Chapter 5 #2
Everything he says, everything he does is nothing but control. Nothing is erratic or impulsive. It feels somehow safe. Conall was never in control.
“Did you learn the pas de deux?” he asks as if that didn't just happen.
“Yes, Sir. Mr. V. taught me. He danced it with me.”
He chuckles. “Did he? And how was that?”
“He's an incredible dancer.”
“He is. I caught one of his last performances with the Bolshoi years ago. Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To do the pas de deux,” he says as if this is the stupidest question I could possibly ask.
“I can't do it without a partner. Or... blindfolded. I can't dance blindfolded.”
Then he's there, right next to me, his warm breath in my ear. “Yes. You can. I won't let you fall off the stage. Just trust me.”
Trust him? I almost laugh out loud at that. As if I could ever trust this man. I push down the traitorous voice in my mind that says I already do trust him... a little.
He takes my hand and guides me around the stage to each of the marks we'll hit during the pas de deux, talking me through each piece of the choreography, then he leads me back to the center of the stage, turns me toward what I imagine must be the audience—or where they would be if this were a real performance.
“Head up, Ms. Lane. Never forget you are on a stage.”
The music starts. And then his hands are on me. He dances the pas de deux with me. I can do this blindfolded, which is truly the weirdest thing to realize.
His hands are nearly always on me in this piece.
He's always guiding me, steadying me, lifting me, or turning me.
But he's always there. I'm sure now he must be a principal.
But if he's a principal, how does he have box seats for the season?
He's not in Swan Lake. But then not every principal at the company is in this show.
But then I'm back to, how does he know this choreography then?
He's good. Really good. Better even than Mr. V. This is the best dancer I've ever partnered with. The fluidity of every movement, the certainty of each lift, each touch is exhilarating. His hands are large, strong. I feel like a fragile captive bird in his hands.
I'm suddenly thinking more about all of this than I am about the choreography. I stumble, but he catches me. I half expect him to spank me again, but he doesn't. He just cradles me in his arms.
“I told you I wouldn't let you fall.” He sweeps me up. We jump right back into the place where the music is, a few steps forgotten in the wake of my misstep. We dance as though that didn't happen, as if this is all perfect.
The pas de deux ends in an embrace. I'm dipped back. He's holding me. The music stops. And there is silence. He pulls me up to stand, facing him, even though I can't see him. Will he touch me? Will he kiss me? One of his hands is at my waist, holding me still in this embrace.
In this strangely tender moment, I reach up to touch his face, but his grip on my wrist is instantaneous, hard, and unrelenting.
A silent understanding passes between us in that touch.
I’m here to obey, not initiate, not make up my own choreography.
I am to perform the steps as they are given. This rule extends beyond dancing.
“I-I'm sorry,” I say. I've clearly displeased him somehow, and it bothers me more than I want to admit.
I want to say it's because he could report my crime, but some deeper betraying part of me is simply upset I've displeased him.
Even if there were no threat over my head.
.. I would come back here because I need to dance with this man.
I've never felt this kind of electric chemistry with anyone on stage before.
“Go to the barre,” he says.
Absently, I reach up to remove the blindfold, not thinking.
But he again grabs my wrist before I can complete the act.
He leads me over to the barre and places my hand on the smooth wood.
I both feel and hear him move away. He's rifling through my dance bag at the far end of the stage beside the table.
When he returns, I feel his hand on my thigh.
He slowly strokes downward until he reaches my ankle.
He begins to untie the ribbons of my pointe shoes.
This is when I realize he must be sitting on the floor beside me.
He’s silent as he removes first one, then the other.
He replaces them with my new pair of soft canvas ballet slippers.
He stands and steps back. Finally, he speaks.
“First position. Two demi-plié, one grand plié. Then I want you to go from that position into a kneeling position, keeping your legs spread and your hand on the barre.”
My breath hitches. And so it begins. This thing I knew was coming. This sexual price he wishes to extract from my body which right now is far more willing to pay than I ever expected it to be.
