Little Dancer

by Brianna Hale

  “No. White bread and strawberry jam. Sometimes cheese. No crusts.”

  He mutters a curse word that I don’t catch. “Dare I ask what you have for dinner?”

  “I don’t really have dinner. I have to dance.”

  “Christ. I was afraid you were going to say that. You must eat something in the evenings?”

  “Pocky sticks. Mini Oreo cookies. You know, stuff that I can throw in my bag.” I hear a frustrated noise and I picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “What, you expect me to eat a meal and then dance on your stage?”

  “I have to go, I just...” He hangs up, and I laugh.

  He texts me when I’m on the way to the theater.

  It’s your day off tomorrow.

  Yes it is, I reply.

  Sleepover?

  My heart skips a beat. Yes, please.

  Regent’s Park tube stop at five p.m. tomorrow, by the Starbucks.

  Yes, daddy.

  Fuck. Say that again.

  Yes, daddy.

  Good girl.

  Chapter Seven

  Rufus is wearing jeans for a change and a faded chambray shirt. He’s got sunglasses pushed on top of his head and the hairs on his forearms are golden in the sunlight. He gathers me into his arms for a kiss, right there in front of the coffee shop.

  “Hello,” I whisper, my face close to his.

  He runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “Hello. You look so pretty.”

  I dimple at him, and fan the skirt of my yellow dress. “Thank you.”

  Taking my hand, he walks me along the edge of the park and then into Marylebone. It’s a perfect spring evening and the trees lining the streets are a riot of pink and white blossoms.

  “I wish they could last forever.” I sigh, watching a blizzard of petals caught on the wind. “But then I guess they wouldn’t be so special.”

  We pass some beautiful Victorian terraces and Georgian town houses, and then a series of ugly, squat, light brown apartment buildings. I wrinkle my nose. “I never understood why they put such awful buildings up next to such beautiful old ones.”

  “The Blitz,” he explains. “You can thank Hitler for those.”

  “You mean every ugly fifties building in London is because of a bomb?”

  “More or less. This is me.” He points to a Georgian town house. It’s white with pillars out front and a shiny boot scraper by the threshold. “Top floor.”

  We ride the tiny lift to the fourth floor and he unlocks his apartment. It’s lovely inside, white and airy with plenty of natural light. He gives me the tour.

  “This is the lounge, and through there is the dining room.”

  The two spaces are separated by a large, open archway, and a light fixture hangs low over the dining table. A painting hangs on the far wall, something smudgy and French-looking with hills. There’s a box done up with pink paper and ribbon sitting in the middle of the dining table. He pointedly ignores it and so do I, but I remember my present from the other night and wonder what he’s got planned.

  The lounge has a television facing a large, comfortable-looking couch.

  “The kitchen is through here, and the bathroom.”

  It’s all very modern and sleek and renovated, like something out of a magazine. And it’s neat without a speck of dust anywhere. I should have realized he’d be particular. The kitchen is stainless steel everything and granite surfaces, and the tub in the bathroom is huge.

  “This is, I don’t know, the spare room.” He opens a door to a room that has books piled on the floor and a bicycle propped against one wall. “It’s where stuff goes to die. I don’t like those books and I haven’t ridden in years. This down here,” he says, closing the door and moving down the hall, “is the master bedroom.”

  I peek in. It’s a big room with wooden floorboards and a sunny window. Outside is a tree covered in blossom. The bed is large with a black cast-iron frame and a white duvet, and a tallboy and a wardrobe stand adjacent in the corner.

  “Nice, um, bed.”

  “Yes, it is.” He cups the side of my face and kisses me, and I find myself wanting him to take me to bed right now. I want to tell him that I’m not afraid of him, that I’m ready, even though we’ve known each other properly just a short time. But I can’t find the words, and he has other ideas.

  He stands back and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “So, this is me. Will I do?”

  I smile, because I feel shy and he sounds a little nervous, too. “It’s a beautiful place. It’s...very neat.”

  “Yes. I like neat.”

  “I’m not a neat person,” I confess.

  He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’ll learn. Drink?” he says, heading for the kitchen. “Sparkling water? Apple juice?”

  “Juice, please.”

  He gives me a glass, then hands me a pink-and-white notepad and a pen with a kitten ornament on the top. I clasp it with happiness. Then I notice what he’s written at the top in his large, flourishing script.

  Babygirl’s Rules.

  I turn the pad to face him. “What is this?”

  His lips thin at my sassy tone. “Your rules. I told you there’d be rules.”

  “But it’s blank.”

  “Yes. I’m going to tell you what they are and you’re going to write them down.” He gestures toward the kitchen table and we sit.

  I glower at him, because I know what the first rule is going to be.

  Sure enough, he says, “You have to eat proper food. You can’t have strawberry milk for breakfast. You can’t have white bread and jam for lunch. You can’t eat Pocky or cookies or anything sweet unless you’ve been good, and I say when you’ve been good.”

  I pillow my forehead on my arms and groan. “But everything I like is sweet.”

  “I noticed. Write it down.”

  “I won’t be here all the time,” I protest. “How often will I stay over, once a week?”

