When they got to his house, they didn’t go upstairs right away. He kissed her inside the door, then in the living room, then in the kitchen, and in the hallway against the wall. Each time he kissed her, he took off another item of her clothing—her shoes, her dress, her slip, her tights, her bra and panties. Everything but her ring. Every kiss seemed to bind them closer together. Every kiss said, this is for life.
When she pressed against him, aching for his possession, he lifted her in his arms and carried her upstairs to his bedroom. There was no slave pose this time, no slowly building scene. They were on some other plane tonight, where he tossed her on the bed and ripped off his clothes and came at her. She melted as he pinned her hands over her head. He spread her legs with his knees and paused with his cock at the entrance to her pussy.
“Sometimes I don’t want to hurt you,” he sighed. “I just want to be as deep inside you as I can be.”
“Oh, Master, yes.” She tried not to cry out as he pushed inside, but it felt so good, the way he stretched her pussy. The air ducts, remember? Don’t be noisy. Don’t scream for more, more, more…
“More,” she cried. “I want this forever. I want you inside me forever.”
He let go of her hands and muffled her babbling with another kiss. Yes, please, yes. She wrapped her legs around him and clung to him, tangling her fingers in the softness of his hair. Body to body, he took her with a violent, demanding passion that left her breathless. She squeaked when he bit her on the lip and then begged him to do it again. His cock filled her, harder, deeper, lifting her with each thrust.
He’s turning me inside out. They were back to exchanging power, back in their comfort zone, and now there was even more joining them together. A commitment, a promise. Was this really happening to her? It seemed her life was a constant swing of the trapeze, from depressing problems to the joy of Jason’s love. He’d given her a ring. They were bound together as he said, perhaps even bound for marriage one day. In all the big world, from Mongolia to California to Paris, they’d found each other, found a perfect match of personality and desire. And love, always love.
She stared into her Master’s eyes and for long delicious moments, the Exhibition, Vegas, Baat, none of it mattered. All that mattered was Jason and his mastery of her, and his life force pressing inside her, and their soul-deep bond.
Chapter Twelve: Exhibition
Sara and Baat had a short practice the next day with Theo, a final run-through. It went pretty well, as well as could be hoped with nerves and anxiety. “Just relax,” Theo told them. “Be proud of your strength. Be proud of what you can do. Most of all, let the directors see the possibilities in your art.”
Sara loved the sound of that. Possibilities. It seemed all of life was possibilities, especially now that she wore Jason’s ring. She showed it to Theo and Baat after practice. Baat, as usual, couldn’t care less, but Theo smiled and congratulated her. “He loves you very much,” he said, then he leaned closer. “You know what this is, yes? A collar for your finger. Lucky girl.”
Lucky didn’t even cover it. Sara felt euphoric. Here she was at the world’s top circus, in love, inspired, and about to perform in an Exhibition for the top brass. Around them, hallways and rehearsal spaces buzzed with activity. Several new acts were making their debut today at the Cirque’s multi-purpose auditorium, including acrobatic acts that Jason had worked on. He was busy prepping those athletes, so she didn’t have a chance to be with him before her performance. He was still with her though. She put on her emerald green finery and glittering makeup with last night’s “performance” playing vividly in her mind. All the passionate kisses, and the way he’d held her close… She loved when he was rough and masterful, but she loved his romantic side too.
Even with her daydreaming, Sara was ready early, almost an hour before stage call. Baat had disappeared after he rolled his eyes at her ring. She hoped he was somewhere getting charged up. If only this performance would go well... If only they could get to Vegas, where both of them could be happy. Baat liked partying, he liked showgirls, even the casinos.
Hmm. Baat and casinos. Sara wasn’t sure about that.
She wandered the halls, buoyed by her fellow performers’ encouragement and smiles, and ducked into one of her favorite conference rooms, a quiet, uncluttered space. She sat down in the dark, being careful not to snag the rhinestones on her costume.
“Mademoiselle. What a pleasure.”
