I do as he asks, doing three sharp, quick turns in succession.
“Wonderful. So you can see well enough, then. You can take the blindfold off for now.” I untie the fabric and turn my attention back to the choreographer, trying desperately not to think of the stranger in the theater and all the associations that have attached themselves to blindfolds in the past couple of months.
The choreographer goes on to explain his vision for this Firebird. The blindfold is used as a tool of ensnaring her to Prince Ivan. She doesn't know who has her or what he wants at first. I listen carefully to the new story that has been concocted, and it sounds so much like the story of my own capture.
Just as in the original Firebird, Prince Ivan will only let her go if she promises to return to him when he asks. The choreography is challenging but a pleasure to dance. It's all so fluid, like a dream. I do feel like an actual bird as Frederick and I dance together.
I turn to find a few of the company dancers standing out in the hallway watching through the large picture windows.
When we break for lunch, the choreographer pulls me aside.
“I'm not sure of the company's rules,” Morgan says, “But I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me.”
I gape at him for a moment. In all the initial panic that he might be him, it hadn't occurred to me that the way he was looking at me was garden-variety interest. It's been so long since I've had innocent interest aimed at me that it's hard for a moment to think what to do with it.
Morgan is very attractive. And he seems nice. I'm not sure what S. T. would say about this, but I'm fairly confident that although he only officially owns me for three hours a week, that dating is not a luxury I'm allowed.
“She's married,” Frederick says, saving me from having to navigate the situation. Oh, yeah. I'm married. They don't know about Conall.
“You're awfully young to be so caged,” the choreographer remarks.
I blush at this and allow Frederick to pull me away from the awkward situation. My partner has taken a protective interest in me. If only he knew there are far bigger wolves in my life than Morgan Elliott.
I join Frederick and the other principals for lunch at a nice restaurant downtown that has a light lunch menu. We sit outside in the unseasonably warm day next to a burbling fountain eating as birds play and drink the flowing water.
“What do you think of the choreography?” Frederick asks between bites of pasta.
“I like it. I think it's going to be an amazing show.”
“It looked fantastic,” Natalie says.
“Do you think you'll be comfortable dancing with the blindfold on stage?” Frederick asks.
“Didn't I look comfortable?” Once we were taught the choreography, and I had all the steps down, I started doing the solo with the blindfold, leading into the pas de deux with Frederick.
He laughs. “Eerily so.”
Yes. Eerie. What a strange coincidence. Not only does the story of the firebird mimic my conditions of captivity, but the blindfold does as well.
Twelve
When I arrive at the opera house on Wednesday, I'm wearing one of the charcoal-colored leotards, my hair in a neat bun. I feel the weight of the collar around my throat—the only jewelry he allows me now on this stage. The metal cage that ensnares his firebird.
I warm up at the barre in silence, the bright spotlight shining on me.
“Hello?” I call out when I finish, my voice echoing off the walls. He usually greets me when I arrive. “Master?”
I will never get used to this title he's demanded of me. It thrills and upsets me in equal measure. It elates and shames me all at the same time.
“Take off your clothes. Go to the table. Put on the blindfold, then bend over and rest your hands on the table and wait for me.”
I let out a slow breath. I do as my Master commands. Moments after I'm nude with my hands flat on the table, I feel his approach. He strokes my throat, my breast, the flank of my hip.
A moment later, I whimper as cold lubed metal slides into my ass. It's tapered at the top and then flares out at the base so that it fits snugly inside my body. The plug isn't too large. He's penetrated my ass with larger toys before; still, it's so unexpected this early in the night that it takes my body a moment to adjust. He strokes my ass for a few moments.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Yes, Master.” I'm not sure I would call it that, but I know it pleases him to hear me say these words, so I say them. My arousal is already climbing. Why won't he fuck me?
