He stands with me in his arms and carries me a few feet, then he gently lays me down on the dance tarp. The vinyl material is cool against my warm back and ass.
He leaves me for a moment. I'm dimly aware that the piano music is still playing. He returns and spreads my legs wide. I feel my face flame, knowing he will get a close-up visual of just how aroused I am. But he makes no comment about this.
He just quietly waxes me. I've had this done so many times that I just lie there, soaking up the warmth of the wax. I'm so used to waxing that the pain of it doesn't bother me. It's kind of soothing in a strange way. It's usually a huge endorphin rush, though I can already feel the endorphins flooding me from the flogger and the cane.
If he had started by waxing me, I would probably be more self-conscious, but after what just happened, something has shifted deep within me. I’m so completely his in this moment that although vulnerable and exposed to him, I don't feel what I expected to feel. It's as though my body truly is his, to punish, to pleasure, to groom in whatever way pleases him.
When he's finished, he cleans me off with a wet rag. It's cool. I have no idea where he got the water—maybe one of the water bottles that seem to appear by magic. I hear a jar open and smell the distinct scent of coconut oil. He massages the oil into my freshly waxed skin.
There is no possible way I can dance after this. I'll only mess up. I'll only earn more punishment. I'm about to say this, to beg for whatever small amount of mercy this man may have. But before I can give voice to these thoughts, he lifts me up and carries me to the table. He sits me in the chair and gives me water. Then he hand feeds me a ham and cheese sandwich. I'm not hungry, but I'm grateful for the food. It helps me return to myself after such an intense experience.
“Stay,” he commands.
I sit in this darkness behind the blindfold, waiting, straining to hear whatever he’s doing. I do hear things, like something being dragged across the floor. Something soft and thuddy more than hard and scrapey. But I have no idea what it is. I'm so tired. I just want to rest.
He returns to me, picks me up, and carries me a few feet. He lays me down gently on a mattress with soft silky sheets and a pillow my head sinks into. He covers my naked body with a blanket and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Wait ten seconds, then remove the blindfold. I want you to rest for a bit. If you fall asleep, I'll wake you when I'm ready.”
His weight lifts off the mattress, and I feel more than hear him recede into the distance. I take a deep breath and count to ten. When I remove the blindfold, I'm alone on the stage. I sit up and blink slowly. He's dimmed the spotlight so the light I'm exposed to now isn't overpowering, but is instead soft.
I lie back down and close my eyes and rest.
I don't know how much time has passed when he wakes me. I don't know what time it was when I lay down. I'm gently roused from sleep with warm lips pressed against mine, a strong hand stroking my breast.
“Wake up, and dance the pas de deux with me.”
I feel rested and refreshed, as though he timed my nap just right so he would wake me just after a REM cycle. I don't feel groggy. I do feel a little sore and achy from the cane and from the waxing. But otherwise, I feel kind of amazing like I spent a full day at the spa.
I realize the blindfold is covering my eyes again. He helps me sit up and just holds me for a few minutes.
“Are you ready to dance? It's almost midnight. We'll do the pas de deux once, and then I'll let you go.”
A very strange Cinderella story, I decide.
Once I'm awake, he helps me into my pointe shoes and then pulls me up to stand. I'm still naked except for the shoes. This feels so strange, so exposed—even after all that has happened tonight.
“Stay,” he says softly.
The mattress is dragged away. He guides me to the middle of the stage—or what I assume must be the middle. The music starts.
We dance together so perfectly that I'm sure I must really still be asleep. This must be a dream. Every time we dance together, I trust his holds and lifts more and more. I know he won't drop me. He won't let me fall. If I stumble, he’ll catch me.
The song ends.
“Good girl. Do well at this week's performances, and next week I’ll reward you. All pleasure. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whimper. I want to stop there. I really do. I try so hard to stop there, but I can't. “Please Sir... please fuck me.” The shameful words tumble out of my mouth beyond my control.
“I'm sorry, no. Next week.”
“You don't have to let me come. Use me. Take your pleasure. Please I need...” I clamp my mouth down hard. I swear I will bite my own tongue to shut myself up if I have to. I can't believe that many appalling words slipped out before I could stop them.
He chuckles. He has me. He knows just how far I've fallen into his snare. It amuses him that I would trade my pleasure away just to feel his cock inside me.
“Next week, cupcake.”
Warmth moves through me at the introduction of this pet name, and it's almost enough to make up for the absence of what I need from him so badly. My mind immediately goes back to the buttercream frosting on his fingers that first night.
