The End

by Charlotte E Hart

  “If you could just point me in Mr. Jacobs direction, I’ll take my seat for the show,” I say, confused about what’s going on as I look around at all the maniacal people rushing around.

  “Oh, no, no. They watch, you perform,” he replies, his hand swinging a set of handcuffs around as if they’re part of an outfit.

  “What?”

  “The stage is set. Your audience awaits.”

  He says this as if there’s no question about me performing. As if no matter how much I look at the door behind me, aim for it, or even run for it, I will still be made to entertain in some manner. I glare at him, confused with the thought as he wanders over to a curtain. It makes me realise I’m backstage in a theatre, opening up my mind to what it is that I’m being asked to do. “I hope you’ve brought your best with you,” he says, smiling as he tips back the curtain a little to have a look. “We’re quite full.” What an idiot. If he thinks I’m going to be doing anything to entertain anyone, he’s mad. I don’t know why I’m here or who the hell this fool thinks he is, but it’s not happening. I swing myself round, aiming for the small door again, only to find the first guy standing in front of it, blocking my route.

  “Move please,” I snap, frustrated with the whole bloody thing. I’m very clearly in the wrong place.

  “Oh no, darling, one doesn’t leave. The only way out is via the stage, Alana.” I swing back to him, wondering how he knows my name. “Or there is the dungeon, of course. Harold, did we get rid of the last lot?” he asks, tipping his gaze to the man behind me. The man at the door shakes his head. “Still rotting in their chains then. We really don’t have time for this. Are you ready?”

  “What for?”

  “We want to see you shine. Fuck the crowd for me. Make them beg.” I’m aghast.

  “I’d rather damn chains and a dungeon, frankly.”

  “Easily arranged,” he replies, swinging his cuffs around his fingers. “Harold, if you could. One of the other girls will have to entertain our special guest.”

  “Who’s that?” I snap, slapping out at Harold’s hands as he reaches for me.

  “Your Mr. Jacobs, of course.”

  “Special?”

  “Do you know nothing, young lady? Oh good god, I do not have the time for this. “Merry, get yourself ready,” he shouts, slapping his hands together and discarding the cuffs. “He’ll need the black corset, thigh highs. And get your choker on.” I stand, bemused, as I watch the kafuffle of bodies suddenly rushing around. And then a woman walks out, her legs ninety miles long as she zips up some black latex boots. I stare again, still unsure what the hell is happening around me. “Yes, lovely.” She strips off her top, revealing perfect breasts and a minuscule bra. “Oh, no, that won’t do at all. Lyra, get the Stalin corset, the one with steel studs.”

  “I don’t unders—”

  “Ssh, ssh.” He flutters his hands at me, his body walking over to the woman. “Harold, get rid of her until later. Hair up,” he says, pulling a clip out of his pocket and fiddling with her auburn tresses. It’s just a whirlwind of movement. Corsets coming out of the wings, making mine look tame. Spray being sprayed. Lipstick being wiped from her face and what looks like a thick dog collar being strapped around her neck. I turn and physically shove Harold off me, my wrist wrenched from his hand again as he tries to manhandle me somewhere.

  “Is this all for Blaine?” His hands shoot to his mouth, surprise etched into his face as he spins on me and narrows his eyes.

  “Say that again?”

  “What? His name?” He nods excitedly. “Blaine.”

  “Oh, it’s divine. It falls so beautifully from your lips, too. When did he start letting you call him that?”

  Oh, I’ve had enough. This is all utterly ridiculous. These are the strange people I met in that club originally. They’re nothing like me, or Blaine for that matter. What happens between us is deeper than this, it’s more... I don’t know what, but it’s more than whatever this charade is.

  “Look, I’d just like to get back to Blaine and then you can all carry on doing whatever it is that you’re doing. Odd as it might be.”

  “Well, that’s out of those curtains, darling,” he says, slipping around behind me and taking the coat from my shoulders. “He’s out there waiting for you. The boys are ready whenever you are.”

