by Brianna Hale
After I’ve finished I pick up my e-reader and lie on my tummy. I flick to my favorite story, a middle-grade book set in a magical realm with talking horses, and start to read. I know it by heart, and the lines of fluffy prose are soothing, almost hypnotic. I need this now. Nothing else is going to make me feel relaxed before I have to head for the theater and Mr. Kingsolver.
My dad comes out into the garden after lunch. “What are you reading?” he asks, weeding dandelions out of the flowerbed.
I look at the pony story on my e-reader. “It’s Pride and Prejudice,” I tell him.
He nods approvingly, which means I’ve avoided yet another lecture. The back of my neck prickles and I’m worried he’s going to look over my shoulder at the screen, so I roll up my mat and go to my bedroom.
Chapter Two
I’m up in the wings fifteen minutes before my cue, which isn’t allowed, but I’m worried that I’ll be late again. Also, I really love this scene. This is a production of Amarantha, a modern fairy tale with witches and heroes and fairies. I’m a woodcutter, along with five other girls, and we wear brown shorts and shirts and carry little axes. I’ve got my hair tucked up under my peaked cap and I’m watching the pretty fairies onstage in their floating tulle and silver wings, my lower lip caught between my teeth with envy.
There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. A man has appeared by my side in the dim light and folded his arms. I glance up and instantly quail. It’s Mr. Kingsolver. I straighten, my hands by my sides, trying to look professional and not like a dancer who’s disobeying rules. What was I thinking? Being up here more than five minutes early is enough to get me fired. My heart starts hammering against my ribs.
He steps closer. His face is handsome in a steely way, like he’s been stamped out of metal. Because it’s late, there’s a dark pattern of stubble over the hard lines of his jaw.
“Look at me.” He’s speaking softly but I can hear the command in his deep voice. I turn toward him and he puts his hand under my chin, forcing it up so I meet his eyes. They’re gunmetal gray in the dim light. “You’re not going to make any mistakes tonight. Is that clear?”
My throat is too tight to speak. I’m burning up.
“Well?” There’s an edge to his voice. His knuckles push against my throat. Does he know he’s pressing on my windpipe?
I swallow and just manage, “Yes.”
“Yes what?” His voice is quiet and insistent and demands to be obeyed.
“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”
He forces my chin a little higher. He’s standing so close I catch the scent of him, a rich, piney scent that makes my knees tremble.
“When you’re out there,” he murmurs, “don’t think about the audience. Think about me. You’re only dancing for me.”
For him? I only ever danced for the audience and for myself. I’m proud when I know I’ve done a good job, and happy when I see the rapt faces in the stalls and hear the applause from the house. Resentment blazes in my chest that this terrifying figure has swept down into the wings to tell me I’m dancing for him. Is all he can think about the reputation of his theater?
But when I look again, his eyes hold nothing of the raw fury that they did the previous day. He’s looking at me like he’s actually seeing me and not just a dancer he can order about. His hand holding my chin is firm but gentle. It’s a heady feeling, being singled out by Mr. Kingsolver, and something golden spreads through me. He’s demanding something of me that he knows I can do, and he wants me to do it for him.
“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”
His eyes blaze into mine a moment longer. “Good girl.”
Then he’s gone, but I can feel the ghost of his knuckles against my throat. A few minutes later the other woodcutters appear and we stand silently, waiting for our cue. My heart should be racing and there should be tears in my eyes after the encounter with Mr. Kingsolver, but I hear only the soft, growling warmth of that good girl. I’m grounded. I’m calm. The knowledge that Mr. Kingsolver will be watching makes me feel safe, not afraid.
When our cue comes, I step out onto the stage and begin the dance, the others in my wake. I move like I’ve danced this dance my whole life. Everything is perfectly in place and I am at the center of things, like a clockwork doll within a great machine.
I lift my eyes and see the outline of a large man standing right at the back of the theater, watching me. Somehow I know he’s watching only me.
* * *
I’m late. This never happens. I’m running up Charing Cross Road like the four horsemen of the apocalypse are on my heels, though it’s not the end of the world I fear, but something far worse.
The theater comes into view and I glance at my wristwatch and whimper—I’m ten whole minutes late. The train sat on the wrong side of the river for twenty minutes with no explanation, and each second that ticked by seemed to take a month off my life. Mr. Kingsolver has strict rules, and never being late, even by a minute, is at the top of his list. I cross my fingers and hope that he won’t be here tonight, as he isn’t always at every performance.
I push open the stage door and dash downstairs to the dressing rooms—and my heart plummets. Just before I disappear into the chorus’s communal dressing room I see Mr. Kingsolver and the director standing in the hallway, heads bent over Gregory’s notes. Mr. Kingsolver looks up, his dark brows drawn together, eyes arrowing into mine.
I press my back against the closed door, breathing hard.
The other dancers turn and look at me, then glance at the clock. One or two bite their lip.
“Did he see you?” We all know Jacintha doesn’t mean Gregory.
I nod, and she winces.
“Maybe it’ll be okay,” says Kayla as she rolls on her tights. “You’re only a few minutes late. He can’t be that angry.”
