Chapter 10
Ten
When I walk down the darkened aisle in the theater of the opera house, his voice booms out over the speaker. “Congratulations, Ms. Lane, I hear you'll be replacing Natalie. And the new Firebird. I hope you won't forget the little people... like me.”
Right. Like I could ever forget. Like he didn't orchestrate this.
I wonder briefly if he pulled the puppet strings behind Natalie's departure as well.
Did he know about the boyfriend? It feels like he knows everything about everything, at least at the company.
Did he nudge another dancer out and make room for her to audition so he could maneuver me into this role?
I shake the thought from my head. That truly is crazy. I know this guy has a lot of money and a lot of power, but he's not an actual god. Get a grip, Cassia.
“Undress,” he says. “Take everything off. I want you nude except for pointe shoes.”
Even though he's seen me naked, this request startles me and makes me self-conscious. “C-can I warm up first?”
“You can warm up in just the shoes.”
“Leg warmers?” I ask. “Please... Sir... I need...”
“I will allow leg warmers, but just until you're finished with your barre.”
I swallow hard. This man is both completely strange and completely familiar to me. There’s a certain shyness I'm sure I can never overcome until and unless I'm allowed to see this man's face.
I fear I'll never see it. He's a disembodied voice, hands, and cock. A swirl of demands, threats, and promises—interweaving pleasure and pain.
Dark strains of cello music play over the sound system as I take off my clothes. I sit nude on the ground and put my pointe shoes on. I slip the pink leg warmers over them, then rise with all the poise and grace trained into me for two decades, and go to the barre.
I wonder how far away he is. At what angle does he view me? Is there any possible angle of nude pliés that isn't grotesquely lewd? I push past these thoughts and complete the exercises. I wonder if he's stroking himself as he watches this. The idea excites me even as I know it should repulse me.
The music fades, and he speaks, interrupting my warm ups. “Cassia, have you ever paused to consider that I might not be your only audience? The theater is dark. The spotlight is bright. It would be quite impossible to know, not only where I am, but if I have friends.”
I freeze. I'm horrified by this idea. Embarrassed. Scared. I want to grab my things and run, but if there are others, what might they do? Could he stop them? Would he bother?
But behind the sharp tang of fear—this almost overwhelming sensation of anxiety and panic—is that old familiar throbbing pulse between my legs as my body grows wet at this idea, practically eager for an audience to voyeuristically observe my fall to this dark and powerful man.
Some twisted part of me wants an audience. Maybe it's an occupational hazard.
“You aren't finished warming up, Ms. Lane. Continue,” he says.
I consider my options and realize I have no options. Of course no one else is here. I know that. Intellectually I know that. It would be far too risky to bring others into this. But you can't tell this to my emotions. You can't tell this to my fear.
I imagine who he could have out in the audience.
Other powerful people, no doubt? Or people from the company?
Male Principals? Mr. V.? No, Mr. V. could never behave in the professional way he does with me if he were privy to what happens on this stage.
I feel the blush creep up my neck as I consider this.
I marvel at my ability not to cry, scream, beg. Not to flee from the stage. To simply stand at the barre and obey. I'm an utter professional.
When I've completed my warm-ups, he says, “Good girl. Put the blindfold on.”
The trigger.
I put the blindfold on and wait, my body surging with anticipation, wetness flooding me, preparing me for whatever he might choose to penetrate me with. Fingers, toy, cock, tongue? I'm ready for any and all of it as my ears strain to hear his approach.
As always, I feel him before I hear him—this almost extrasensory perception I have where this man is concerned.
“You did very well this week. Not only was I impressed with your performance the last time we danced together, but your technique at all your shows was flawless. I spoke with the decision makers after Friday night's performance. I paid the necessary money to free them from Conall's demands.”
“Were they worried about upsetting him?” Most people seemed to worry about upsetting my husband. I wonder if they had reservations even with the extra money to supposedly free them.
“I let them in on the gossip about your husband.”
“Gossip?” I ask.
