by Brianna Hale
He holds out his hands. “Do you want a hug?”
I do, so much. I step into his embrace and he folds me in his arms. I fit right under his chin. He smells like pine trees and safety, and I melt into him.
He kisses my hair and whispers, “How about for now you call me Rufus?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Now, enjoy your evening. Have a glass of champagne. You deserve it.”
I smile up at him, hoping he’ll kiss me, but he just releases me and steps back. My eyes linger on his face, drinking him in. “Good night, Rufus.”
“Night night.”
Downstairs I sail past my parent’s questioning faces. “Rufus just wanted to give me his congratulations,” I say, but as I pass them I see the saucy, told-you-so look my mother gives my father when she hears me call him Rufus.
It’s past midnight and I’m in bed when my phone buzzes. I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, far from sleep. The relief I felt hearing Rufus tell me that he likes me and what he wants from me has been replaced by a combination of terror and arousal. I want to be your dom has to be the most erotically charged phrase in the English language.
I take my phone off the nightstand and see that I have a text message.
Have dinner with me tomorrow night.
It’s a number I don’t recognize but I know who it is. He must have got my number from the employee records.
Ask nicely, I text back.
Please.
Please what?
Don’t push your luck, little girl.
I laugh quietly to myself. It’s a yes, of course it’s a yes.
Thank you. Now go to sleep.
* * *
Dinner is late because of course we have a show first. The other girls I share my dressing room with all start quizzing me about who I’m going out with when they see me take off my stage makeup and start to apply my own.
“Oh, um, this man. You know. A guy.”
“What’s he like?” Vee asks. “Is he cute?”
I can’t help but grin at them. “Very cute, and tall. I don’t know him that well yet, but...”
Vee, Dionne and Alice all smile at me, waiting for me to go on.
“But I like him,” I finish in a rush, my cheeks going pink. I don’t feel like I can tell them it’s Mr. Kingsolver I’m going on a date with, not when I don’t know what’s happening between us, but it’s so good to be the one with news to share for a change. I usually keep my head down and listen to the other girls talk about their nights out, their dates, feeling awkward and out of place.
Dionne finishes applying her lipstick and bumps her hip against mine. “Nice, girl. Who asked who out?”
I think for a second. “We were sort of fooling around, and then I got annoyed with him and demanded to know what was going on. And so now we’re going on a date.”
The girls cackle with glee.
“Damn straight, you tell him where it’s at.”
“We didn’t know you had it in you.”
I remember Rufus’s suggestion that I ask the other dancers where they live and if they know of any rooms available. I ask, and Alice tells me she has a friend who’s looking for a flatmate in Vauxhall, and she promises to text me the details.
They’re all gone before I’m finished getting ready, and I turn this way and that, looking in the mirror. I wasn’t sure how dressy I should be but I know that Rufus always wears button-down shirts so I opted for a knee-length cream dress with some embroidery on the yoke, and some of my new pastel hair clips to pin my hair off my face and give it some volume. It’s a little flat after wearing a wig. I finish the outfit off with some white patent kitten heels because they’re easy to walk in, and because I like how much taller he is than me; I don’t want to spoil it with high heels. I apply some lip gloss and turn this way and that in front of the mirror. Cute, I hope.
Rufus told me to meet him downstairs and when I come out of the dressing room he’s there, leaning one shoulder against the brick wall, arms folded. The butterflies that have been gathering in my stomach suddenly whip themselves into a flurry of activity. I’ve never been on a date before and I’m not entirely sure how they’re supposed to go—especially not dates with someone who’s declared he wants to be my dom. There have been so many firsts with Rufus. So many things that we’ve done or he’s talked about that I don’t understand yet. I feel daunted and excited at the same time.
He’s put a gray suit jacket on over his black shirt and he looks neat and handsome. After looking me over with a small smile on his face, he holds out his hand to me. I take it, and it’s large and warm. The butterflies stop beating their wings quite so frantically.
There are still lots of people on the streets despite it being just past ten o’clock, and all the restaurants are open and busy. I love this about the West End. It’s always buzzy and happy when I get out of the theater.
Rufus takes me to a restaurant a few streets away and talks to the maître d’, a woman in a glamorous, very tight red dress, and she shows us to a little booth in the corner. It’s the sort of place that has white linen draped over everything and two men in white jackets making cocktails behind the bar with exquisite care.
I like the coziness of the circular booth as it means we can sit next to each other. He drapes an arm along the back of the velvet seat and I angle myself toward him.
“You look like something the big bad wolf would like to gobble up,” he murmurs in my ear. “Am I supposed to think about food now?”
I pick up the menu and pretend to read it. “Well, I’m hungry,” I say. I’m not hungry, I’m nervous as hell, but I do my best to hide it.
The waiter appears and we order two courses and a glass of wine each.
“You know,” Rufus says, taking a sip of white wine when we’re alone again, “as this is a date we should probably get to know one another. I know you live with your mother and father. Any siblings?”
