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.
Eleven
Weeks go by. Performances and rehearsals. Night after night of masturbating according to his demands, screaming out my pleasure to satisfy his distant lust. The collar around my throat as I sleep. The meetings with him each Wednesday, this erotic fever dream pitching higher and higher. He continues to train my ass, the toys slowly escalating in girth, yet still he doesn't fuck me. Does he not want to fuck me? I can't believe I ask myself this question, that I'm somehow broken by the fact that my blackmailer has refused to breach this final barrier between us.
But it feels like rejection, and I can't help that I'm hurt by it.
I go through my free time out in the world wondering if anyone understands what this piece of jewelry around my throat means.
I've avoided invitations to hang out with Henry and Melinda, begging off with the best excuses I can come up with so I don't hurt their feelings. I don't want them to think I'm snubbing them because I'm a principal now and they're still in the corps. It's not that. It's that I can't bring myself to let them see this metal around my throat—I can't answer the questions I know would come. And I equally can't bring myself to disobey him by not wearing it at the specified times he's demanded.
It's Monday morning, and today we're starting on Firebird. I'm nervous and excited and worried I won't live up to the choreographer's demands as I enter Studio B.
“Ah, Cassia,” Mr. V. says, motioning me over to where he stands with a tall broad man wearing a black T-shirt, black pants, and ballet shoes. “I'd like you to meet the guest choreographer. Morgan Elliott.”
“Hello,” I say.
He stares at me for several seconds, assessing me openly. He has brilliant green eyes and dark hair. Instead of returning my greeting, he simply nods. I break the stare first, looking down.
“Warm up, and we'll get started on the first pas de deux,” Mr. V. says. “Morgan wants to see how you and Frederick dance together.”
I nod and move to the barre beside Frederick, who is already stretching. He gives me a wink, and I smile back. I'm glad we're dancing together. Frederick has such an easy way that I know I'll feel safe dancing with him.
I chance a glance back to Mr. V. and the choreographer, my heart in my throat. The way he looked at me. His build. His hair color. So much like the man in Mr. V.'s office. And he just nodded. He didn't speak.
Is it him? I feel so ridiculous about all the people I've guessed could be the man whose initials are S.T. The choreographer's name doesn't start with these initials, but does that matter? He'll have to speak eventually. It would be too strange if he didn't. And then I'll know for sure. My stomach flutters with a thousand butterflies as I go through my warm-up routine, unsure if I want this man to be him or not.
“Frederick, Cassia,” Mr. V. says, calling our attention. “We're ready for you.”
Frederick takes my hand and squeezes it briefly. “You'll do great. You're an amazing dancer,” he says, misunderstanding the reason for my obvious nerves.
But I'm grateful I can hide behind this misunderstanding. The choreographer continues to watch me as Frederick and I move to the center of the sprung floor, ready to take instruction.
The choreographer picks up a red piece of fabric and comes to stand beside me. Without a word, he ties the scrap of red silk around my eyes. My breathing goes shallow.
“In this ballet, you'll be dancing with a blindfold for part of it. Can you see through the fabric?” the choreographer asks.
I let out a long, slow breath, trying to will my heartbeat to calm back to normal. It's not the same voice. It's not him.
“Y-yes, Sir,” I say. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to call him by his name. Guest choreographers don't necessarily follow all the same protocols of the company. But he doesn't comment on my formality.
“Good. The audience will be wowed, but it's more illusion than anything. It won't be as easy as dancing without it, but with practice, you should be able to orient yourself on the stage.”
I almost laugh out loud at this. He doesn't know I've been dancing on a stage with a blindfold that isn't just an illusion. This is nothing by comparison.
“Frederick, step back and give her some room,” he says. Morgan turns his attention back to me. “Okay, I want you to try a few pirouettes. Use your outline in the mirror to spot.”
