I need him to touch me. If he touches me, I can meet his demands for perfection. I can handle the pressure. What I can't handle is the thought that he might grow bored with me before I can prove I'm not a waste of his time.
Suddenly, his hands are in my hair, taking down the bun I so carefully put up. He runs his fingers through the long chestnut strands, letting my hair fall in loose waves around my shoulders. He pulls off my leg warmers and the soft canvas shoes.
I stand completely still as he slides the straps of my leotard down my arms. He takes the tights as well as he rolls the fabric down and off my body. When I'm naked, his hands reach around to cup my breasts. He tweaks my nipples, hard.
“Ow!” I cry out. But even though he just delivered pain, I'm even more aroused than before.
“Shhh,” he says. “You have to be punished.”
I wonder if that counted as punishment for one of my errors. Are there now only thirty-one small agonies left before he moves on to the next thing on his sadistic to-do list? What is wrong with me that I crave any touch from him?
He takes my hand and guides me away from the barre. “Kneel and spread your legs. Forehead on the floor. Arms stretched out in front of you.” He helps and guides me into the position he wants me in.
“Stay,” he says.
I take a deep breath as he walks away. I've spent the last week obsessing about him, fantasizing about him, wanting him to touch me. But now, the reality of my situation crashes into me hard. And I'm suddenly reminded just how fucked-up this is. He's going to hurt me. Conall hurt me. I thought this man was in control, but now I'm not so sure. If he isn't, what does that mean for me? And suddenly I'm crying again.
He returns, and I hear something heavy being set down on the ground near me. Then he sits next to me and strokes my back and that sweet spot on my neck, the same way he touched me in the shower two weeks ago.
“Shhh, you're safe,” he says. Which is so completely ridiculous. I am not safe. The police are asking questions. I'm kneeling naked on the stage of an abandoned opera house waiting to be punished for minor dance mistakes by a man I don't know. This is as far as I can possibly get from safe. But if the words put the blindfold on make me aroused, Shhh you're safe makes my entire body relax and press against his hand for more comfort.
Sensual piano music begins to play over the sound system. He lays something on the ground next to my hand.
“Explore it with your fingers,” he says.
This isn't a sexual command, but I swear everything he says now sounds like the dirtiest thing any human being has ever uttered. I move my fingers over long strands of leather, interspersed with ribbons. Both the ribbons and leather end in knots.
“It's a flogger,” he says.
He takes it away, and then I feel him standing behind me. I tense.
“Relax,” he says. “Just surrender to this.”
Why haven't I tried to fight him? Is this threat of blackmail really so powerful that I wouldn't fight at all? That I would barely plead? I haven't even done that tonight. I can't bring myself to.
I feel guilty for the thirty-two errors, even though they don't personally affect him. They displease him. I want to erase them. I want to be perfect.
I cringe at this thought, reminded of the movie I watched with Henry and Melinda. Suddenly I’m that neurotic girl on the screen. What would my friends think if they could see me now?
Drink. And then they'd toss back a shot in my honor.
I'm jolted out of my thoughts as he drags the flogger across my back. A tickling whisper of touch. This feels sexual. Intimate. And I realize I would rather he do this than not touch me beyond dancing.
The way he dances with me is intimate, but it's not enough. It's only a tease. Suddenly, I wonder about the women who have danced with him. Did he take them as lovers? I think it would be cruel to them if he didn't.
The flogger strikes in a stinging kiss across my back.
“Count,” he says.
“One.”
It hurts, but in a way I want to move closer to. It's complex, like a finely aged wine. There are layers and notes. Flavors. Like peach and vanilla if peach and vanilla were tactile sensations instead of tastes.
He falls into a rhythm with the flogger, and I fall into one with my answering count. I assume there will be thirty-two. It isn't painful enough for that to seem like torture. Each strike, followed by a number, followed by an echoing throb from my pussy. The longer this goes on, the more excited I get, the more desperately I need him to rut into me like an animal in the middle of the stage floor. All I can think about is that long, thick, hard cock pounding inside me in yet another dark rhythm.
When will he fuck me? When?
“Count!” he says.
