Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,39

onto my stomach.

“Stay,” he commands.

I stay. I always stay. I'm so addicted to this stranger that it doesn't even occur to me to beg or run. My will is bound to him more tightly than if he'd used actual restraints.

He returns and sits beside me on the mattress. My cheek is pressed into the soft silk of the pillow. I'm so sated. He does that wonderful rubbing at the back of my neck, causing my body to loosen even more. His fingertips trail up and down my back and over the curve of my hip.

A moment later, a cold, wet piece of metal presses between my cheeks. I gasp and stiffen at the invasion.

“Relax, and let me inside your ass.”

The way he talks to me... something in his voice makes my body helplessly open to him. It makes me long to fulfill every desire and demand. The only thing I want is to please him.

I breathe slowly in and out in rhythm to the agonizingly slow way he penetrates me with this toy.

“Don't worry. I'll fuck you long before I claim your ass,” he says.

I want to ask: What is this thing between us? Does it mean anything to him? Does he think of me like I think of him? Does he long for me like I long for him? Or is this all just a game of power and control? Is this some private inside joke for him to enjoy at my expense?

Finally he stops. A mewl of protest leaves my mouth as he takes the toy away. Moments later, I feel cold metal around my throat.

“I'm ready for you to call me Master now,” he says. “You will wear the collar any time you aren't at the company or performing—all of your private time at home. You will shower in it. You will run errands in it. When your street clothes go on, your collar goes on. You will sleep in it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.” It's a whisper, and this time he doesn't ask for more. My fingertips stroke over the thin metal collar. He's slowly seduced me deeper and deeper into this... thing between us. I don't know what this means to him, but whatever it is feels more and more permanent with each passing day.

“Were there really other people here, or was it just us?” I ask.

He doesn't answer. Instead he says, “It's time for your shower.”

His footsteps recede. I wait an appropriate length of time and then take the blindfold off. As the water of the shower heats, I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the shiny platinum collar around my throat. The initials S. T. are engraved in the front. I simply stare at those letters and ponder this new clue.

11

Weeks go by. Performances and rehearsals. Night after night of masturbating according to his demands, screaming out my pleasure to satisfy his distant lust. The collar around my throat as I sleep. The meetings with him each Wednesday, this erotic fever dream pitching higher and higher. He continues to train my ass, the toys slowly escalating in girth, yet still he doesn't fuck me. Does he not want to fuck me? I can't believe I ask myself this question, that I'm somehow broken by the fact that my blackmailer has refused to breach this final barrier between us.

But it feels like rejection, and I can't help that I'm hurt by it.

I go through my free time out in the world wondering if anyone understands what this piece of jewelry around my throat means.

I've avoided invitations to hang out with Henry and Melinda, begging off with the best excuses I can come up with so I don't hurt their feelings. I don't want them to think I'm snubbing them because I'm a principal now and they're still in the corps. It's not that. It's that I can't bring myself to let them see this metal around my throat—I can't answer the questions I know would come. And I equally can't bring myself to disobey him by not wearing it at the specified times he's demanded.

It's Monday morning, and today we're starting on Firebird. I'm nervous and excited and worried I won't live up to the choreographer's demands as I enter Studio B.

“Ah, Cassia,” Mr. V. says, motioning me over to where he stands with a tall broad man wearing a black T-shirt, black pants, and ballet shoes. “I'd like you to meet the guest choreographer. Morgan Elliott.”

“Hello,” I say.

He stares at me