Little Dancer

by Brianna Hale

  Mr. Kingsolver passes me in the corridor when I leave the dressing room in my woodcutter costume. He wordlessly takes my hand and looks at my nails.

  “Abby.” He sighs, but I pull my hand from his and hide it behind my back. Why does he need to sound like that, like he’s disappointed in me? The audience won’t be able to see my nails.

  He folds his arms and looks at me. “I haven’t seen you smile all week. Are you all right?”

  I will be tomorrow. Once I’ve had a day without thinking I can start to sort my life out. I can take care of myself. I’m going to have to learn how sooner or later. “I’m fine. I’m on in a minute.”

  He looks at me a moment longer, like he wants to say more, and then he stands aside and lets me pass. As usual, dancing helps me forget my worries and I’m smiling during the curtain call, but the glow fades as soon as I come offstage.

  There’s another note in my shoes.

  My office after the show.

  My first thought is that he’s going to put me over his knee again, and my heart races. But he wouldn’t do that just for not smiling, so maybe he’s going to scold me for not being happy enough that I got the part. I’m trying as hard as I can, and it’s exhausting. It will be worse for me if I ignore his note, though, so after I’ve changed into my oversize pink sweater and a denim mini, I climb the stairs.

  The door opens as soon as I knock, but he doesn’t let me in. His eyes are smoldering and I can tell he’s furious. Because of me?

  “Kneel,” he commands. “Go on,” he says, impatient when I don’t immediately comply. I follow his instructions, sitting back on my heels, and then he slams the door in my face.

  What am I supposed to do now? Leave? But he didn’t say leave, he said kneel, so I guess I’ll kneel. I should feel annoyed that he’s being so demanding without any explanation, and when I’m so tired, but I don’t feel annoyed. I feel a pulsing between my legs, and suddenly I’m more than happy to wait and see what happens next.

  Ten minutes later he opens the door and I look up at him, my mouth twitching.

  He folds his arms. “Do you think this is funny?”

  I shake my head. Well, maybe a little.

  He reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair, dragging me into his office where he bends me, face-first, over his desk. I’m not laughing now. His thighs press against my behind and he keeps hold of my hair so I can’t move.

  “You lied to me today,” he snarls.

  “I didn’t.” My head is turned to the left, cheek pressed against his papers. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, leaning over me. He wasn’t even this angry with me when I was late to the theater.

  “Don’t argue with me. You lied. You said you were fine and you’re not. You also broke your promise about coming to me when you were worried or upset about something. Did you lie when you promised, too?”

  “But it’s silly stuff,” I wail. “It’s not important. I didn’t think you would care.”

  He leans down close to my ear. I can feel his hot breath on my cheek. “Does this seem like I don’t care?”

  He’s going to discipline me again. The thought both frightens and arouses me, because he’s going to realize again that I’m getting wet when I’m supposed to be being punished.

  “Abby,” he growls, his hand tightening in my hair. “I asked you a question.”

  “No,” I say.

  “No what?”

  I moisten my lips, thinking, my breath coming hard already. “No, Mr. Kingsolver.” I make myself relax against the desk. A hand lands on my behind and squeezes, and I try not to think about how he’s going to be touching my bare skin in a moment.

  Mr. Kingsolver makes an approving noise and lets go of my hair. I watch, my cheek hot against the desk and his papers, as he takes a length of rope from his top drawer. What is that doing in there?

  “Put your hands behind your back,” he orders. “Hold onto your elbows.”

  “I promise I won’t move, there’s no need to—”

  But Mr. Kingsolver isn’t interested in what I have to say. He grasps my wrists, pinions them behind my back and starts to tie them. It takes several minutes and the knots are precise. I get the feeling he’s enjoying every slide and pull of the rope.

  I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. All right. So the rope is new, and I’m over the desk instead of his lap, but I can still do this.

  Mr. Kingsolver’s hands slide over my hips until he finds my skirt zip, then he undoes it and pulls it off me. What underwear am I wearing? Are they wet yet, and can he tell? I squirm against the rope, wishing I knew.

  He forces my underwear up between my cheeks and plants a heavy hand on the small of my back. The soothed feeling is stealing over my again, clearing my mind of everything but him and what he’s doing.

  “Do you know why I’m disciplining you?” he asks, and I hear a clink of metal and the unmistakable wrrrp of a belt being pulled out of his trousers.

  His belt? He’s going to use his belt? Surprise pierces my calm. “I thought you were going to just use your hand. This wasn’t part of the deal.”

  The belt appears before my face. I look at the leather gripped in his large hand. “Deal? What made you think there was any deal? I’m in charge and you do as I say. Does the fact that you’re tied up and bent over my desk not make this clear to you?”

  “But it will hurt!”

  “Yes,” he says with relish, “it will.” And I can hear the cold smile in his voice.

  Rope, desk and belt. This is worse in every way from last time. What would he do if I make him angry for a third time? String me up naked by the wrists and flog me? I feel a shudder of horror—followed swiftly by a pang of something far more carnal as my mind presents me with an image of Mr. Kingsolver, shirtless, wielding a black leather flogger.

