Little Dancer

by Brianna Hale

  “Oh—ah, pud—dessert is ready.”

  “Okay, we’ll be right down,” I say.

  My father goes back downstairs and I get up off the bed and go to take all the stuffed animals off Rufus’s lap, but he catches my hand.

  “Abby,” he says, looking into my eyes, “I love you.”

  I stare at him. And then I burst into tears. Big, gulping, ugly tears.

  Panic flicks across his face. He stands up, stuffies falling left and right, and puts his arms around me. “Oh, shit, Abby, what’s wrong? Shh, it’s okay.”

  I bawl into his shirtfront for a minute or so, and then he digs a tissue out of his pocket and wipes my tears and blows my nose. He smooths the hair back from my face and looks down at me with bewildered eyes.

  I try to explain. “Every time I’m af-af-afraid of something—” I hiccup “—you just t-take it away.”

  “Sweetheart, what were you afraid of?”

  “That I l-love you. That I f-feel so much for you in such a short time and I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to. I don’t know what would have happened to me if I hadn’t met you. I honestly don’t.” I sniffle and look down at the soggy tissue in my hands. “I’m not explaining myself very well.”

  “You’re explaining it perfectly.” He kisses me and then smiles. “You love me?”

  I nod. “Since the night we first slept together, when I realized you like the whole me. The part that likes stuffies and the part that likes that red dress. I didn’t think anyone would ever be so accepting of all that I am.”

  “Babygirl,” he says, “how could I not be?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in his chest. A minute ticks by, and then he says, “I’ll go downstairs. You go to the bathroom and wash your face with cold water, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper. I catch his arm. “But I’ve cried all over your shirt.” He’s wearing a blue shirt and the tears show.

  He just smiles and shrugs and goes downstairs. When I come down my father and Rufus are talking about military history, my father’s pet subject. My mother’s eyes flick between Rufus’s damp shirt and my blotchy face, but she says nothing.

  After dessert I walk Rufus out to his car. He stops by the bonnet and turns to me. “If I tell you I love you again are you going to cry?”

  I shake my head.

  He smiles and strokes my cheek. “I love you, babygirl.”

  “I love you...” I look to the left and right, as if for eavesdroppers, and then raise myself up on tiptoe and whisper in his ear. “Daddy.”

  I watch him drive away, then saunter back inside, a silly grin on my face.

  My mother comes into the hall wiping her hands with a dishcloth when she hears the front door close. “Abby? Are you all right? You looked like you’d been crying when you came downstairs.”

  “I had been.”

  “Honey, why?”

  “He told me he loved me.”

  My mother’s face changes from concerned to relieved. “Oh, but that’s wonderful, darling. Why did you cry?”

  I shrug. “He just caught me off guard.” I follow her through to the kitchen and help her with the washing up.

  “He’s such a nice young man, Abby. I was worried at first, you know, because he’s in charge of the theater you work in and he’s a few years older than you, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect on how he treats you. So polite. To think he told you he loved you here, in the middle of dinner.” She calls out the good news to my father in his den, adding that it was in the middle of the dinner that she had cooked. To hear her you’d think that it was her dinner that had done it.

  She’s still musing on Rufus when we’re drying up. “There’s something about him that makes you understand how he’s managed to run a theater single-handedly all these years, and deal with you flighty arty types as well as all the finances and practical things. Something—” she searches for the right word “—authoritative. Have you noticed?”

  “No, Mum. I haven’t.”

  “Oh. All right, darling.”

  * * *

  “No peeking.”

  I grin as Rufus walks me slowly forward. We’re in his flat but I have no idea which room as he spun me about on the spot until I was dizzy. “Rufus, my eyes are closed and you’ve got your hands over them. I can’t see anything.”

  “Keep them closed,” he says again, his voice echoing. He drops his hands and moves away from me. I hear him pick something up and then he’s in front of me. “Hold out your hands.” Obediently I do, and he places something weighty and flat, like books, into them. “Okay. Open your eyes.”