  He smiles, but it’s not a friendly smile. “That’s cute. You think my rules are just for when you’re here. What did I say about obeying me at all times?”

  For some reason I feel myself tingle. My body, the traitor. I write down the rule.

  A thought seems to occur to him. “Did you bring snacks with you today?”

  I screw up my nose in a moue of annoyance, then go and get my bag and hand it to him. He digs around and starts laying out all the treats I’ve stuffed into it. His eyes are wide as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

  “Four Rice Krispies Treats. Six boxes of Pocky sticks. Six. Three bags of candy. Four packets of Mini Oreo cookies. Where did you think you were going, a gulag? I have food here, you know.” He scoops them all up.

  “Not the pink Pocky. At least let me have the pink Pocky,” I say, whimpering as if I’m about to die of starvation.

  “Oh, kitten. Why are you wasting your breath.” He takes the lot and puts them in a cupboard. A high cupboard. Damn him for being so tall.

  “All right, what’s next?” he says, sitting down. “You have to wear a wrapper when you go up to the stage and as soon as you come off.”

  “I have to what?” I deadpan.

  “It’s chilly down in those dressing rooms and it’s like an icebox in the corridors in winter. It’s not much better in the summer. You’re sweaty when you come offstage. You could catch cold in that little costume.”

  “None of the other girls wear a wrapper.”

  “I know, and it’s a miracle you don’t all get ill every other week. I can’t make them wear one but I can make sure you do.”

  “I’ll look silly.”

  “You can have one with kittens or something on it. I’ll buy it for you.”

  I think about this for a moment. “All right,” I conced
e, and start writing.

  He places a hand, fingers splayed, in the center of the page, and I have to stop writing and look at him. “I wasn’t asking.”

  My insides quail. “Yes, daddy,” I whisper.

  His mouth quirks, and he looks at me a moment as if he’s forgotten what he’s doing. I roll the kitten figurine at the top of the pen against my lips, hoping he’ll go on forgetting.

  “Stop it. You can’t wrap me around your finger like that.”

  “I can try,” I say, smirking.

  He taps his forefinger against the page and I finish what I was writing.

  There are more rules, and he rattles off the rest of the list. No eating on the couch, except treats. No eating in bed, ever, unless it’s my birthday. No staying up after eleven unless it’s a date night or a special occasion.

  “I suppose I should add something about tidiness seeing as you’ve told me you’re messy. Glasses go in the dishwasher. Dirty clothes go in the hamper. Towels go on the towel rails.”

  “I know where things go,” I mutter, writing it all down.

  “Oh, yes? I can just hear you saying, ‘But, daddy, it isn’t on the list,’ in that sweet little voice of yours the second I tell you to do something that you haven’t written down. Speaking of, the list isn’t exhaustive. I think you should add ‘Do as daddy says’ last of all. And underline it. Put hearts around it if you like. Good girl. Any questions?”

  I look down the list. Everything seems doable, even though he’s taken all my sugary things away from me. And the rules aren’t as controlling as I thought they’d be. “There are no rules about what I can and can’t wear, or if I have to get a manicure or a wax or whatever,” I muse.

  He frowns. “Did you think there would be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Babygirl, these rules aren’t so I can dictate how short your skirt is or how you look. I want you to be you. The rules are for your well-being. So you don’t get sick or tired or learn bad habits. Okay?”

  I think about this. “Okay.”

  “Good girl. Go put them on the fridge. There’s a magnet for you.”

  It’s a kitten magnet, of course. I fix the sheet of paper to the fridge with it. He comes up behind me, puts his arms around me and kisses my neck.

  I trace what he’s written with my fingertips. “I like your handwriting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I see you writing by hand a lot. Why is that?”

  He scoops me up and carries me through to the couch and sits down with me on his lap. “It relaxes me. I don’t like emails. It’s surprising how much business correspondence you can get done through the mail when people just accept it’s the way you communicate. And I like using my hands.”

  I trace the pads of his fingers. I like him using his hands, too. They are almost twice the size of mine and very firm. “What else relaxes you?”

  “You, when you’re good. Would you like your present now?”

  My eyes go wide, as if I haven’t seen the pink box sitting on the dining table. “What present?”

  He tweaks my nose. “Cheeky. Go and get it.”

  I do, and we sit together as I open it. “What is it?” I ask, pulling off the ribbon.

  “Well, you’ll see in a second,” he drawls.

  I tear off the paper and open the box, which is about the size of a shoebox, and see an assortment of pretty, pastel-colored things. Grinning, I start sorting through them.

  “They’re just some things I saw when I was shopping yesterday that I thought you would like,” he explains.

  I pull out a packet of white thigh-high stockings and look at the picture on the front. “Oh my god, these stockings have pink cat toes on the feet. I am going to die of the cuteness.”

  There’s also a tiny pink-and-white lace slip from Victoria’s Secret. A length of fine white rope that confuses me, until I remember the rope that he had in his desk, and I blush. Half a dozen OPI nail polishes in pastel and glitter shades. “Ooh, the good stuff,” I enthuse, looking at the little bottles. “You’ve got good taste in nail polish. But I can’t wear it, remember? That’s one of your theater rules. No nail polish unless it’s part of your costume.”