But we both know that’s not true.
Despite my agitation the performance goes off without a hitch. I remind myself I’m a good dancer and that dancing is what I want to do. The echo of Mr. Kingsolver’s voice telling me I’m only dancing for him helps keep me grounded, too. Until the final curtain goes down, that is. And then I start to go to pieces, teeth worrying at the sides of my nails.
Gregory gives us his notes on the performance. There are just a few, and afterward we all head for the dressing room. Then he calls out, “Oh, and, Abby, Mr. Kingsolver wants to see you in his office when you’re changed.”
The others give me shocked looks. Tears prickle in my eyes. I’m going to lose the only thing in my life that means anything to me. My hands tremble as I wipe away my mascara and pancake foundation. One by one the girls touch my arm as they file out, bags slung over their shoulders.
“Sorry, Abby.”
“Yeah, sorry, Abby.”
They know they won’t see me again after tonight.
I collect my satchel, head out of the dressing rooms, and climb the staircase deep into the theater. It’s silent now. Everyone’s gone home. At the top of the stairs I see the wooden door with Rufus Kingsolver, Owner emblazoned in gold letters. I knock, and then turn the handle and push the door open.
Mr. Kingsolver is sitting behind his desk, writing. His sleeves are rolled back to reveal strong forearms, lightly dusted with dark hair. The pen looks slender in his large, square hands.
His eyes flick to mine. He doesn’t look pleased that I’ve opened the door without permission, and my insides clench. “Wait outside,” he directs.
I close the door and stand on the landing, fingers twisting together. With each passing second the butterflies in my stomach multiply. My sneakered heel bounces silently against the floor. What can I say to make him change his mind about firing me? Is there anything I can do to convince him?
Ten minutes later I hear his command. “Come.”
There’s nowhere to sit, so I
stand in front of his desk. The room is darkly masculine. Lamps with green glass shades cast pools of light.
Mr. Kingsolver laces his fingers together and sits back in his leather chair. He’s taking his time, watching me. I want to fidget with my skirt but I force myself to keep still. Just because I’m afraid all the time doesn’t mean I want anyone to know it.
“Put your bag down,” he orders.
My bag slumps on the carpet.
He taps his knuckles with a forefinger, and I remember the feel of them against my throat. “I’m good at reading people. I pride myself on knowing how to get the best out of those around me. I demand it at all times. The best.”
I don’t know what to say. Is he firing me or not?
“You were late today.”
He waits, glaring at me. Am I supposed to say something?
I take a shallow breath. “The train was delayed and—”
He cuts me off with an impatient gesture. “I don’t want your excuses. The director doesn’t know how to discipline his girls so I’ll have to do it myself.” He pushes back from his desk. “Come here.”
I stare at him, not understanding what he wants. The last thing I want is to get any closer to him.
He raises his voice. “I said come here.”
Look, you don’t want to get fired, I counsel myself. Just do what you’re told, take your lecture, beg for mercy and then never, ever make a mistake again. Slowly, I walk around his desk until I’m standing by his chair.
“Mr. Kingsolver, I—”
But before I get any further he grabs me by the forearm and pulls me face down over his lap. I struggle to get up, pressing against his thighs, but he’s strong and he holds me down. “What are you doing?” I gasp, grabbing at the desk to steady myself.
“I am teaching you that there are consequences when you break my rules.” His hands shove up my skirt.
“Consequences?” I squeak. “Are you firing me?”
He forces the denim up and my underwear is exposed. They’re white cotton with pink hearts, I remember, and even through my confusion this makes me embarrassed. They’re so childish. I’ve changed in front of the other dancers before but a man has never seen me naked, or even in my underwear.
“What would you learn if I just fired you?” His large hands rest on my behind and I go still because no one’s ever touched me like this before.
“You’ve disappointed me, Abby,” he continues, squeezing my flesh, “and I want you to understand the gravity of the situation. I gave you a chance to prove you were trustworthy and well-behaved, but you broke my most important rule. You were late. And because you broke a rule, you need to be punished.”
My eyes widen. He’s put me over his knee so he can spank me like a child. Have I really done something so bad that I deserve this? “Please, Mr. Kingsolver, I won’t be late again.”
I look around for a means of escape and my eyes land on the door. It isn’t locked. Someone might come in at any moment. Panic flares in my chest and I start to struggle.
“Abby!” he reprimands, easily holding me in place. “Are you trying to make me angry?”
“No—please—I do understand. I’ve disappointed you. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s too late for please now.” He yanks my underwear up so it’s tight between my cheeks and he hooks two fingers around the fabric. It pulls tightly against my parts and my mind goes somewhere that has nothing to do with punishment.
“I don’t like being disappointed.” He sounds like he did in the wings the previous day, and I realize that, like then, he’s not going to stop until he has what he wants from me. He lifts his hand, then brings it down with a sharp, stinging smack.
“Mr. Kingsolver!” But my exclamations and excuses aren’t enough, and the more I wriggle about the angrier it seems to make him.