  What boys? He flicks his hand at the other corner of the room, showing me two men sitting there, the pair of them eyeing me up as if I’m something to be played with. “Now, let’s have a look at you.” He prods at my waist, his fingers grabbing me and twirling me round on the spot until I feel sick. “Did he put you in this?”

  “No. Get off. Jesus, stop it, will you? I don’t know what the fuck this is but get the hell off me.”

  He stops his faffing around and comes back in front again, his finger on his lips, one hand on his hip.

  “You really don’t, do you?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t know where you are, do you? At all?”

  “No. I thought it was a show. I’m on a date.” Although, this is barely resembling a date so far. Still, I glare, hoping to show superiority above all this chaos around me.

  “A date?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s interesting. Are you special? What talents do you have?” Writing is my talent. Other than that, nothing as far as I can tell. “You must have something special about you for him to be so infatuated.” Not that I’m aware of. And infatuated? Hardly. “Well, never mind. We haven’t got time anyway. Let me give you a quick rundown of what’s happening so you can get up with it,” he says, his body spinning from me again and walking off in the direction of the curtains. “This is my cabaret. Look.” He tips the curtain again, waving his hand at me to make me look. “It happens four times a year. The room out there is full of sadists, ones who come together to watch whatever show I put on for them.” I peek out, looking at the array of guests, all dressed immaculately, just as people were at the party we went to. Old ones, young ones. Men, women. “Your prestigious Mr. Jacobs has only been here once.” I look around for him, not seeing him anywhere. “I’m hoping to impress.”

  “Why?” He looks at me aghast, as if I’m a moron of the highest order.

  “Because he’s the monster.” Really? I frown. He chuckles and looks at me again, his eyes scanning the length of me again. “One you clearly haven’t met yet, young lady. So, I have to entertain. You have been added. What can you do?”

  “This is horrendous. I don’t even know your name and you want me to go out there and do something for you?” He nods again, his fingers sweeping the curtain closed as he smiles. “And I can’t do anything, anyway.”

  “Can you come?” Oh my god. They’re all fucking insane. Although, yes I can, and it probably won’t be too hard given the non-orgasm that happened a while ago.

  “That’s none of your business,” I reply tetchily as I back away from all this insanity.

  “Tango?” he asks, two women hurtling behind him and holding up wigs and outfits for his perusal. He turns and looks at them, fluffing his hand at the first and grabbing a wig from the second. “So, Alana. Tango? Yes or no?”

  My feet continue to back away as he smiles, wholly unsure what the hell he’s talking about and wanting nothing more than to run. This really is wonderland, and I have a feeling I’m about to get very lost in it.

  Chapter 8

  Alana

  “B oys, tango.”

  That’s all he says. It’s enough for the two guys behind the women to stand and begin looking through a rail of clothes, one of them immediately pulling out something red. I stare, not knowing what it is that I should be saying or doing. I’m here to entertain a room full of sadists? Part of me is infuriated at the very notion, and still backing away from the madness, but the other is becoming more and more fascinated by the second as one of the men starts stripping down to his underwear. It’s appealing, making me halt and remember the feeling Blaine gave me in that ba
ck alley. Something inside me is shifting to the slut he asked me to be then, engaging with this new predilection that seems apparent every time he uses his dirty mouth.

  I wander over to the curtain again and pull it back a little, searching for him and wondering what the hell he’s playing at by doing this to me. No warning. No conversation. It’s expected of me. Like I should just do it with no argument. It’s true submission and Dominance, isn’t it? The thing I came to him to learn about. Not dissimilar to me making myself come in the back of the car, something I wasn’t allowed to achieve. Or any different to me kneeling, I suppose. I ask, you do.

  I scan the crowd again, nerves swirling around at the thought, hoping that at least if I can see him it might show me some reason why my brain’s nearly considering this as acceptable. I find him eventually. He’s propped at the side of the room, a small table beside him as he leans on the wall and sips a large glass of red wine. There’s a woman at his feet, kneeling with a tray in her hands. She’s scantily clad, a bodice of some description ratcheting her breasts out of her outfit. He’s as calm as he always is, not a hair out of place as he looks at the other side of the stage rather than at her, disinterested in her presentation. Others are quietly staring at him, whispering about him by the look of it as they tip their heads at him. Some frowning, others swinging their heads away the moment he turns his own towards them. It makes me scowl at them, irritated that they’d be discussing him in any way. I don’t know why. Maybe this just all seems less private than we’ve achieved before. Less private than he’d like. I know that about him. Something about him just doesn’t seem to fit here, irrespective of the status he apparently has. Just the two of us seems so much more intimate, loving if one could call it that, regardless of his non-acceptance of that fact.