  It’s not fair. How am I supposed to be certain not to make any mistakes in the future when the idea of him disciplining me is so exciting?

  “Answer my question, Abby.”

  I take a gulping breath, trying to remember what it was. That’s right—why he’s disciplining me. “Because I lied to you.”

  “And?”

  “For breaking my promise. But I didn’t think that—”

  “Do you think lying and breaking a promise are worse than being ten minutes late, or not as bad?”

  I screw my eyes shut. “Worse.”

  “Got it in one, babygirl.” And the belt cracks across my behind with a stinging thwack. I yelp, tensing against the wood. The belt is about ten times as vicious as his hand and after three strikes I’m crying out, begging for him to stop. I’m as loud as I can possibly be, but he doesn’t try to silence me. Even if there was someone in the theater they wouldn’t be able to hear me from up here. I’m entirely at his mercy, and for a second time, that knowledge, and the pain, causes heat and slipperiness between my legs.

  He hits me twice more, and then stops and pinches the stinging flesh of my behind. “Have you had enough?”

  “Yes, yes I have, please,” I cry.

  “It’s Yes, Mr. Kingsolver. And do you think you can tell me when you’ve had enough?”

  I struggle, panicked. “No, of course not, I mean—”

  Thwack. He hits me another five times until my ass is burning. My tears are making the sheets of paper on the desk stick to my face. All the worries I’ve had about moving and responsibility are evaporating and I’m slipping into a place where I have only to give myself over to what Mr. Kingsolver wants from me.

  “Have you had enough?”

  I take a deep breath. “I have if you say so, Mr. Kingsolver.”

  “Good girl.” And I hear the satisfaction in his voice. I’ve stayed so still that he hasn’t needed to hold me in place. If he just unties me and lets me adjust my ow
n underwear, I’ll get out of here before he knows what his disciplining has done to me. But then his hand traces over my behind, as if admiring his work, and brushes over the place where my underwear is wedged between my cheeks. It’s soaked. His fingers rub up and down.

  “Does it turn you on when I discipline you, babygirl?”

  I want to tell him no, but he expects the truth from me, no matter what. “Yes,” I whisper.

  I wait for him to tell me off, to say that I’m not taking these punishments seriously enough. He puts the belt down on the desk where I can see it, and to my surprise he continues to stroke me. I blink to clear my eyes, straining to see the expression on his face, but I can’t. His fingers delve down, and he begins to rub circles on my clit through the fabric. I tense and cry out. It feels so good, his fingers against me.

  “Want me to take care of you, kitten?”

  I don’t understand why there’s no anger in his voice. If anything he sounds pleased, almost indulgent. “Aren’t—aren’t you mad at me for, um...” I can’t finish the sentence. He’s being so gentle now, caressing me as if I were the most delicate thing in the world.

  “Mad?” he murmurs, all mildness now. “No, I’m not mad. You took your punishment so well. Would you like your reward now?”

  My teeth sink into my lower lip, my eyes closing. There’s a strong throbbing between my thighs, an ache that begs to be touched. As inexperienced as I am, I know that what Mr. Kingsolver is offering will turn that ache into something wonderful.

  “Yes,” I gasp. “Please.”

  He pulls his chair around behind me and sits down, and then eases my underwear aside, spreading me open, his fingers firm but gentle. What is he seeing, what does he think? I want to see the look on his face and I try to move, but the ropes pull against my arms. I’m still tied securely. I’m not supposed to move now, and I relax a little against the desk again.

  “So pretty,” he murmurs, and then he licks long strokes on my most sensitive parts, languid and unhurried. I groan, and tuck my face against the desk. His tongue is firm, and a little rough, and so strange that I want to squirm away and push against it at the same time.

  He traces slow circles on my clit with his tongue and I cry out with each breath. My mind is so clear and my body so relaxed. If this is his reward, then I’m in danger of making mistakes all the time.

  He concentrates his attention right where it feels the best and I sob, pressing myself against the desk as I come. Hot waves of sensation pound through me.

  A few minutes later I’m distantly aware that he’s untying me, and then pulling me back off the desk and onto his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face into his throat, my heart racing. He’s whispering to me, things like good girl and you’re so brave, and wiping the drying tears from my face and the sweat from my brow.

  My mind is trying to catch up with what’s just happened. Mr. Kingsolver disciplining me, and then Mr. Kingsolver giving me the first proper experience I’ve had with a man. I’ve touched myself before and been kissed at parties, but nothing has ever felt as wonderful as what he just did to me. It’s not just the orgasm, either. Why is it, I wonder, that being at his mercy and suffering such a painful, humiliating experience should be so enjoyable? I can’t find a reason, but I do know that I don’t want him to stop. That thing he did with his tongue makes me want to rip the buttons off his shirt.

  He looks down at my underwear and runs a finger under the elastic. “These,” he says, mock stern, “are very silly.”

  I giggle. “Do you like them?”

  He presses his forehead against mine. “You have no idea.” He watches me for a moment. “Are you a virgin, babygirl?”

  I suck my lip over my bottom teeth and nod, watching his face as he considers this. He must think I’m hopelessly naive and childish not to have had sex before.