I like that he’s called it a date. I shake my head. “You?”
“One brother and one sister, both younger. My sister is married and living in Plymouth. My brother is in the army.”
I take a sip of my wine, and it’s cold and crisp. I think about the things I want to know about him. There are so many along the lines of Have you ever done what you do to me in your office to any of the other girls? and How did you get so good at hurting and then comforting and making me feel so grounded? I don’t want to sound nosy, though, and I’m too shy to ask about the things we have done, so I ask, “Have you always liked the theater?”
Rufus nods. “I grew up with it. I love the Palais. I love the building and I love seeing all the punters in the bar before the show, and all you performers rushing about with your powder and glitter and sequins. I love the rehearsals with the rosin on the stage and the dancers draped in the stall seats, taking direction and watching the scenes. It’s been a part of my life for as long as I remember.”
His eyes are glowing with gentle contemplation, and I feel a rush of happiness that he sees the magic of the Palais as much as I do. “Does your family own it?”
He nods, his expression dimming. “It belonged to my grandfather, then my father, and now me. My father’s still alive, but he signed it over to me a few years ago and moved up north.”
I sense some sadness surrounding this. He doesn’t change the subject, though, so I ask, “Did he retire?”
Rufus hesitates, and rubs a thumb over the dewy glass. “In a way. My mother got sick when I was a teenager. Very sick, and she needed a lot of care. My brother and sister had only just started high school. My father kept the family and the theater going. I helped out most nights at the theater and on weekends. Anything that needed doing. Box office. Bartending. Bumping out sets and fixing props. And I made sure my brother and sister did their homework and
had everything they needed. My father did the paperwork and looked after my mother.”
I reach out and put my hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry. That must have been so hard. Is she...?”
He nods. “She died when I was nineteen. From then on I more or less ran the theater because my father found it difficult to focus without her. He suddenly wasn’t torn between two demands but it was so much harder for him to do anything without her.”
He had to grow up fast, and take on so much work and family responsibility at such a young age. It’s no surprise he’s so good at running things now if he’s had all that practice. I wonder if that’s what made him the sort of man he is now, too, with his manner of authoritative benevolence.
“Your father must be so proud of the way you coped with everything, and how well the Palais is doing now.”
But Rufus just frowns and shrugs, and I sense we’ve hit a wall with this line of conversation.
Our starters arrive and we begin to eat; smoked salmon for me and rillettes for him.
“What about you?” he asks. “What do you like about the theater?”
I play with my fork. “Oh, everything. The make-believe. The otherworldliness. The way people make a night of it, buying their tickets months before, putting the date in their calendar. Dressing up and going out to dinner. And then sitting in the dark for two hours, watching us. I think it’s the only place in the world where you just have to sit there and focus and watch the show, without sneaking looks at Facebook and talking to the person next to you. The other people in the audience just won’t allow it.”
Rufus grins at me. “You know, we once did a show with a testy male lead and someone’s phone did go off in the audience during his ballad. He immediately dropped out of character, glared into the audience and snapped, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Everyone in the audience whooped and clapped him. The director told him off, of course, though not very seriously.”
I start to laugh, picturing it, and Rufus grins even wider, and I realize I’m having a good time. I was worried this would be awkward or unfriendly or confusing, but it feels so natural. The butterflies have dissipated, which means I can eat my food and enjoy sitting so close to him.
Our main courses arrive, a cheese soufflé for me and steak frites for him, and once we’ve finished them, the dishes have been taken away and the waiter has poured us each a second glass of wine, the conversation we haven’t had suddenly becomes the elephant at the table.
I fiddle with the stem of my wine glass with one hand and a ringlet of my hair with the other.
“You’ve suddenly come over all shy,” he observes. “Have you thought about what I said last night?”
“It’s all I’ve thought about,” I confess. “But I don’t know what it means. The, uh, dom thing.”
“Well,” he says slowly, “dom is short for dominant, but you probably know that.”
I nod, picking at a crumb on the table. He covers my hand with his and waits until he has my attention again before going on. I’m suddenly afraid, but I take a deep breath and look up, into his eyes. They’re dark blue in the soft lighting, and they’re not exactly cold, but they’re unwavering and seem to look straight to my core.
“A dom’s job is to take charge of their sub, both during sex and in all other things. It’s about discipline and control, but it’s also about care. Mostly it’s about care, in fact.”
My breath has become shallow just hearing him talk like this, and there’s a tingling between my legs. “What do you mean, care?”
“Everything I would do, disciplining you, touching you, setting boundaries for you, would be to make you feel safe. Making you feel safe and good and happy makes me feel good and happy.” He spreads his hand, palm up. “It’s not just something I like to do. I...need it.”
I have only the vaguest ideas of what BDSM is and what dominants and submissives are, and most of my knowledge comes from pop-culture, which means it’s probably inaccurate. I thought it was all about canings and pain and rope. I had no idea that it could sound almost sweet.
