des had seconded that opinion once he arrived at the dressing room.
Julie learned all that through Billie, since Des had pitched in to help the crew with the set rearrangement. She caught only brief glances of him, still in the dark trousers and no shirt. A welcome distraction she couldn’t indulge, because the change had all of them scrambling.
As the curtain opened after intermission and the performance resumed, she couldn’t have been prouder of everyone. The cast and crew managed the change with only a handful of minor glitches. While she didn’t disagree with Billie’s assessment of what would best reward them, she figured she could offer copious amounts of alcohol in lieu of a marathon of oral sex. And she’d personally tell Harris’s Mistresses he deserved the most explosive orgasm of his life…after he had a good night’s sleep.
When it was time for the final scene of the second act, no major disasters had occurred. She refused to let herself relax yet, though. Not until it was all over.
“I am so, so sorry.” Charlotte slid up next to her. While shorter than Julie, Charlotte was much heavier, carrying about sixty extra pounds. But she carried those pounds with an air of Mother Earth sensuality that went well with her long golden hair and brilliant green eyes. Eyes that were filled with chagrin. Julie linked arms with her.
“Nothing at all to be sorry about, Char. These things happen. You’ve given the crew a chance to feel so proud of themselves they’ll be puffed up like roosters at the after party. Are you sure you’re okay?” Julie gave her a critical look. She looked a little pale and drained. “Because if you and Tony have to pull out, it’s okay. Your health is way more important than this.”
“No. It wasn’t a bad one. I really think I could have gone on sooner, but Tony wouldn’t budge on that.” Her cheeks flushed. “He doesn’t usually go all Master-like on me in our day-to-day life, but he did this time. I was too weak to jump him for being overbearing.”
“Well, he loves you.”
“Yes, he does.” Charlotte dimpled.
“Silly woman in love. There he is, out there waiting for you.” As the cue for the final act came, Julie nudged Charlotte forward. She was glad to see the woman move onto the stage with no apparent nervousness, dressed in nothing but a burlap smock she would soon be shedding.
The first time Charlotte had stripped for a run through, she’d had no self-consciousness at all. Julie had remarked on it that day to her, how she admired a woman with no self-consciousness about her size. While Julie immediately worried she might have offended Charlotte with the implication of her weight, Charlotte had offered her friendly reassurance to the contrary.
“I wasn’t always that way. I was focused on being model thin, not on understanding why I was mistreating my body, making it harder for it to take care of me. I’ve been unable to lose weight most of my life. Yet since I became part of the lifestyle and collared by Tony, I’ve lost twenty-five pounds. I hope to lose about fifty more. I’ll still be heavier than magazines think I should be, but my lab numbers are going down and my doctor couldn’t be happier. Tony showed me that I don't need to lose weight to be lovely. I want to be healthy, not thin.”
The woman had smiled, showing even, white teeth and generous, moist lips glossed with a salmon-colored lipstick that complemented her skin tone. Whenever she came to the theater, she wore lovely, well-accessorized outfits that reflected her positive self-image.
“For the first time in my life, I don't care about being the size of a pencil. I just want to be in good health so I can enjoy my life to the fullest. You’ll find a lot of that in the BDSM world. Fat, thin, tall, short, big dick, small dick, old, young, it doesn’t matter. It’s about the give and take, seeing the soul within. Which to my way of thinking is what every relationship should be, vanilla or kinky. Maybe I’m biased, but BDSM seems more open to that idea. At least where and how we enjoy it.”
Returning to the present, Julie watched Charlotte’s Master crook an imperious finger at her. Tarps were spread out on stage, and a draped table held a vat of misting liquid nitrogen, along with a line-up of knives and fire wands. The music was a dramatic piece that evoked witches dancing around a cauldron. The flickering light against the brick painted scenery suggested a dungeon lit by braziers.
Tony was dressed as an Inquisitor in dark brown robes. The fifty-something nuclear plant engineer with a handsome head of silver hair and a goatee was one of their few cast members with theater experience, having played Arthur in a Raleigh area production of Camelot, and Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha. His dramatic abilities showed now. “Strip, witch,” he commanded in a booming voice that vibrated through the audience.
Charlotte unlaced the neckline of the smock and let it drop. While Tony had more theatrical experience, Charlotte’s reactions were natural and un-choreographed, a compelling combination. She sank to her knees as if prepared to plead with the Inquisitor, bending to kiss his foot. His expression stern, he bent and wrapped his hand in her hair. When he yanked her up, preparing to drag her back to her feet, he paused, as if suddenly caught by the picture she made, on her knees to him, her head tipped back and hands loose, offering herself to him.
He traced the curve of her breast and her lips parted, tongue sweeping across them in unscripted reaction. Lifting her to her feet, he brought her to the tarp with a solid black backdrop flanking it on two sides, creating a protected corner. He p
ut her hands on the wooden stake that had been erected on the tarp, as if that was where he might bind and set the witch on fire.
“Do I need to tie you, or do you submit to my will?”
“Don’t you mean God’s Will, Inquisitor?” Charlotte asked, batting her eyes at him, sending a ripple of laughter through the audience.
Tony picked up a paddle and whacked her generous bottom with it, earning a yelp. “Insolent witch. Answer the question.” He spanked her again and she let out a gasp that hinted at something other than discomfort.
“No Master, you don’t need to tie me. I submit to your will.”
She curled her fingers around the stake and spread her legs. He bound up her hair in a tight knot, pulling on her scalp roughly, and stepped back. He drizzled alcohol on her back and then lit a fire wand. As he passed the bundle of cotton gauze over her flesh, it appeared as if he set her on blue fire, but he doused it with his hands immediately, stroking her that way, over and over.
“The fire does not burn your pale flesh,” he said. “You are God’s gift to me, witch. You will serve me.”
He pressed up behind her to caress her flanks, and between her legs. “You like the idea, I think,” he muttered, and she gasped in response.
Charlotte had lost all awareness of the audience as soon as Tony motioned to her from across the stage. Several times tonight, Julie had watched her players experience that transition, insulating themselves in a scene together. When Charlotte gasped at Tony’s touch, Julie could tell Tony crossed that threshold himself.
Stepping away from his wife, he picked up the bouquet of roses that had been left on the draped table with the wands and blades. After he selected one of the blooms, he held it up to the light. Putting his hand on her back, he stroked her silken skin as he considered the silken petals. He lifted the bloom to his nose to inhale the scent, and then ran it between her spread legs and brought it to his nose again. Charlotte kept her forehead pressed to her overlapped hands on the stake, but a visible quiver ran through her as he trailed the rose over her back.
