feel like a fragile captive bird in his hands.
I'm suddenly thinking more about all of this than I am about the choreography. I stumble, but he catches me. I half expect him to spank me again, but he doesn't. He just cradles me in his arms.
“I told you I wouldn't let you fall.” He sweeps me up. We jump right back into the place where the music is, a few steps forgotten in the wake of my misstep. We dance as though that didn't happen, as if this is all perfect.
The pas de deux ends in an embrace. I'm dipped back. He's holding me. The music stops. And there is silence. He pulls me up to stand, facing him, even though I can't see him. Will he touch me? Will he kiss me? One of his hands is at my waist, holding me still in this embrace.
In this strangely tender moment, I reach up to touch his face, but his grip on my wrist is instantaneous, hard, and unrelenting. A silent understanding passes between us in that touch. I’m here to obey, not initiate, not make up my own choreography. I am to perform the steps as they are given. This rule extends beyond dancing.
“I-I'm sorry,” I say. I've clearly displeased him somehow, and it bothers me more than I want to admit. I want to say it's because he could report my crime, but some deeper betraying part of me is simply upset I've displeased him. Even if there were no threat over my head... I would come back here because I need to dance with this man. I've never felt this kind of electric chemistry with anyone on stage before.
“Go to the barre,” he says.
Absently, I reach up to remove the blindfold, not thinking. But he again grabs my wrist before I can complete the act. He leads me over to the barre and places my hand on the smooth wood. I both feel and hear him move away. He's rifling through my dance bag at the far end of the stage beside the table.
When he returns, I feel his hand on my thigh. He slowly strokes downward until he reaches my ankle. He begins to untie the ribbons of my pointe shoes. This is when I realize he must be sitting on the floor beside me. He’s silent as he removes first one, then the other. He replaces them with my new pair of soft canvas ballet slippers.
He stands and steps back. Finally, he speaks.
“First position. Two demi-plié, one grand plié. Then I want you to go from that position into a kneeling position, keeping your legs spread and your hand on the barre.”
My breath hitches. And so it begins. This thing I knew was coming. This sexual price he wishes to extract from my body which right now is far more willing to pay than I ever expected it to be.
The music starts, a different piece. It's not from one of our ballets, but piano practice music often used for barre work.
I rest one hand lightly on the barre, not gripping it for support, only for balance. My other arm gracefully sweeps inward as I lower my body into a demi-plié. It's a gentle movement, not very deep. And then the second. My heart hammers in my chest as I think about what may happen in the next few moments. But I shove those thoughts away and concentrate on the movement.
The grand plié is much deeper, lower to the floor. And then from there, I let myself fall into the kneeling position he asked for, my hand still stretched up, holding onto the barre.
The music fades out. And there is silence.
“Who owns you, Cassia?”
“You, Sir.” I don't hesitate to give him this truth.
“Do you wax or shave your pussy?”
This may seem like a huge assumption on his part—that I do either—but most ballet dancers I know keep bare. Our leotards are so revealing—and costumes as well—that most of us want everything to remain smooth.
“Wax,” I say.
“Good. That's my preference.”
Excitement throbs between my legs. I shouldn't care what his preference is, but the fact that what I do is what he wants makes the place between my legs ache with need for him to possess this thing that has pleased him.
“When is your next waxing appointment?”
“In two weeks.”
“You will cancel it. I will be waxing you from now on. Do you understand?”
I can't think. I can barely make the words form, but I force them out because