Chapter Thirty-Six The Performer
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Performer
The docks were different at night. During the day, they were crowded with gruff men, the shrieks of squabbling gulls, and the sloshing of water lapping at the posts. But at nighttime, it all went away.
The moon glittered through the water, the black expanse dazzled in the middle like some celestial spotlight. The only sound was the faint harmony of water whispering sweet nothings to the hulls of the harbor boats.
Even Arkady’s studio looked different. A simple old warehouse. The tall metal doors were dark and looming yet cracked open enough to emit a dim warm light.
The statues were gathered at the edges of the studio like a thistle-lined field, a thick tree line before an expanse, the mighty overseers of something peaceful, a haven.
It was a silly thought, but I was in need of something whimsical and unserious after the day I’d had.
Escapism might not always be the answer, but it remained the only place where I controlled the narrative—to express without being perceived, to desire without shame. Control was the ultimate phantasm.
I stepped out from the crowd of statues, my foot nudging something small. At the feet of the statues were candles of various widths and burns like the lining of a makeshift stage. The flickering shifted, casting shadows from the marble and clay creations—an audience.
In the middle of the studio was a form, a small speck on the stage.
I knelt down beside it to unfurl the discovery.
My old ballet shoes, with a sheer, gauzy fabric resembling gossamer wrapped around them.
The hazy sound of a phonograph, scratching to life before the music paced itself with ease.
With the fabric in hand, I looked up at the fogged window of the overseer’s office. There was a shadow of a man, the small cherry of a lit pipe.
A balletomane?
As I listened to the ebbs and swells of the recorder, I knew I recognized it. It was transitioning to the prelude to La Sylphide.
My heart throbbed; I could only close my eyes to take it in.
I took off my shoes, my skirt, and my top.
I hiked up my petticoat to put on my ballet shoes, flexing them after I tied off the ribbon.
The bare corset allowed my arms to be free yet my posture to remain intact.
The phonograph stopped. I stood in the middle, waiting.
The prelude began again, and I closed my eyes to feel it, to imagine how it was before.
The stage was a place to breathe, to stretch the mind and the legs.
I saw a dark expanse, only the small lanterns separating the stage and the unknown critics, the impression of chairs that disappeared into the auditorium, then the chandelier hanging above.
The stage, my stage. Despite the crowds that swell to see your performance, in the moment, you were alone in all ways that mattered.
With the gossamer draped over my shoulders and arms, I embarked into the unknown.
I moved to the center, standing up on the box of my shoe and lifting my arms, letting go of my tension to replace it with the music.
I kicked my leg back and fluttered to one side of my stage, moving my arms slowly as if they would lift me into the air, to imagine I was feather light. Turning, I went to the opposite edge, extending my arms, lowering and raising, stretching out as if to reach someone in the dark.
There was no feeling like a performance. To somehow translate music into dance, a language that most could understand with no prerequisite.
As I turned and stretched, the movements felt like I hadn’t even left the ballet. They were as familiar as a childhood meal, the scent of a parent’s cologne, the eyes of a loved one after too long apart.
I spun on just the tip of my shoe, holding the pose before I expected to come down—except I didn’t. Two hands at my waist, supporting me to make the moment last a little longer, to delay the conclusion.
I didn’t open my eyes.
His hands smoothed up to my rib cage, then along the undersides of my arms, and Arkady collected the draped fabric in his hands before pulling it over my eyes and tying it in back.
He smelled of cocoa, cedar, and smoke, and it wafted around me like a ghost, something to entice the soul and tempt me to follow. The blindfold allowed me very little visibility, especially in such a dim setting, yet made the space seem larger, grand with possibility.
He spun me gently, my hand in his as my body relaxed.
His hand touched my hair, then traced over the fabric of the blindfold.
In a swift motion, he lifted me in his arms, my hands steadying on his shoulders before he placed me down, seated upon a hard, smooth surface.
Marble. Shaped like a chair, I thought .
. . then realized it felt like a body, a male figure seated in a reclined, leisurely position, except there was a stone jutting out in front of my pelvic bone like the horn of a saddle.
My partner shifted, backing away from me. I couldn’t see much through the fabric over my eyes, just a vague figure leaning against the sheet of a covered statue, the small amber of his pipe lighting and dimming. I could smell it, he was so close yet unreachable.
“Arkady?”
