The music starts again. This time I get it right, and I can feel his pleasure at my performance.
“Beautiful. Go to the barre and put the blindfold on.”
I'm sure that as long as he makes me come to him every week like this, the order to put the blindfold on will make me feel this way—this unbalanced nervous energy in my stomach. It's fear and excitement... anticipation. He's coming to me. What will he do? Will he touch me? Will he fuck me? His promise of soon has played all week on repeat in my mind like a background soundtrack to my life.
I stand at the barre, the blindfold in place, trying to calm my breathing. Again, I feel his approach before I hear it.
“Face the barre, and bend forward into a parallel stretch.”
I do as he asks, and a moment later, there’s a hard slap against my ass. I gasp. My instinct is to take my hands from the barre to rub the sting out.
“Do not move your hands,” he says, as though reading my mind.
I stay perfectly still, waiting for the sting to fade.
“That was for your error on Thursday. Don't do it again, or I'll punish you. Now stand upright.”
I do as he asks, trying to process what just happened. I feel the heat in my face, knowing he sees my blush. He spanked me. Like some misbehaving child, for a minor misstep onstage. I know, given my violent history with Conall, I should rip the blindfold off and try to run. But for some reason, I'm not scared. Even though he just smacked my ass, it's not the same.
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.