“Irish Mob. Fled the country,” he confirms. “They were very excited to be able to promote you. V. was especially pleased.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I say. Because gratitude seems appropriate in this moment. I knew he made this happen, and so I can't not thank him. He just changed my life completely. He just made me the star of the company, a dream I thought would never materialize into solid reality.
All the roles I thought I'd never dance suddenly stretch out before me. Mine to claim. I could have a long, bright future ahead.
I flinch when his hand presses against my cheek.
“Shhh, you're safe.”
I really do feel like his well-trained dog. These commands he gives, my trained responses. How easy it is for him to calm me with a word, even in the face of this twisted arrangement between us.
He slowly strokes my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his touch.
“Does it excite you to think others might be watching? That someone might touch themselves watching me fuck you?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.
“Say it louder, cupcake. We want our audience to hear.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say louder. I still don't know if he's fucking with me. Is someone else in the audience? Of course not.
I may have committed a felony, but he's engaging in one as well. He can't risk anyone else knowing about this. It has to remain a secret. I tell myself this over and over, but suddenly I can feel other eyes on me. Is this my imagination? Or is it real?
I don't know the answer. The blindfold has sharply distorted my reality. Not being able to see him... to only hear him and feel him, to be this helpless and isolated, I don't know what's real.
“You dirty little slut,” he says. But his voice is an approving growl. “I knew you were the perfect slut to train.”
I'm not a slut. I've never been a slut. I've been shockingly chaste all things considered.
I've only slept with Conall. I wasn't in a convent or anything, but with dance, I never had time for much of a social life.
I could have and probably would have gotten involved with a dancer at the company eventually, but Conall was there first.
Which was my bad luck.
A year ago, when the full enormity of my situation with my husband had hit me, I'd realized with utter horror that he might be the only man I ever slept with for the rest of my life.
I couldn't imagine an affair—I was too afraid.
And I couldn't imagine him ever letting me go.
I would never know the touch of a man who knew what to do with a woman's body.
But this man now before me, this man whose hand still hasn't left my cheek... He knows. He knows exactly what to do with a woman's body. He knows every secret desire, every fantasy, even without me giving voice to it.
His hand slides down to my throat, gripping me, but not hard. It's an assertion of dominance, of his power over me. As if I need reminders. He releases me, his hand moving down to rest on my waist.
“Open your mouth.”
My mouth falls open, and his tongue sweeps inside.
He could have just kissed me. I would have responded without the verbal command.
But he enjoys keeping me on edge. He enjoys my obedience.
.. all the ways he asks me to make myself vulnerable to him.
All these risks he asks me to take in service of his demands.
He stops kissing me, and a moment later, his mouth is latched onto my breast, sucking my nipple into a hardened point. He steps back from me, and a whimper escapes my throat at the lost contact.
“Please...” I whisper.
“Second position. And Relevé.”
I'm so frustrated. Last week he promised me pleasure. He promised if I was good that this week would be all about pleasure, and he's teasing me. But I do as he says. I extend my arm out to the side in a gently rounded curve, move my feet into a wider stance, and rise up onto pointe.
“Good girl. Under no circumstances are you to break your lines.”
As if I would break my lines. I've stood up on pointe for ten minutes at a time to strengthen my feet.
People not in the dance world mistakenly believe that the toes take all the weight, but they don't. It's the box of the shoe supporting us.
A lot of it is strength, of course, but the shoes are at least half the magic.
I'm sure this will be easy. But then I shudder as his tongue sweeps over my clit. I gasp at the unexpected contact and almost falter.
He smacks my ass. “Lines!” he growls.
I hold my position as he takes his time feasting upon me.
He licks, and kisses, and plunges his tongue deep inside my welcoming body.
After he finishes this exploration, he returns his attention to my clit.
I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold, trying desperately to hold this precarious position he's put me in.
When I'm at the edge of my orgasm, he pulls away.
“No! Please... please...” It takes everything inside me not to move toward him, or at least toward where I think he is. I'm still holding my position. It feels like it's been a thousand years, but in all likelihood has been less than five minutes. I'm not tired yet, so it can't have been very long.
“When you come, I want you to be loud. I want them to be able to hear your moan all the way in the cheap seats. Do you understand, cupcake?”