Chapter 10 #2
“Y-yes, Sir,” I manage. I'm starting to really worry someone is watching us. At the same time there is this dark and decadent place within me that thrills at this possibility even as I'm horrified by it.
His mouth is between my legs again; his tongue is forceful, demanding.
He sucks on my clit. There is such a frenzy in him that it demands my body's response.
I grip the barre harder, but I don't moan; I scream out my pleasure.
If we aren't alone, there’s no question that my voice is heard all the way back in the cheap seats.
His mouth latches harder on me, sucking the liquid out of me as though he's drinking me for sustenance. Finally, I'm able to quiet my cries. But he isn't done yet. He pushes his tongue inside me like a starving man licking his plate clean.
Finally he stops. Finally he's had enough. “Relax,” he says.
I lower myself out of relevé, and bring my arm down to the side, my limbs trembling both from the effort and the force of my release.
I feel him stand up, and then he's petting my hair. “Good girl. Stretch. Loosen up. Then we'll do the pas de deux.”
I don't know what possesses him to think I can dance after that. Even with as much as his tongue took, I’m still dripping wet. This sensation is made more dramatic by the bare flesh of my pussy, still fresh from where he waxed me.
“I...I need clothes,” I say.
“No. You don't.”
I knew before I asked that he would make me dance naked again. I stretch, and move around. I do some pliés and a few rond de jambe.
“Here. Drink.” He presses a bottle of water into my hands, and I gratefully drink.
He leads me to the center of the stage, the music starts, and we dance. It's a miracle I'm able to dance, that I don't miss the steps and trip all over myself—not only because of the world-shattering orgasm I just had, but because of the worry that he wasn't kidding about an audience.
He's behind me, holding me in an embrace as the music ends. He leans close to my ear. “You become the music. It flows into you, and you flow into it. Dancers like you come along once in a lifetime.”
I flush with pleasure at this compliment. It's enough to make me forget the mind-fuck of wondering if we are truly alone in this space.
He guides me back to the barre, placing one of my hands on the wood so I can steady myself.
“Kneel for me like I taught you,” he says softly.
I do, and he strokes my face as he guides his cock into my mouth.
I suck him sweetly and obediently. I swallow when he comes.
It has become another point of etiquette between us.
Just as I would never falter in calling him Sir, or obeying his commands at the barre, I would never dare refuse to swallow.
There is something deeply and seriously wrong with me. The control he takes of me in these three hours each week is absolute. But outside of this time and space, my life is more my own than it ever was with Conall. I feel freer than I've felt in years.
And I'm so grateful for everything. For Conall being gone. For the police turning their attentions away from me. For the promotion in the company. For the pleasure I just received from my captor's mouth.
He pulls out of me and pets my hair. “Such a good girl.”
My face is turned up toward his waiting for more instruction.
“Are you on birth control?”
“Yes, Sir.” Birth control is an absolute necessity. An unwanted pregnancy can ruin a professional dancer's life. There's the morning after pill, and abortion, but we don't fuck around when it comes to birth control.
“Good. Stay on it.”
“Please...” I stop myself from begging again for him to fuck me, remembering the humiliation of the last time I asked and his rejection.
“I will fuck you when I'm ready to fuck you,” he says, knowing the words I forced back down my throat even though I didn't speak them aloud this time.
I nod.
I don't know how long we've been here tonight, but he guides me to the mattress. I don't know when it got on stage, and I wonder if it was there all along and I just didn't notice it before. Or maybe... someone else... dragged it out. I push that thought away.
I feel the brightness of the spotlight on me like sunlight as he lays me down on the mattress, spreading my legs wide.
He spends the next forever languidly stroking every inch of me.
He plays with my pussy, making me come so many times I lose count.
Just when I think I can't take anymore pleasure, he pulls another orgasm from me along with my desperate whimpers and grateful moans.
He removes my pointe shoes and then carefully massages all the tightness and tension out of each foot. I can't decide which is better, this gentle, yet firm way he's touching my feet, or the orgasms. I sigh in contentment.
He rolls me onto my stomach.
“Stay,” he commands.
I stay. I always stay. I'm so addicted to this stranger that it doesn't even occur to me to beg or run. My will is bound to him more tightly than if he'd used actual restraints.
He returns and sits beside me on the mattress. My cheek is pressed into the soft silk of the pillow. I'm so sated. He does that wonderful rubbing at the back of my neck, causing my body to loosen even more. His fingertips trail up and down my back and over the curve of my hip.
A moment later, a cold, wet piece of metal presses between my cheeks. I gasp and stiffen at the invasion.
“Relax, and let me inside your ass.”
The way he talks to me... something in his voice makes my body helplessly open to him. It makes me long to fulfill every desire and demand. The only thing I want is to please him.
I breathe slowly in and out in rhythm to the agonizingly slow way he penetrates me with this toy.
“Don't worry. I'll fuck you long before I claim your ass,” he says.
I want to ask: What is this thing between us? Does it mean anything to him? Does he think of me like I think of him? Does he long for me like I long for him? Or is this all just a game of power and control? Is this some private inside joke for him to enjoy at my expense?
Finally he stops. A mewl of protest leaves my mouth as he takes the toy away. Moments later, I feel cold metal around my throat.
“I'm ready for you to call me Master now,” he says.
“You will wear the collar any time you aren't at the company or performing—all of your private time at home. You will shower in it. You will run errands in it. When your street clothes go on, your collar goes on. You will sleep in it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” It's a whisper, and this time he doesn't ask for more. My fingertips stroke over the thin metal collar. He's slowly seduced me deeper and deeper into this... thing between us. I don't know what this means to him, but whatever it is feels more and more permanent with each passing day.
“Were there really other people here, or was it just us?” I ask.
He doesn't answer. Instead he says, “It's time for your shower.”
His footsteps recede. I wait an appropriate length of time and then take the blindfold off.
As the water of the shower heats, I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the shiny platinum collar around my throat.
The initials S. T. are engraved in the front.
I simply stare at those letters and ponder this new clue.