  “Who are you?” I murmur at him, regardless of the fact he can’t hear me. He’s asked me that, asked me where I am. Who I am. Told me he’ll help find me again. And the more I stand here gazing at him, seeing a different man than all these other people, the more I want into his mind. I want that version he keeps just for me. The one that comes crawling out of him when he least expects it.

  I want to help him, too.

  “My name is Oliver.” What? I turn sharply, the garish yellow suit assaulting me again as he stands there with a comb in one hand. I didn’t mean him. I’m not interested in anything he has to offer. It’s the man out there I want. Apparently for that I have to go through these curtains.

  “Right, well I don’t care. How do I tango?” He looks slightly affronted. I don’t care about that either. The only person I’m remotely interested in pleasing is the one who seems bored with what’s going on around him. The one who’s waiting for me. “And I’ll need a mask. I’m not going out there exposed.” He smiles, a look of surprise suddenly etching itself onto his face as he chuckles and walks away from me. I follow, snatching a glance at my boys, who have miraculously transformed themselves into something resembling an Argentinean eighties porn flick. “And they look utterly dreadful. Make them change into something more suitable.” There’s another chuckle, this time rising to a laugh that makes me smile, too, as he hands me a red cape from the rail, his hands swishing away a girl who appears at his side

  “And now I see why he’s infatuated,” he says, as my fingers run over a long blue dress. “Not many would question me.” The long legged girl arrives, her studded corset now in place, her hair piled up into a high ponytail.

  “She’s not even his type.” I don’t know how I know that, but I do. I’m his type. I tempted him, woke him up again. She’s not me. It’s me he’s waiting for. Nothing else will garner a reaction from him. “You know nothing about him. Tell her to go away. She’s absolutely ludicrous. He’ll think you’re useless if you give him that.”

  “You’re a goddess,” he says, still laughing as he looks me over again. I huff out, glaring at the woman who dares to glower at me in response. I can’t even be bothered with her enough to respond.

  I spy a mirror and head towards it to do my make-up instead, wondering what the hell I’m letting myself in for. He follows me and holds a mask over my shoulder. It’s pretty. Lilac swirls of taffeta fall in soft tails around the edges, a flash of black around the eyes to match my dress. I nod, swiping a thin layer of clear lip-gloss on and clicking my head around to quell my nerves. He reaches forward and grabs some pins, then starts slotting them into my hair to hold the mask in place.

  “I could use a drink,” I say, looking at a bottle of champagne on the next table. The women sitting there stands and brings it over, her red clawed nails wrapped around the neck. She smiles and wanders off, not bothering to offer me a glass. I pick it up anyway, glugging from it like it’s my next drug of choice. Jesus, what the hell am I doing?

  “You will be something to watch, I’m sure,” he says across my shoulder, his hands working with the precision of a trained hairdresser.

  “I’m not sure about that,” I mutter, taking another swig and staring myself down in the mirror as he dusts something on my shoulders. “I can’t tango to save my life.”

  “Baby, they’re not here to watch you dance. They’re here to see you scream.” I frown behind the mask, knowing that’s not true, not of Blaine anyway. He can watch that in private. Has done. He’s brought me here for me to learn something about myself, not to entertain all those other people out there. “Is there anywhere the boys need to stay away from?”

  “What?”

  “Broken areas?”

  The words make me realise they intend on touching me, hurting me even. I don’t know why I didn’t realise it before. I turn and look at them, travelling my eyes down to their hands to see what damage they can do. It doesn’t scare me, but it’s not the same sense of anticipation I have when Blaine holds me. It’s actually revolting in some way, making me feel queasy. I swing back and glug some more champagne, hoping to dislodge the sensation.

