He violently rips the tights off me. His own clothes follow in a flurry of zipper and pulling of fabric and tossing of clothing away. A blissful sigh leaves my mouth as he sheathes himself inside me.
I knew he was big, but the feel of him this way is the most exquisite burn of pleasure and fullness. As he moves inside me, the toy in my ass shifts as well.
“Who do you belong to?” he growls as he fucks me. His arms are wrapped around me, completely enveloping me. I feel like his firebird, trapped, helpless and hopeless with no choice but to dance to his tune.
“You, Master.”
I wonder if he knows about the choreographer asking me out and what happened after. I wonder if he put him up to it to test me and see what I would do—just another spy. Just another camera lens watching me and reporting back to my master.
Will he become like Conall? Possessive and trapping? I struggle in his arms, feeling smothered, afraid that he is my new Conall. Will I have to kill him, too? How could I ever? He plans everything so carefully, his guard is never down. And I need him. I want him. The things he makes me feel... I could never...
His mouth kisses and sucks against my throat, and I come undone in his arms, my pleasure flowing out of me in a long wave. He thrusts one final time inside me, the movement so harsh, it's like a brand on my flesh, like he's trying to permanently mark me with his cock.
He takes the toy out of my ass then falls on top of me, holding me, and I start to cry.
He rolls off of me but doesn't leave. He strokes my hair. “What's wrong, cupcake?”
“Are you going to get jealous and possessive if another man looks at me? Are you going to make threats and... like Conall... please... I can't do it again. Please...”
“Shhh,” his fingertips trail over my cheek, wiping my tears, then he moves down, fingering my collar, then stroking small circles over my breasts.
“I'm not threatened,” he says. “I know you'll always fly back to your cage to me. You're such a very good girl.”
“The choreographer asked me out for lunch,” I say.
He doesn't stop his gentle caresses. His fingers don't pause or stutter over my skin. “Did you go?” he asks.
“N-no. Frederick told him I was married.”
He chuckles. “Frederick makes a good guard dog. Would you have gone?”
I shake my head. He doesn't comment on this. He doesn't call me a liar or make threats or shout about how he'll fucking kill the choreographer. He just stands and pulls me up with him. Then he carries me back in the direction from which we came.
He sits me down on the chair at the table.
“Stay. Leave the blindfold on,” he orders.
He returns a few moments later, and I hear a large cap unscrew, and then a liquid being poured. A spoon prods at my lips.
“Open, cupcake. You sounded like you were getting sick yesterday. I need you healthy for rehearsals. I can't let you come down with anything.”
It's warm, soothing chicken soup. It tastes homemade, like the other things he's fed me.
“Did you make this?” I ask.
“I make everything,” he says. And there are so many layers of meaning in this simple statement.
As he's feeding me, I wonder how he knows I sounded like I was getting sick yesterday. Is the choreographer reporting back to him? Does he have recording devices? Another spy? I don't know, and it takes too much energy to care.
So I just let him take care of me.
Thirteen
Weeks more have passed, and I've given up the hope that he'll ever truly let me into his world.
The Firebird opens on a Sunday night. I'm so nervous. I can't fucking stand this. I need the curtain to open. I need to start. Once I get out there, I know I'll be fine. I've never been this nervous in my entire life. I've been on this stage performing four nights a week during the season for years now.
But being in the corps, you can pretend no one pays attention to you. If you mess up, chances are most people didn't notice. Their eyes were on another dancer—usually one of the principals. But tonight, it's all about me. It's all on me.