“And if I was your sub, what would I need to do?”
“A sub’s job is to submit, no matter what. Especially when being disciplined, but at all other times, as well. It’s not a part-time thing. You’d obey me whether I’m there or not. You’d want to obey me.”
I chew my lip, thinking. It has felt good when I knew I was doing something that would please him, even when he wasn’t there to see it. But...submit to everything? He could get pretty demanding. “What if I don’t want to submit to something?”
He puts his thumb on my lip and tugs it from between my teeth. “Don’t do that. I can’t think. It depends on what you mean by don’t want to. If you don’t want to go to bed when I tell you to go to bed, it might be that you’re acting out because you want attention, or because you want me to fuck you or discipline you.”
My cheeks burn at his frankness, and I glance at the table closest to us.
He puts his finger on my chin and turns my head back to him. “They can’t hear us. Or you might not want to because you’re upset or worried about something, or you’re uncomfortable because I’ve done something to disappoint you. If I can’t tell the difference then I’m a very bad dom and have failed to understand what you need. I’d always listen to what you’re telling me, in words and actions, and you’d have a safe word to use in physical situations.”
I nod slowly, taking this all in. It sounds complicated being a dom. I would hate to have all that responsibility for someone else on my shoulders—but then, I suppose that’s why he’s the one offering to be my dom and not the other way round. It sounds awfully strict, though. “You would tell me when to go to bed?” I ask.
He smiles. “I would tell you to do a lot of things.”
“That’s very controlling.”
“That’s the idea. Why do you think I would have so many rules for you?”
I bat my eyelashes and smile prettily at him. “Because you’re bossy?”
He looks at my lips and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, princess. That’s a smart mouth.”
“You’re not my dom,” I say, still smiling.
“But you will regret that when I am.”
I realize that he’s right, that I might agree, so I drop the sass. “Okay. Why all the rules?”
He sits back and lays his arm over the back of the seat once more. His fingers brush my shoulder, and I shiver. “Do you remember how you felt when I came backstage the other week, yelling and threatening to fire you?”
I wince. “Of course.”
“That sort of thing works with most people. They go, oh, shit, he’s the boss, I better shape up. Or they become resentful or embarrassed enough never to want to be in that situation again.”
“Yeah, I’m not surprised. That’s quite a temper you’ve got.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Silly. That was an act. I don’t have a temper. It just helps to pretend I do sometimes. I can’t be everywhere at once, but the idea of me can.”
“You don’t have a temper?” He seemed pretty angry at the time. I thought he was angry when he disciplined me, but was he? He was intense, but he very calmly tied me up or pulled me over his knee, asked me sternly why I was being disciplined, and then laid into me. When it was over he held me and comforted me like I was something delicate and precious. He hadn’t yelled at me, and he’d been able to switch straight from disciplining to consoling in seconds. It was all so calculated and controlled, I realized. He wouldn’t be able to act that way if he’d lost his temper.
“No, I don’t,” he says. “And that sort of thing, yelling and anger, doesn’t work with a sub. It just frightens them and makes them more unhappy. You probably felt afraid and anxious after I yelled at you, which means you would have made more mistakes, and so sick and fearful that it kept yo
u awake and unfocused. I saw it in your eyes and as soon as I left the room I knew I’d made a mistake.
“So when I found you alone in the wings I thought I’d try something different. I made you look at me to focus. I added something physically restrictive by pressing on your throat a little. I told you you weren’t going to make any mistakes, and that you were going to do it for me. And when you agreed to do what I said, I gave you your reward straight away. Good girl. It worked. You danced perfectly.”
I stare at him. “Jesus Christ. You read me so easily.”
He taps the tablecloth with his forefinger. “It’s what I do. And watch your mouth.” He gazes at me a moment. “Then, of course, I couldn’t get you out of my head. You don’t know how happy I was that you were ten minutes late.” He grins.
My mouth falls open. “You beast. You wanted me to break one of your rules?”
“Dying for it. I hadn’t been happier in months.”
I look at him for a few minutes. He does look happy, in his stern, enigmatic way. He really does want to be my dom. Needs it, he says. It’s a little thrilling to be needed, and by someone who doesn’t seem to need anything from anyone at all. I thought I was the needy one.
But I still have questions. “And what about the, uh, daddy thing?”
His smile turns wolfish. “I told you. It’s because I like it.”
“Yes, but why do you like it?”
He thinks about this. “It’s something that doms who are caregivers like. It’s authoritative, but it’s also sweet, unlike “master” or “sir.” And it’s kinky as hell, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my face burning.
“Plus it goes with the things I want to call you. Little one. Babygirl. Princess. Kitten.” He slants a sly look at me. “Did you not feel a little thrill when you called me daddy the other night, and did you not come a little harder?”
I duck my head and fiddle with the hair at the nape of my neck. Master. Sir. Daddy. The first two make me feel nothing. The third makes my insides somersault. “Maybe.”