The deep, rumbling voice was Lemaitre’s. She leaped to her feet and searched the shadows, finding him not ten feet away. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?” she gasped.
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?” he countered. Even in the dim light, she could see his smile and his casual shrug. “Like you, I came to escape the hullabaloo outside. To gather my thoughts before the Exhibition.”
His voice sounded tired. This was nerve-wracking for her, but how much more nerve-wracking for him? She only had one act to concentrate on. Mr. Lemaitre had to coordinate all of the coaches, staff, and performers, as well as his team of directors, and somehow keep everyone content.
“How have you been, Sara?” he asked in the silence. “All is well?”
She looked down at her costume, which was really his costume. Everything she had came from him, even Jason, in a way, because Lemaitre was the one who had sent him to Mongolia. She tried to think of what to say to such an exalted person, something clever and engaging that might make her stand out from the other performers, but she couldn’t summon a word. All she could think about was the way he’d scowled outside his back room at the Citadel, and the way he’d ordered her out.
“Everything’s fine,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.
“Are you looking forward to performing today?”
“Yes, we’ve been working hard. I hope you like the act.”
He smiled again, a tight smile that made her wonder if he was thinking about the Citadel too. I don’t need your sex club. Jason loves me. She didn’t have her ring on. She couldn’t wear it while she was performing but she wished she had it to flash in Lemaitre’s face.
“Hard work is good,” he said in his smooth, French-inflected lilt. “Will you walk with me to the theater?”
He posed it as a question, but she couldn’t realistically say no. He opened the door for her and light streamed into the room, illuminating the sparkles on her costume.
“How beautiful you are,” he said, gesturing her into the hall beside him. “But green isn’t your color. You should be wearing blue.”
“They didn’t give me a choice.”
“Ah, yes. Sometimes at Cirque you have no choice. Not the choices you want, anyway.” He guided her around a milling group of performers, ignoring their curious looks. “There is always the conflict of what the ego wants, and what is required by the greater group.”
At once, she thought of Baat. Selfish. You’re so selfish. Did Lemaitre think so? Maybe that’s why he didn’t allow her at the Citadel. She made some ambivalent noise as they turned into a quieter hallway.
“And how are things with Mr. Beck?” he asked. “Still pleasant in your world?”
What business is it of yours? If he was fishing due to his own interest, he could forget it. She’d never give up Jason for a cold, haughty Master like him. “Things are great with me and Jason,” she said, lifting her chin. “He gave me a ring last night.”
Lemaitre’s eyes went wide. “A ring? An engagement ring?”
“Well, no.” Sara felt a flush spread out from her ears. “He said I’m too young, that we need to wait a little longer. But it’s a promise ring. A bond between us.”
“A bond.” Lemaitre pursed his lips. She could tell he was unhappy, even when he forced a smile. “What a nice way to put things.”
“We’re in love,” she said. “We’ll probably get married, just not...yet.”
“It’s good of him to give you some time to grow. In the scheme of life, you’re little more than a girl.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“An infant then.”
“No, a grown woman.”
“Hm.” That was all he said. Hm, with that lofty tilt of his aristocratic nose. Why was she arguing with him? And why must he stare at her so intently every time she met his eyes?
“I should go find Baat,” she said as they approached the theater lobby. Lemaitre nodded and bid her goodbye, and then she felt guilty for being so snippy with him. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Lemaitre. He just made her uncomfortable with his probing questions and assessing stare. He might be Master over everyone at his circus, but he’d never be Master over her.
She touched her ring finger, remembering last night’s heated whispers and caresses, and headed backstage to prepare for the show.
* * * * *
Jason and Kelsey sat eight rows back, near the middle. The previous seven rows were filled with a chatting, laughing, babbling assembly of Cirque bigwigs and directors who’d flown in from all over the world. The Exhibition always had a celebratory feel. New acts, new artists to admire and nurture, fresh material for aging venues. So why did Jason feel nervous rather than celebratory?
“Stop bouncing,” said Kelsey, pressing down on his knee. “Everything will go fine.”