“Keep still,” he snaps. “You’re not getting up until I say so. We can do this the long way or the short way, but either way it’s going to be my way, have you got it?”
He had such an effect on me in the wings, and after, I felt so centered as I danced. I want to tell him yes, that we can do it his way, but I don’t know if I can take the punishment he’s meting out. I’ll try, though, because I want him to be as pleased with me as he seemed then.
He shakes me slightly when I don’t answer. “Have you got it?”
“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver,” I whisper.
He lifts his hand away and I quiver, waiting for the next slap. I can’t see anything but the floor and I’ve got one hand braced against the carpet and the other wrapped tightly around one of his ankles. Is he going to hit me again, or was he just pretending he was going to? I wait, my face scrunched up, half terrified and half anticipating.
His hand comes down hard and firm in the same spot on my right cheek. He doesn’t let up this time, spanking me repeatedly in the same spot until I can feel my behind glowing with heat and stinging pain. It hurts now, properly hurts, and I’m jerking on his lap with every smack. Tears come into my eyes. Just when I think I can’t bear it any longer he stops.
“Good girl,” he says under his breath. The thought that my acquiescence is pleasing him gives me a warm, pulsing feeling between my legs. I realize that his fingers holding my underwear are perilously close to my bits, and he might notice I’m getting wet. What will he do if he discovers I’m becoming aroused while he’s disciplining me? I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s over now. Never break a rule again, and he’ll never know.
“But I haven’t finished yet.” He starts to caress my other cheek.
Alarm slams through me. “Wait, please, Mr. Kingsolver—”
He grabs a fistful of my hair and pushes me down again, and then yanks my underwear up higher. I’m gasping with excitement, as well as pain, and I can feel how slippery the fabric has become.
“Keep still,” he raps out. “Just for that you’re going to get twice as much. Now, are you going to keep still?”
He’s treating me like a naughty child and I feel myself sinking into an uncomplicated place where I don’t have to think about having to be capable or grown-up. I want to show him that I understand what he’s doing for me, and I want him to be pleased with me, so I don’t move. “Yes.”
He shifts me more securely onto his lap. “Yes what?”
“Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”
His hand leaves my behind and I whimper. I will accept it, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt. I can’t predict when it’s going to happen and the waiting is almost as excruciating as the slap of his hard palm. And then it does come down and I cry out, loudly. He doesn’t try to hush me and I scream out loudly with every smack, my nails digging into his ankle. Tears drip onto the carpet.
Finally he stops, and his hand caresses my hot skin. He’s breathing hard, as well, and in the stillness that follows there’s only the sound of our panting.
“Good,” he says, and he does sound like he’s pleased with me. “Have you learned your lesson?”
My lesson? What was the lesson? It’s difficult to think as his fingers are pressed into the cleft of my behind, and they’re slick. He knows that I’ve enjoyed being disciplined by him.
He’s waiting, and I don’t want him to think I haven’t taken his punishment seriously so I say, “Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”
“What was your lesson?”
I scramble to remember. “That there are consequences when I break the rules.”
He squeezes the flesh of my behind hard. “Whose rules?”
“Your rules,” I gasp.
“Good girl.” He lets go of my underwear and pulls them out from between my cheeks, settling the fabric back in place. He eases my skirt back down, and his hands are gentle, almost tender.
“You can get up now.”
I get up slowly, my arms and legs sha
king, looking everywhere but at his face. He knows I enjoyed it, he must know. But he doesn’t seem angry or shocked. He takes my hand and tugs me onto his lap, the right way up this time, and tucks me under his chin. His strong arms are holding me once more, but embracing rather than restraining. I’m too tired and surprised to resist. My cheek is pillowed against his chest.
He looks down at me. “Have you been crying, kitten?” He wipes the tears away with his thumb and smooths my hair back from my forehead. I feel like a kitten, curled into him like I am. I take a deep breath to ease the tightness in my throat.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You just relax.” His hand strokes my hair, and my breath deepens as my body relaxes into his. I know I shouldn’t be sitting with him like this. I should be angry, shouting at him, asking him why he just did what he did. But I don’t want to. It’s like the feeling I had when I knew he was watching me dance, and I was dancing only for him. I’m calm. Centered. Nothing can disturb the tranquility that has stolen over me.
“Why did you make those mistakes the other day?” he asks softly.
My breath catches. “I’m sorry I—”
“No, no. I’m not mad. I just want to know if there was a reason that you wanted to tell me about.”
I frown into his shirt. “I don’t know. I...just did.”
“But there was a reason, wasn’t there? Were you upset about something?”
I like the low, gentle rumble of his voice against my cheek, and relief washes through me. He’s not mad at me for breaking the rules anymore, and he doesn’t mind that I got turned on while he was disciplining me. I melt into him. “I was,” I confess.
“What about, kitten?”
There’s something about the way he says kitten that makes me feel small and cosseted. “My parents don’t approve of anything I’m doing with my life.”
“They don’t like you on the stage?”
“No. They think it’s silly. They think I’m silly. Nothing I do seems good enough for them.” I bite my lip, wondering if he thinks I’m being whiny. He can’t want to listen to all of this.