  “You can wear it on your toes,” he points out.

  “True.” I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. “Thank you, daddy.”

  “You’re welcome, babygirl.” He rubs my arms a moment. “Would you like to try the slip and the stockings on?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Would you like me to help you?”

  I’ve imagined being naked with him a hundred times, though now the time has finally come I’m aware that it’s broad daylight and in his living room. He’ll be able to see everything and there are no blankets to hide behind. But I trust him, and he’s being so gentle with me that I smile and say, “Yes, please.”

  He kisses me again, softer this time. My eyes close as he seeks out the zip at the back of my dress and slides it downward. He tugs the dress over my head and then sits back to look at me. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  “Beautiful,” he murmurs. With a forefinger he traces my collar bone from one shoulder to the other, feather light. “Are you okay, babygirl?” he murmurs.

  I nod, and even though he’s watching me closely it’s a good sensation.

  “Want me to go on?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Reaching behind me he unhooks my bra and slips it off, and then slides my underwear off, as well. I’m naked. On his couch. And he’s looking at me. I like the warm, gentle look in his eyes, and I love the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable before him, especially when he’s looking at me like I’m something very delicate and precious. He reaches for the slip and helps me into it, and then carefully rolls each stocking up my legs. I point and flex my feet, looking at the cat toes. They’re as cute as I expected them to be.

  He swallows. “Well, you look...”

  Before he can finish, I move toward him and straddle his lap. His hands rest lightly on my waist. I like how careful he’s being with me, as if he’s worried he might be going too fast, or making me uncomfortable. But he’s not. Mostly he’s making me horny.

  “I want to see you,” I whisper, my finger hooked over the top button of his shirt. “Can I take off your shirt?”

  He nods, and I tackle the buttons one by one. When they’re all undone he leans forward and shrugs out of the shirt. I trace my fingers down the hard lines of his shoulders and arms. He’s broad and strong, with dark, springy hair at the center of his chest and trailing down over his belly.

  I run a finger under the waistband of his jeans. “I, um... Can I see all of you?”

  He smiles and kisses me, and then lifts me off his lap and stands up. I watch as he unzips his jeans, pushes them down and kicks them off.

  “You’re not wearing any underwear,” I say, for something to say more than anything.

  He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “It’s my day off, too.”

  I want to tell him he’s beautiful naked. Because he is. His thighs are strong and he’s lean. He’s also very hard, and larger than I expected. I reach out and caress the length of him, and he tips his head back and groans. I have no idea what I’m doing but I like his reaction and I want to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel. I watch him closely, then lean forward and lick the tip of his cock. He quickly looks down at me and buries his hands in my hair.

  “Fuck, babygirl.”

  I lick him again, and his hands tighten in my hair. Then I start to stroke the length of him. His breathing deepens, and he guides my hands so they squeeze him tighter and focus on the end inches.

  He rubs his thumb over my lower lip. “Christ, you’re going to make me come in a minute. C
an I come all over that pretty slip of yours?” I nod, smiling, liking how dark and unfocused his gaze is becoming. It’s a sort of power, watching him lose control for a change. He presses his thumb into my mouth and I suck it, and he groans.

  I alternate stroking him with my hands and licking him, growing bolder as I listen to his breathing grow harsh. I watch him, fascinated, as I move my hand back and forth. His head is thrown back and his muscles are tensed as he holds tight to my hair. There’s something powerful about being able to do this to him, and when he comes, I watch, fascinated.

  When he comes back to earth he leans down and kisses me, and then rubs a finger over the come that’s spilled over my collarbone and slip. “Look at that. I’ve got you all dirty.”

  He scoops me up in his arms and carries me into the walk-in shower in the bathroom. “Pull that one,” he says, nodding at a lever. I do, and water shoots down on us. It’s cold at first, and I squeal, but it quickly warms up.

  He peels the slip from my body, and then the stockings, and then he soaps me all over with a sponge. I find myself grinning up at him. All these firsts that might have been strange and scary are not with him. Feeling brave, I take his hand and place it between my legs.

  “Do you want to come, princess?” he murmurs, and he smiles against my cheek.

  I think of all the rules he’s given me, the time he’s spent disciplining me, and I wonder that such a large, austere man can be so gentle, so patient. I feel not only his arms around me, but the warmth of his affection and care.

  I nod, wriggling against him, eager for him to touch me. “Please, daddy.”

  He pushes two fingers between my cleft, and back, and then stops himself as if he’s remembered something and clutches my shoulders. “Jesus Christ, I want to put my fingers inside you.” But he doesn’t, and instead he turns me around, holding me tight against his chest with an arm around my waist, and uses the middle finger of his right hand to rub circles on my clit, like I’ve told him I do.

  I come in minutes, arching hard against him while he holds me tight against his chest where nothing else can touch me.

  * * *

  A short time later I’m bundled in a blanket on the couch, wearing one of his T-shirts. It’s soft and large and makes me feel small. I watch him pull his jeans back on.