  I do. I’m holding what looks like magazines tied up with pink satin ribbon and we’re standing in his spare room. It’s empty, and the windows are bare. “Where are your books? Your bike?”

  He shoves his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I got rid of them.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought this could be your room.”

  I stare at him, and then at the magazines I’m holding. They’re not magazines. They’re catalogues. I spy the names of department stores. Debenhams. Selfridges. John Lewis.

  “I was thinking about how you don’t have a space that’s just your own to be yourself in,” he says, taking the catalogues from me and leading me back to the couch. “You might not feel comfortable expressing yourself in a shared flat, and my apartment isn’t exactly to your taste.”

  “I love your apartment,” I say.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m glad you do. But I don’t want you to feel like a visitor. I want you to feel like it’s your space, too. So—” he puts the catalogues on my lap “—make it yours. However you want it.”

  I stroke the satin ribbon. Not since high school have I felt like I’ve had a space that’s been mine, that I could be myself in. “You mean that? Even if it ends up looking like a unicorn’s fairy tea-party exploded in there?”

  He strokes his thumb over my cheek. “If that’s what you want, then I’m happy.”

  I burrow into him for a moment, inhaling the warm scent on his shirt. “You always seem to know what I need,” I whisper.

  He kisses the top of my head. “That’s my job, princess.” He brings me a packet of pastel sticky notes and my pink-and-white notepad and pen and I get to work sorting through the catalogues, wish-listing furniture and cushions, fairy lights and bedspreads. I’m engrossed for several hours, my feet in Rufus’s lap as he reads a pop-psychology book. He absently rubs his fingers over my ankles. After a while he gets up and comes back with a beer for himself and a box of Pocky for me, and I show him what I’ve found. It’s a riot of pink and pastel purple and white lace.

  “Beautiful, kitten,” he says, and kisses me. It’s such a lovely kiss that I forget the catalogues and wrap my arms around his neck. Rufus feels my reaction and pulls me closer, and my mouth opens beneath his. When he pulls back he’s looking at me with a wolfish glint in his eyes.

  “What is it, daddy?”

  He feels behind the couch cushion next to him. “I bought you something.”

  I’m sure it’s going to be something naughty. “What is it?”

  “The tiniest, silliest pleated skirt I could find.” He pulls his hand out from behind the couch and he’s holding it. It’s pale pink and very short. He narrows his eyes at me. “Daddy’s going to fuck you in it.”

  His expression reminds me of how he looked in my dressing room when he told me what he was going to do to his spoiled little fairy. I reach for the skirt. “Can I put it on now?”

  “Only if you want me to fuck you now.”

  There’s no question about that and I stand up and wriggle out of my clothes. He undoes the skirt and holds it out to me so I can step into it. “Oh, kitten,” he breathes as I stand in front of him between his knees
. He smooths his hands up my waist and over my breasts, and then down over the skirt to caress my behind. “I’m going to do very bad things to you.”

  He takes me through to the bedroom and tells me to lie down while he undresses. Looking at me thoughtfully, he says, “But first I’m going to try something.” Sitting cross-legged on the bed he hooks both of my legs over his knees so that I’m spread wide before him. It doesn’t make me shy or apprehensive anymore, being exposed like this, and I’m wet with anticipation as he pushes two fingers inside me, right up to the knuckles. I bite my lip and moan.

  “Touch yourself, babygirl. I want you to come.”

  The little skirt gives me an idea, and I say, “But, daddy, I wouldn’t know how.”

  Something flares in his eyes, like the first time I called him that. “Oh, is that so? Do you want daddy to teach you?”

  I keep my expression innocent as he reaches for my right hand and sucks my fingers. “Touch just there, babygirl, and rub yourself in little circles like how daddy does with his tongue.” He moves my hand for me, then lets go and watches as I keep going.

