Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,30

ten seconds, then remove the blindfold. I want you to rest for a bit. If you fall asleep, I'll wake you when I'm ready.”

His weight lifts off the mattress, and I feel more than hear him recede into the distance. I take a deep breath and count to ten. When I remove the blindfold, I'm alone on the stage. I sit up and blink slowly. He's dimmed the spotlight so the light I'm exposed to now isn't overpowering, but is instead soft.

I lie back down and close my eyes and rest.

I don't know how much time has passed when he wakes me. I don't know what time it was when I lay down. I'm gently roused from sleep with warm lips pressed against mine, a strong hand stroking my breast.

“Wake up, and dance the pas de deux with me.”

I feel rested and refreshed, as though he timed my nap just right so he would wake me just after a REM cycle. I don't feel groggy. I do feel a little sore and achy from the cane and from the waxing. But otherwise, I feel kind of amazing like I spent a full day at the spa.

I realize the blindfold is covering my eyes again. He helps me sit up and just holds me for a few minutes.

“Are you ready to dance? It's almost midnight. We'll do the pas de deux once, and then I'll let you go.”

A very strange Cinderella story, I decide.

Once I'm awake, he helps me into my pointe shoes and then pulls me up to stand. I'm still naked except for the shoes. This feels so strange, so exposed—even after all that has happened tonight.

“Stay,” he says softly.

The mattress is dragged away. He guides me to the middle of the stage—or what I assume must be the middle. The music starts.

We dance together so perfectly that I'm sure I must really still be asleep. This must be a dream. Every time we dance together, I trust his holds and lifts more and more. I know he won't drop me. He won't let me fall. If I stumble, he’ll catch me.

The song ends.

“Good girl. Do well at this week's performances, and next week I’ll reward you. All pleasure. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whimper. I want to stop there. I really do. I try so hard to stop there, but I can't. “Please Sir... please fuck me.” The shameful words tumble out of my mouth beyond my control.

“I'm sorry, no. Next week.”

“You don't have to let me come. Use me. Take your pleasure. Please I need...” I clamp my mouth down hard. I swear I will bite my own tongue to shut myself up if I have to. I can't believe that many appalling words slipped out before I could stop them.

He chuckles. He has me. He knows just how far I've fallen into his snare. It amuses him that I would trade my pleasure away just to feel his cock inside me.

“Next week, cupcake.”

Warmth moves through me at the introduction of this pet name, and it's almost enough to make up for the absence of what I need from him so badly. My mind immediately goes back to the buttercream frosting on his fingers that first night.

On any other man's lips, cupcake would be offensive, demeaning. But when he says it, it makes me feel cared for, like the care he took to bake for me even if it was wrapped in so many threats. It's hard to remember that last part.

He dismisses me to go shower. As the water heats and steam fills the bathroom, I stand naked in front of the mirror, avoiding my eyes, twisting my body to see the perfect row of cane welts across my ass. My fingertips graze over the indentations.

I glance up to see a second camera has been installed since the last time I was in here. It's a few feet away in a corner next to the ceiling, and I know he's watching me as I look at and touch these welts. I wonder if I'll bruise. I wonder what it says about me that these hidden marks seem so different from the ones Conall gave me.

These are claiming marks that say I belong to this man. They are proof that we are two real people doing this twisted thing together. They make our secret real.

8

Just as he said, the police don't bother me again. On Friday, a few hours before the show, and around closing time