  “Not inside me. Anywhere.” Christ knows where their hands have been. At least if they’re on the outside I can pretend it’s just dancing, get lost in the music maybe.

  Raucous laughter streams from in front of the curtain suddenly, making me gulp down yet more champagne. Jesus. I’m really going out there? Stupid. Utterly and categorically insane. What on earth is happening to me? There isn’t any version of Alana who would do this, either before the person I am now, or the one I have become. I cling onto the table, hoping reality kicks in at some point soon to whisk me away from all this. It’s got nothing to do with writing, nothing to do with who I was when I was young. I’m fucking lost in a whirlwind of emotions, neither knowing what I’m doing or seemingly caring for the outcome.

  “Ready?” he says. No. No, I’m not ready. I’m a mess.

  “You’re a beautifully twisted mess, Alana Williams.”

  I stare into the mirror, remembering him saying the words and trying to dismiss all the sound around me. It only takes a few seconds to see him reflected at me, just as he asked me to do. His face is calm, his mouth soft and ready for kissing. His eyes, still with that semi-permanent scowl attached. I smile at it, listening to his breathing, trying to regulate my own with it and find our rhythm together. My fingers soften their grip as I imagine his hands on me, the corners of his lips lifting slightly as he listens to my moans. He’s here with me. Even in the chaos happening around me now, I can feel him.

  I look at the reddening around my wrists, perversely enjoying the way it shines back and reminds me of him. I can feel him everywhere when I shut everything else off. On my skin, in my thoughts, inside me. I blow out a breath and close my eyes, letting his image linger inside me as I stand up and turn. I just need to keep him here with me, ignoring anything else that might get between us, these other two men included.

  “I’m ready,” I say, my feet moving towards the curtain in some sort of trance I’ve created for myself.

  “Just let them lead you, Alana.” I nod, barely able to discern his voice above the continued sound of Blaine
inside my mind. He’s all I can hear. All I want to hear.

  The two guys arrive beside me, their porn star outfits replaced with smart looking suits, akin to proper dancers. It makes me look at Oliver, amused that he listened to me. He smiles back and nods at the curtains as a heavy Latin beat starts around us, drowning out the bedlam further as the lights dim to pitch black. Tango.

  I suck in a breath again and leave my head looking at the floor as one of the guys wraps his hand around the top of my arm, his grip less solid than Blaine’s could ever be. The other one chuckles, making me snarl at him. If either of them think I’m scared, they’re wrong. There’s nothing they can do that I can’t handle, and if there is, Blaine will stop it. I know that. I know that because he said he’d help. I trust that about him, even if I don’t trust his heart completely.

  The beat starts low and gravelly, dragging its edges around the melody. It makes my foot tap, seemingly linking me into the sound as it begins to escalate. I’m turned to face guy one, both his hands gripping my upper arms. I don’t see him, though. I still see nothing but Blaine as I stare into his bland face and let the music ebb and flow. He sways me, left and right, the rhythm making my head nod from side to side, my hips joining in without care. I smile at the thought, listening to the darkening notes as they take me away and ready me for sensations only Blaine has provided before. It’s still pitch black as they all watch the guy smile and tighten his grasp on me, one of his hands lowering to my backside. I don’t care. They’re not his hands, not really. They’re Blaine’s. I can feel them as I start moving my feet, a light suddenly cascading down on me to illuminate us. I’m twisted and turned, my body pushed across the floor to the other. I spin, my feet tripping a little at the sudden rush that happens. It causes a ruckus of chuckles to come over the music, presumably at the poor little fuck toy on the stage. Screw them. That’s not happening here. I’m doing this for me and him, no one else. I search for him in my mind again, letting guy two maul me with his hands and trying to feel Blaine’s again, but it’s not coming. Nerves are interfering as I listen intently to the beat and feel fingers gripping at my waist. And then one hand drags up my leg, the touch of it on my thigh making my breathing escalate quicker than I would have thought. It makes me aroused, my legs widening without thought as I finally find Blaine’s hands again and let them guide me.