  “Am I doing it right if I feel all tingly and warm?”

  His free hand flexes on my thigh as if he’s fighting to keep his composure. “You’re doing it right for daddy, princess. He wants to fuck you so badly right now.”

  I can’t keep hold of my virtuous expression any longer as his fingers rub hard on my g-spot. My back arches and my finger falls away as I come. But he doesn’t stop rubbing inside me and to my surprise another orgasm gathers quickly on the tail of the last one, deeper this time, and I come again even though I’m not touching myself. When it subsides I look up at him in surprise, breathing hard. “That’s never happened before.”

  He leans over me, bracing his hands either side of my head. He looks pleased, and more wolfish than ever. “I know. Oh, babygirl.” His fingers, still damp from being inside me, trail over my lips.

  “You look even more pleased than I feel.”

  “I am pleased. If you can do that it won’t be long until you can come when I’m fucking you, and I really, really want that. So will you.” His eyes narrow and he looks down at me. Suddenly he flips me over. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  I do, and he reaches into a bedside table and out comes the pink rope. He straddles me and starts binding my arms and shoulders, taking his time over the elaborate knots and twists. When he’s finished he gets up off the bed and goes out of the room. I hear a metallic tsing, and then the sound of a knife being sharpened. He comes back holding a small, pointed kitchen knife about three inches long.

  My eyes widen. “What’s that for?”

  He places it on the bedside table. “Safety.”

  “Safety?”

  “Yes. Yours. In case you panic and I need to get you out of the ropes quickly, or if your circulation is being cut off.” He lifts my hips and places pillows beneath them so that my ass is in the air. My eyes are still glued to the knife. Only a dom would bring a knife into the bedroom for safety.

  But I don’t have much leisure to think as he’s behind me, his tongue licking me in long, slow strokes from my clit all the way up to my ass. I squeal with the unexpectedness of it, as well as the pleasure. “Do you remember what I promised I was going to do, babygirl?” he says between licks.

  “Um. Fu—have me in this little skirt?” His tongue presses into my ass a little and I remember.

  “I’m already having that. I’m going to fuck you with the plug in your ass.” He leans over and takes it out of the drawer along with a small bottle of lube.

  I remember how strange yet pleasurable it felt the last time and my back arches. “Yes, daddy.”

  I hear him growl behind me. “Good girl.”

  The lube is cold and I gasp, but I forget about it as soon as I feel him pushing the plug into me. I bite my lip and moan as it slides all the way in. I’m completely at his mercy, bound and propped open and filled just how he wants me. His fingers are inside me again and he’s telling me how pretty I look in the skirt with the plug in my ass, all done up in pink rope, and then his fingers are gone and he’s inside me.

  “You’re so tight, kitten.” He reaches beneath me and rubs circles on my clit as he fucks me slowly. I can feel myself edging toward orgasm when he stops and presses on the plug.

  “Babygirl?”

  “Yes, daddy?” I reply, panting.

  “You look so pretty in your little skirt, done up like a little present, that daddy wants to fuck you in the ass.”

  My breath hitches. Doesn’t that hurt? Or will it feel good like the plug, but better, because it’s him?

  “Do you want to try, babygirl, if I’m very, very careful with you?”

  He’s always careful with me, especially when he’s testing my limits. “What will it feel like?”

  “Hopefully it will feel good, babygirl. I’ll stop if it doesn’t.”

  The look on his face when I pretended not to know how to touch myself was so enjoyable that I put on the innocent act again. “But you said I was your princess, daddy, and isn’t that something bad girls like?”

  “You’re my princess, babygirl, but you’re my slutty little princess who does bad things for daddy.”

  I wriggle back against him. “Yes, daddy.” He fingers my clit again and I can feel myself growing wetter as he slowly takes the plug out of my ass. I hear him applying lube to himself.

  “Are you okay, babygirl?”

