“I don’t know what I want. Can we not talk about this anymore?” Other than the rules we’d laid out in the beginning, I rarely said a word about our sessions. I barely even said hello or goodbye. He treated me more like a sex toy than a human being, so that was how I acted.
In rehearsals the next day, I was working out a sequence from our new production when Sergei came over and stood behind me to adjust my posture. One of his hands pressed flat against my chest while the other rested on the small of my back, curving my spine. It felt too much like an embrace, the way you’d sometimes hold me when I climaxed in your arms. It made me think Sergei was trying out his tender side. Or he was just making a spectacle of me. In any case, my body froze up, and my breathing went shallow. I thought I might pass out.
And then Bruno said, “Are you planning to fuck him right here in front of us?”
I shot a glance at Bruno, who only stared at Sergei with open hostility. He truly hated the man. Sergei ordered Bruno out of rehearsals for the rest of the day and thankfully stayed away from me as well. I thought there might be a backlash for Bruno and me both, but we finished out the week in relative calm.
However, when I arrived at Sergei’s torture shed at our appointed time, I could tell he was still pissed. And he’d been drinking. That was one of my rules—no alcohol. I’d found out the hard way that Sergei was a mean drunk. I should have walked out right then. Just ended it once and for all. It was obvious that things couldn’t continue as they were.
“You still have feelings for him.” Sergei said in an accusing tone while tipping back an amber-colored liquid straight from the bottle. “Your precious Henri.”
I began unbuttoning my shirt. I had no desire to get personal with Sergei. I especially didn’t want him to utter your name in this hellhole. It only reminded me of the night before, when I’d called for you until I was hoarse, only to be ignored.
There were no windows or air conditioning in the shed, which meant on days like that when the weather was warm, the only relief from the heat was the cold cement floor. I finished stripping and went down on my knees. It always started the same way, so at least I could count on the routine. Sergei latched the door from the inside and locked it with a padlock, then came over and cuffed my wrists with leather straps. With me still kneeling, he used a metal chain to bring the straps above my head. Sometimes he blindfolded me. Never a gag, though. That was another one of my rules. This position wasn’t great for my knees, but I wasn’t about to complain. I didn’t want any kindness from him, and I damn sure didn’t want him to think I was begging.
“That’s why you won’t let me in, isn’t it?” Sergei slurred. I didn’t understand the man’s weird obsession with me. I doubted he understood it himself. It seemed the more I rejected him physically and emotionally, the more he wished to dominate me. “Answer me, Orlando.”
“I don’t want to talk about feelings with you, Sergei.” It had been a long week and I was tired. I just wanted to get this over with.
He yanked at my restraints, and I had to lift up so that my shoulders wouldn’t hyperextend. Hunger flared in his eyes. The more pain and humiliation he inflicted, the more he got off. It wasn’t much different from the studio, only here there was no audience and no witnesses, so he could really let loose. Some twisted side of me wondered how far he’d go.
“Was he a good lover?” Sergei asked.
Incredible.
I said nothing, only dropped my head and waited. It usually started with a leather belt to my back, and that night was no different. Sergei’s delivery was sloppier than usual, and the leather had a bit more bite. My back burned as droplets of sweat dripped down my spine and along my ass crack. Strangely, I didn’t mind this part. I deserved it for involving myself with Sergei in the first place.
I didn’t make a sound, but I couldn’t keep my back from tensing as Sergei delivered his lashes, one for each time I’d offended him. Apparently, I’d really pissed him off that week because around twenty strikes, I stopped counting. His reprimands were always weirdly specific, too, like he’d been stewing on this shit all week long and saving it up for Friday nights.
“You flinched when I touched you during rehearsals,” Sergei growled. The leather bit into my skin with an oddly satisfying thwack.
“You allowed your friend to make a fool of me.” Another lash, this one a little lower.
“You did that to yourself,” I argued. I should have known better, because the next blow made me rise up and hiss through my teeth.
“That was for talking back to me,” Sergei said. There was a manic delight in his voice. He wanted me to defend myself, so I bit my tongue.
“You refuse to submit to me.” This one he delivered with the full force of his strength. I was pretty sure it broke the skin.
I’m a dancer, I reminded myself with a perverse sense of pride,I’m conditioned for pain.
“He left you and you love him still. Pathetic.” This one exploded across my back and made my whole body tremble. A cold sweat broke out on my skin and my vision went a little fuzzy.
“Does it hurt yet?” Sergei asked, his boozy breath right next to my ear.
“Tickles,” I said while gritting my teeth.
Sergei responded by pouring the last of his bottle down my back. The alcohol burned like fire, and I couldn’t stifle a gasp. Sergei rounded on me and dropped down to a squat. Delighting in my reaction, he pinched both my nipples savagely and twisted until they were sure to be black and blue. I winced and tried to ignore the pain, but it was impossible.
“You’re not that attractive,” Sergei said. Having degraded me physically, the next bit was to insult me. “Not very talented either. I only allow you in the company because having you there keeps the others in line.”
That was probably true. I’d been Sergei’s whipping boy for so long I hardly noticed his verbal abuse, or the pitying looks everyone else gave me in reaction to his criticism.
“You dance like a fat hippopotamus,” he said and pinched the skin along my abdomen, trying to intimate that it was a fat roll. It wasn’t. That type of abuse I was least susceptible to, thank God, because eating disorders were no joke.
“You fuck like one,” I said, hoping to move this along.
Sergei’s eyes narrowed and he slapped me across the face, catching my lip. It could have been worse, but it would likely still be swollen tomorrow. At least I had the weekend to recover, long enough for it to heal without Bruno noticing.