“I don’t know that name,” he said, the sound of smoke blowing through lips. “I am simply an admirer.”
I swallowed, shifting on the marble. I felt the stone, smoothing my hands over the form to discern it. Legs, an arm, a chest and torso behind me. Which meant . . .
It was phallic—the horn.
“Don’t let an audience stop you from such a lovely performance,” he said. “Continue.”
“What do you want from me?”
“The better question is”—he approached, his voice getting much clearer, like the smoky scent—“what do you wish for?”
I held the cock of the statue, warming the marble between my palms.
He leaned in, my mysterious admirer. His bottom lip brushed against my earlobe, then my jaw. His hand placed my hair gently over my shoulder. “You’re not allowed off until the finale.”
The stone was smooth but thick. My hands squeezed around it, gathering what warmth I could muster to prepare. Though, it was the anticipation, the churning in my stomach, like the flutters you get before your cue behind the stage.
My hands steadied on Arkady’s chest as he lifted my leg and hip.
“A performance can be ruined by a stiff partner,” I joked, overcoming the heat that inevitably lit my face afire.
“It sounds like you need a new partner,” he replied, his hands holding me above the inanimate member.
The cold tip brushed against me, my hips moving forward to test how I felt between my legs, to see how relaxed I really was. I let it go in, just slightly. The cool material encouraged a tremor.
“That’s it.” Arkady’s hand gripped my thigh. “But I fear you’re being too modest.”
Then, he lowered me onto the cock, and my hand left his shoulders to cover my mouth.
He stilled, not moving a single muscle. I leaned my head against his chest, a shaky whimper escaping before I relaxed, a moment of recovery as my hands held on to his shirt. I could feel his bulge against my stomach, pulsing when I tilted my head up.
He brushed my cheek with his fingers. “How do you feel?” Though his voice sounded more like himself, as if he wanted to ask, Are you okay?
“I would feel better if it were you,” I breathed. My feet didn’t touch the ground from the lap of the statue. I had to spread my legs, thighs gripping the statue to lift myself up, then lower back down. “But I suppose I can pretend . . . for you.”
I held on to Arkady’s shoulder, steadying my movements.
“Is that what you want, sir?” I palmed his pants, feeling the pulse. I leaned up. “Do you take more pleasure in the thought of me or the visual I’ve created just for you?”
I heard him swallow, and I lowered myself back down on the stone. I let him go, leaning back on the lap of the stone man. As I moved, I put my hands to better use. Teasingly, I used both hands to lift my skirt, exposing only my knees.
Arkady touched my leg.
“No,” I said, “wait.”
I lifted it higher as I moved, exposing my mid-thigh. As I lowered myself again, I released a small moan, a mewl like some feline in heat.
“I suppose it is quite an experience to watch two masterpieces at once,” he hummed.
Even if I couldn’t see him clearly, I knew his eyes would be positively fixated on me. “So you prefer to watch?”
“There is no greater pleasure than that of a woman’s, even if only seen and never disturbed.”
“Truly? No greater pleasure?” I teased. “Not one thing?”
One hand on my thigh, the other cupped the back of my neck, pulling me slightly forward. He pressed me down, slow and hard on the marble piece.
“Do you still wish it were me?” His voice was low in my ear as the cock bottomed out. “Are you that desperate?”
I shook my head, his fingers laced in my hair.
“When I ask you something, you answer.”
“Yes,” I whimpered, my legs shaking from the repetitive motion.
“I’m not convinced.” He pressed his hand to the front, rubbing between my legs; it only made me buck against it.
“Yes! God, yes!” I cried, my hands balling in his shirt as I felt it coming, my focus bleeding into a blurry bliss. “Please!”
He yanked my face forward by the grip on my hair, kissing me so deeply, my tears of pleasure stained the silk of my dress. My tension tight, then blooming as relief washed over me, a pulsing inside as I settled onto the stone, my legs too sore to lift any longer.
Arkady let go of my hair, gently rubbing the back of my scalp and smoothing my hair down. I slumped against his chest, needing to catch up on my breathing, my body twitching from every subsequent touch.
“You did good,” he whispered to me, leaving a kiss on the top of my head. “You were perfect.”
I dug my toes under the quilt, leaning back against the window that took up most of the wall behind his mattress. Pillows stacked behind me, stowed away to make room for the spread.