The music starts, a different piece. It's not from one of our ballets, but piano practice music often used for barre work.
I rest one hand lightly on the barre, not gripping it for support, only for balance.
My other arm gracefully sweeps inward as I lower my body into a demi-plié.
It's a gentle movement, not very deep. And then the second.
My heart hammers in my chest as I think about what may happen in the next few moments.
But I shove those thoughts away and concentrate on the movement.
The grand plié is much deeper, lower to the floor. And then from there, I let myself fall into the kneeling position he asked for, my hand still stretched up, holding onto the barre.
The music fades out. And there is silence.
“Who owns you, Cassia?”
“You, Sir.” I don't hesitate to give him this truth.
“Do you wax or shave your pussy?”
This may seem like a huge assumption on his part—that I do either—but most ballet dancers I know keep bare. Our leotards are so revealing—and costumes as well—that most of us want everything to remain smooth.
“Wax,” I say.
“Good. That's my preference.”
Excitement throbs between my legs. I shouldn't care what his preference is, but the fact that what I do is what he wants makes the place between my legs ache with need for him to possess this thing that has pleased him.
“When is your next waxing appointment?”
“In two weeks.”
“You will cancel it. I will be waxing you from now on. Do you understand?”
I can't think. I can barely make the words form, but I force them out because it pleases him to hear them. “Yes, Sir.”
I hear a zipper. He strokes my cheek in a mirror of what I attempted to do to him only moments ago.
“Now, Ms. Lane. You will open your mouth and accept me.”
His cock prods at my lips.
An erect cock is all rigid hardness with soft skin on top, but the softness is far softer than I remember, experiencing it now without the ability to see or have any distractions from the tactile sensation. I open my mouth, and he slides inside.
The way he's spoken to me from the moment I've met this stranger should make me angry. I should be offended or at the very least scared. But that voice. Those demands. The way he says these things... It all has a purely erotic effect on my body.
I'm so wet right now that he could slide into more than just my mouth without the slightest resistance. But that isn't what he wants in this moment. What he wants is me kneeling blindfolded and helpless at his feet, accepting him.
“Good girl.”
He's so gentle with me. He is large and hard and thick.
The scent of his body makes me want to mount him like a bitch in heat.
His hand is at the nape of my neck, guiding but not forcing as I mouth him, kiss him, lick him, suck and stroke him with my free hand.
I can feel how close he is with the hardening grip on my neck.
He's thrusting inside my mouth, and I accept him, taking him deep into my throat.
His other hand covers mine on the barre as though we’re lovers holding hands in a much more innocent situation.
He comes, and I swallow. It doesn't occur to me to do anything else even though I've never been that girl who swallows. I am that girl right now.
He pulls away, zips up. I feel bereft for a moment. I'm so wet and needing right now. I need him. I need him to touch me. He moves behind me, and his hands are on me.
I'm still kneeling, still holding onto the barre with one hand.
I need to hold onto something, so I'm not sure if my hand still on the barre is obedience or necessity.
He strokes my breasts over my leotard, and then his hand is grinding between my parted thighs.
He's on the ground with me, pulling me back, my body flush against his chest as he touches me.
This goes on for a few moments, then he stops and gets up.
“No! Please... please...” I whimper. He can't stop.
Why the fuck is he stopping? I know this is not the question I should ask.
If I were a good person, if I were a decent or sane person, I would be relieved by this merciful cessation of his hungry hands devouring my body.
But I am not a good person. How can I hold onto that myth any longer in light of the harsh relentless truth between my legs?
“Please what?” he asks, his voice hard again. And I can feel his distance from me. He's too far away for me to touch even if I reached out. And I want to reach out. I want to beg for him. I want to crawl.
“Sir, please... please... don't stop. Please.”
I'm still holding onto the barre. My arm is aching, but I can't bring myself to break the position he ordered me into. Mercifully, he takes that hand in his, and pulls me to stand. Then he leads me away somewhere. Off the stage... backstage... I don't know where we're going, but I don't protest.