Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,36

this. The idea excites me even as I know it should repulse me.

The music fades, and he speaks, interrupting my warm ups. “Cassia, have you ever paused to consider that I might not be your only audience? The theater is dark. The spotlight is bright. It would be quite impossible to know, not only where I am, but if I have friends.”

I freeze. I'm horrified by this idea. Embarrassed. Scared. I want to grab my things and run, but if there are others, what might they do? Could he stop them? Would he bother?

But behind the sharp tang of fear—this almost overwhelming sensation of anxiety and panic—is that old familiar throbbing pulse between my legs as my body grows wet at this idea, practically eager for an audience to voyeuristically observe my fall to this dark and powerful man. Some twisted part of me wants an audience. Maybe it's an occupational hazard.

“You aren't finished warming up, Ms. Lane. Continue,” he says.

I consider my options and realize I have no options. Of course no one else is here. I know that. Intellectually I know that. It would be far too risky to bring others into this. But you can't tell this to my emotions. You can't tell this to my fear.

I imagine who he could have out in the audience. Other powerful people, no doubt? Or people from the company? Male Principals? Mr. V.? No, Mr. V. could never behave in the professional way he does with me if he were privy to what happens on this stage. I feel the blush creep up my neck as I consider this.

I marvel at my ability not to cry, scream, beg. Not to flee from the stage. To simply stand at the barre and obey. I'm an utter professional.

When I've completed my warm-ups, he says, “Good girl. Put the blindfold on.”

The trigger.

I put the blindfold on and wait, my body surging with anticipation, wetness flooding me, preparing me for whatever he might choose to penetrate me with. Fingers, toy, cock, tongue? I'm ready for any and all of it as my ears strain to hear his approach.

As always, I feel him before I hear him—this almost extrasensory perception I have where this man is concerned.

“You did very well this week. Not only was I impressed with your performance the last time we danced together, but your technique at all your shows was flawless. I spoke with the decision makers after Friday night's performance. I paid the necessary money to free them from Conall's demands.”

“Were they worried about upsetting him?” Most people seemed to worry about upsetting my husband. I wonder if they had reservations even with the extra money to supposedly free them.

“I let them in on the gossip about your husband.”

“Gossip?” I ask.

“Irish Mob. Fled the country,” he confirms. “They were very excited to be able to promote you. V. was especially pleased.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I say. Because gratitude seems appropriate in this moment. I knew he made this happen, and so I can't not thank him. He just changed my life completely. He just made me the star of the company, a dream I thought would never materialize into solid reality.

All the roles I thought I'd never dance suddenly stretch out before me. Mine to claim. I could have a long, bright future ahead.

I flinch when his hand presses against my cheek.

“Shhh, you're safe.”

I really do feel like his well-trained dog. These commands he gives, my trained responses. How easy it is for him to calm me with a word, even in the face of this twisted arrangement between us.

He slowly strokes my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his touch.

“Does it excite you to think others might be watching? That someone might touch themselves watching me fuck you?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.

“Say it louder, cupcake. We want our audience to hear.”

“Yes, Sir,” I say louder. I still don't know if he's fucking with me. Is someone else in the audience? Of course not.

I may have committed a felony, but he's engaging in one as well. He can't risk anyone else knowing about this. It has to remain a secret. I tell myself this over and over, but suddenly I can feel other eyes on me. Is this my imagination? Or is it real?

I don't know the answer. The blindfold has sharply distorted my reality. Not being able to see him... to only hear him and feel him, to be this helpless and isolated, I don't know what's real.

“You dirty little