  “I thought you might be. Good to know. Now, what has upset you these last few days?”

  I tell him, my finger hooked over the top button of his shirt, rubbing his chest hair. I tell him about my parents selling the house and moving far away, about not knowing what I can afford and where I should live, and how much the idea of sharing with strangers makes me afraid. He listens without interrupting.

  When I’m finished, he says, “No wonder you were upset. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  It’s a little easier, now, after what we just did, to tell him how I feel, but even so I’m not able to meet his eyes as I say, “You’ve got so much else to worry about, running this place. I didn’t want to worry you with it.”

  He puts a finger under my chin and tilts it up so he can look in my eyes. “That’s my job. I like to worry about things. How am I supposed to take your worries away from you if you won’t tell me what they are?”

  “You really want to do that? Anything I’m worried about? Anything at all?”

  He strokes my cheek and his fingers are gentle. “How do you feel when you know you’ve done something that pleases me?”

  I smile, sinking into him. “Like nothing else. Like nothing can touch me. Like there isn’t anything I can’t do.”

  “That’s how I feel when I know you’re taken care of, kitten.”

  I put my head down on his chest, thinking. He seems sincere, and while he’s demanding and quite ferocious, he doesn’t frighten me anymore. On the contrary, he’s made me feel calmer than I have in a long time, despite my burning behind. It’s so strange, what we’re doing, but I hope that it won’t stop.

  “What are you going to do on your day off?” he asks.

  I tell him my plan, blushing, wondering if he’s going to think it’s silly and too little-girly, but he just smiles.

  “That sounds like an excellent idea. You’ve been working so hard.”

  “I did lie to my parents, though,” I confess. “I told them I was going to the high street to look at rental properties.”

  He frowns. “Why did you lie to them?”

  “Because they’re becoming so frustrated with me, and I wanted to make them happy.”

  “Do you think they’ll be happy when they figure out you lied to them? They will figure it out, you know.”

  “No, they won’t be happy.”

  “I won’t be happy, either. I don’t want you to lie.”

  I screw up my face. “I’m going to have to go to the high street, aren’t I?”

  “Don’t pout,” he scolds. “Not necessarily. They have listings online, you know. Why don’t you spend an hour looking at rental listings after breakfast, and then the rest of the day will be all yours for fun things.”

  I nod. “That is a good idea.”

  He hears the note of doubt in my voice. “But?”

  “Ugh, I just have so many other questions.”

  “Well?” He shakes me a little. “Like what?”

  “Like, how much can I even afford to pay on rent and still be able to live?”

  “The rule of thumb is thirty percent of your income.” He tells me how much I make after my promotion, and what thirty percent of that is.

  “Oh. That’s actually really useful. Wow, how did you know that?”

  He tucks my hair behind my ears. “That doesn’t matter. Now you do, too. It should be enough for a room around Clapham or Willesden or Shepherd’s Bush, depending on where you want to live. Why don’t you ask some of the other girls where they live?”

  I nod. “I will do that, thank you.” My face is close to his and I look into his eyes. I want him to kiss me. Shouldn’t he kiss me? He’s done so much more to me that kissing shouldn’t be a big deal. But I want it so badly that it must be.

  He strokes his thumb over my lower lip, which makes me shiver, but he doesn’t kiss me. “You’re not to worry about anything, all right? If you have any more questions on Tuesday, come to me and we will figur
e them out.” He grabs my hand, glaring at my fingers. “And you’re not to bite your damn nails.”

  I’m even more at peace than I was the first time he disciplined me in his office. The world seems simpler now—easier to face—and I am calm. I smile. “Yes, Mr. Kingsolver.”

  Chapter Four

  I stand with my back to the big mirror on my wardrobe door and pull my nightie up. Looking over my shoulder I can see the pink marks of Mr. Kingsolver’s belt. I trace my fingers over them, and they are sore but not painful. When I pinch the marks I’m reminded of him.

  At eight I take my laptop down into the kitchen and Google “rental listings” while I drink my strawberry milk. All the flats and houses in the places that Mr. Kingsolver mentioned are two to three times what he’s told me I can afford, but I’m not disheartened. I only need a room, after all, not a whole place. I still don’t like the idea of sharing with strangers, but I don’t have to choose anywhere right now. I can take my time and find the right people. I search again and click through to a website of flatmate listings and I’m pleased to find dozens of rooms that are in my price range.

  When my dad comes into the kitchen, he ruffles my hair and says, “What are you smiling about?”

  I tell him what I’ve discovered, what I can afford and where I think I should start looking for a room when the time comes. My mum comes into the kitchen when I’m halfway through, and when I finish they’re both staring at me. “What?” I ask.

  “That’s excellent,” my mother says. “You’ve got it all figured out and we only just told you the news. We’re so proud of you, sweetheart.”

  I grin at them, wondering what they’d say if they knew just how I’d figured this all out. Then I start to blush so I quickly squash that thought. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I thought I’d go and see a movie this afternoon and do some shopping.”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “Sounds like a lovely idea. What will you see?”

  They don’t even bat an eyelid when I tell them I’m going to see a kid’s film.