Jason’s acts were ready, Sara was ready. He didn’t know why he felt this agitation. Maybe because Theo was in an especially long conference with Michel Lemaitre down on the end of the first row. He couldn’t see Lemaitre’s face, only Theo’s carefully controlled reactions to whatever he said. A moment later, the conversation came to an end and Theo climbed the stairs, sliding into the chair on the other side of Kelsey.
“What’s the news?” Jason asked.
Theo grimaced. “Lemaitre is waffling about Cirque Brillante again. He wants Baat and Sara to go, he wants to wait, he’s not sure if it’s the right place for them.” He bent closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I think he doesn’t want his little daughter too far away from him.”
Kelsey shook her head. “Someone should tell her. Just tell the poor girl. I would want someone to tell me.”
“It’s not my secret to tell, or yours,” Theo warned his wife. “It will come out eventually, when the time is right. Let them work out their own affairs.”
Jason stayed silent. Would it come out? When he looked at Sara now, he saw so much of Lemaitre in her features, he couldn’t believe everyone didn’t know. More and more, he agreed with Kelsey. The deception bothered all of them, especially Jason. He ought to tell her, but what would happen then? What would be the emotional damage for Lemaitre, Sara, even Jason when she realized he’d kept quiet about it? It could be devastating. When he thought about it that way, he thought Theo was right. Lemaitre was the one who should have to tell her and deal with the fall out. It was his affair, no one else’s. As loyal as Jason was to Sara, he wasn’t sure it gave him the right to “out” his boss.
Kelsey held his bouncing knee again. “Stop it, seriously. Or go sit somewhere else.”
Shortly after that, the lights dimmed and the Exhibition got under way. The first act was a strength act, anchored by two women rather than two men. Every fifteen seconds or so, Kelsey breathed “wow” until Theo held up a finger to silence her. The next act was a completely crazy hoop thing, then a banquine routine that Jason had consulted on.
Between each act there were pauses for performers to introduce themselves, to take questions, to display their equipment, then the next act would need time to set up. Jason waited impatiently as the show dragged on, enduring Theo and Kelsey’s bemused looks. Finally the stage crew pulled out Sara and Baat’s safety mat, cleverly disguised as a dragon boat. Their red trapeze drifted down from the rigging on automated pulleys, Baat sitting on one side, Sara posed on the other. Their preview act was loosely based on an Asian-nature theme, complete with plinking Chinese music and a river and moon projected onto the stage.
Jason relaxed as the act got underway. The presentation was beautiful, with the red and green colors and their striking dark hair. Sara looked strong and confident, and even Baat looked good in his laced-up emerald leggings. Jason had never seen it all together with the costumes and music, and thematic staging. Her costume made sense now. She looked like an ancient jeweled goddess under a mysterious moon. Jason could see Theo’s expertise all over the act, in Sara and Baat’s movements and transitions, in the small, meaningful things they did. He became so lost in the flow he didn’t see the first mistake happen. He only saw Sara twist and grab for Baat’s arm in a jerky movement.
“Was that supposed to happen?” Kelsey whispered.
“No,” Theo said, leaning forward in his chair.
Sara regained her momentum, found her groove again, and the act resumed. But moments later, it seemed to unravel completely. Their moves became stilted, tentative. Jason could see the panic on Sara’s face even from the eighth row.
“Stop. Stop,” Theo whispered. “Something’s wrong.”
Sara did a somersault and Baat almost missed her ankles, grabbing for them in an uncontrolled way. Theo shot to his feet in the darkened theater, jumping over chairs and spectators and rushing toward the stage. “Stop! Stop the act. Something’s wrong with him.”
Jason bolted after Theo, pushing past anyone in his way. Theo called to Baat from downstage. “Stop! Lift Sara up to the bar.” Jason could hear Sara hissing at Baat over the rising hubbub from the audience.
“Shut off the music,” Lemaitre boomed across the theater. “Stop the act.”