  “Yes, daddy,” I breathe. His cock presses against me. It seems impossible, at first, and I’m both fearful and aroused as he continues to rub my clit. I feel myself give and he pushes forward several inches.

  “How does that feel?”

  But I can’t find any words except for, “Please, daddy.”

  “You want me to go on?”

  I bury my face in the pillow, nodding. He presses deeper and suddenly he’s all the way in. He’s holding my bound body tightly and he’s deep inside me. I’ve never felt so stripped bare, so vulnerable.

  “Good girl,” he moans, pumping harder, still circling on my clit. The pain is gone now and I cry out, louder than usual, “oh, god,” and “daddy,” and “oh please.”

  “That’s my tight little girl. You feel so fucking good, kitten. Are you going to come for me, baby, with my cock in your ass?”

  “Yes, daddy.”

  “Who owns your tight little ass?”

  “You do, daddy.” And I feel the swell of my climax and clench tight around him.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says through gritted teeth, and then I feel the sharp, violent thrusts of his orgasm.

  I’m limp as a doll as he withdraws and slowly unties me. He pulls me onto his chest and cradles me in his arms. “God, you felt like heaven. How do you feel, babygirl?” he asks, kissing my sweaty forehead.

  A warm, golden feeling has come over me, pleased and satisfied at the same time. It’s the feeling I always get when I know I have given him what he wants, and it has pleased me, as well. I enjoy the hungry way he looks at me and the fierce way he holds me and fucks me as much as I enjoy his sweetness and care. My legs are tangled in the loose ropes and I trail a hand across his chest. “Like nothing can touch me.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Oh, hell.”

  I look up from scrolling through Instagram on my phone. My mother is standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a stack of large stoneware mixing bowls when I wander in. Every surface is covered in china and glassware and all the cupboard doors are open.

  “Mum, what are you doing?”

  “I thought I’d clean out the cupboards before the first house inspection. Can you clear somewhere for me to put these down? They’re heavy.”

  I put my phone on the bench and begin to stack dinner plates togethe
r to make room. “Mum, they’re not going look inside the cupboards,” I point out. “Besides, the house isn’t even on the market yet.”

  “Yes, darling, I know, but it helps to be prepared. Could you start wiping down the pantry shelves if you’re not busy?”

  Dammit. I’m not busy. I grab a cloth and get to work. My mum is telling me about the village her and my father want to visit in Hampshire when I hear the buzz of a text message coming through and reach for my pocket. But my phone isn’t in my pocket, it’s on the bench. Next to where my mother is standing. I see her glance at it, absently, and then her face freezes and she turns white.

  I snatch up my phone and read the message. Oh, god. It’s from Rufus. Daddy.

  How’s daddy’s little fucktoy?

  Oh, crap. I look from my phone to my mother. She’s staring at me, but then looks over my shoulder for some reason. And then her face clears a little, like she’s mentally shaking herself, though she still looks like she’s seen a ghost.

  “It’s just—” I start. But what do I say? “Rufus—” He likes it when I call him daddy. Oh, god, oh, Christ, I can’t say that.

  She holds up a hand. “No, no.” And then she turns away, shaking her head, and goes back to what she what she was doing. Her shoulders are up round her ears and her hands are fluttering from one stack of crockery to another. Then she stops what she’s doing and walks out of the kitchen without looking back.

  I try to keep tidying up the kitchen, hoping my mother just went to the bathroom. My hands are shaking and there’s a sick feeling in the pit of my belly, and after ten minutes I realize she’s not coming back.

  I have to make this better. This isn’t supposed to be how things turn out, not when I’m so happy. I go upstairs and find her in their room, at the window. She’s staring out the window, one hand over her mouth. She hears me behind her but doesn’t turn round.

  “I’m trying to imagine the Rufus I have met saying those things to you. Calling himself your... He seemed like a decent young man. How he had us fooled.”

  “He is a decent young man. He’s a wonderful person.”

  She turns. “Does he talk to you like that all the time?”