Sara stopped then, hanging limp from Baat’s hands. He’s going to drop her. Fucking Christ, what if he drops her? A moment later Sara had swung herself up to the bar, and climbed to perch on the narrow length of wood. Baat settled beside her, slouched over, glaring down at the audience. Slowly, the trapeze began its ascent into the rafters.
“No, not up. Lower it,” barked Lemaitre. “Bring them down.”
The theater was in an uproar. Twenty people were on stage now, ranged around the apparatus, and forty more milled in front of the seats. Jason stood right under Sara. He’d catch her if he had to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Theo slip away through a side door, his shoulders up around his ears.
“Sara,” he whispered. When the trapeze arrived at stage level he caught her in his arms, hugging the solid, intact shape of her. “Are you okay? Is everything okay?” He went into coach mode, checking her joints, her shoulders and elbows, wrists and hands. “I thought you were going to fall. What the hell happened up there? What was Baat’s problem?”
She shook her head, bursting into tears. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened.”
While Jason tried to console Sara, Lemaitre spoke to Baat, demanding explanations. His gaze burned dark as the depths of hell. Since Sara was bawling too hard to translate, the men fell into pantomime. One of the directors made a drinking sign, the universal gesture of tossing one back, and Baat nodded ruefully.
Jesus Christ. He’d been drinking. Baat had taken Sara fifty feet in the air and performed with her while he was inebriated.
Jason didn’t think. He let go of Sara and lunged at Baat, tackling him to the painted safety mat. The man’s breath blew in his face, saturated with alcohol. This cushy surface was bullshit. Jason wanted Baat to hurt.
“You could have killed her,” he yelled, throwing him off the mat and onto the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He ducked as Baat threw a fist, then they were rolling across the stage, grappling, punching each other. Jason didn’t feel anything, didn’t think anything, just pummeled Baat with the metal taste of adrenaline in his mouth. Baat snarled in Mongolian, his diatribe rising over panicked shouts and screams. Jason didn’t care what Baat had to say. All he cared was that Baat had gone up on the trapeze with Sara while he was full-on drunk, and almost dropped her on her head.
It was bedlam, with artists and staff shouting, and Sara bawling, and someone blowing a whistle, loud and shrill. Finally Lemaitre wrenched him and Baat apart an
d stood between them. “Enough. That’s enough.” His voice rang out sharp as a gunshot. The entire auditorium went silent, except for a few muffled sobs. “No more trapeze in Paris,” he shouted. “This is why. It’s cursed, and I tell you now, never again.” He shoved Jason toward Sara. “Leave and take her with you. You,” he barked at Baat. “Go somewhere and clean up.”
Baat was bleeding, a steady stream from his nose and a swollen, mangled lip. Sara hid her face, a picture of misery in her resplendent green costume and headpiece. The trapeze rested on the stage, the ropes arrayed around it, tangled and twisted. This one wouldn’t rise again.
“Come on,” Jason said as calmly as he could. “Exhibition’s over.” With one final, vicious glance at Baat, he took Sara’s arm and guided her through the crowd of sympathetic gawkers to the locker rooms, and then outside into the oppressive August air.
Chapter Thirteen: How You Learn
Sara shed her costume beside Jason’s bed while he paced back and forth. Every now and again he stopped and rubbed his eyes, and shook his head.
“Where should I put it?” She held out the green leotard and the headpiece she’d crumpled in her hands on the way over.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Throw it on the floor. They won’t be used again.”
No more trapeze in Paris, Mr. Lemaitre had yelled. Never again. Sara folded the costume, her tears blurring the sequins and rhinestones together into a green blotch. After all her hard work, and Theo’s hard work, and everyone’s hard work to put the act together, she and Baat were finished. Over. This was a nightmare and there wasn’t any way to wake up.
“They won’t allow him back, will they?” she asked, swallowing a sob.
Jason turned to her, his eyes blazing. “Do you want him back? Really?”
She didn’t dare answer. Jason wasn’t only angry at Baat. He was angry at her too. He’d held her and soothed her all the way home but now...now he wanted answers, and she didn’t have them. She realized now that she’d fucked up, that she’d protected Baat one too many times.
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