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“The kiss? Listen, Ashleigh—”
“No,” I interrupted. “The part before, when you used your belt on me. I know it was supposed to hurt, and it did hurt and I did feel punished, but…”
“You liked it too.”
I swallowed hard. “Yes. Does that make me a bad submissive?”
“No.” I heard his chuckle carry over the line. “That makes you a masochist. Did you do your homework yet?”
My cheeks got really hot. “No. Not yet.”
“Do you have clothespins at your place?”
I stared across my apartment to the bathroom, where I’d clipped up about twenty pairs of leotards and shoes. “I have a few.”
“You only need two. Sometime after you touch your nipples, after you make yourself feel good and excited, I think you should try clamping them with clothespins.” His voice dropped lower. “Fair warning. It’ll hurt. But if you’re a masochist, you might enjoy it.”
Oh my God. “Do I… Do I have to do that?”
“I want you to try it, yes. It doesn’t have to be tonight. Whenever you feel brave enough. Start with one. If you can’t stand it, take it off. All I ask is that you try it and see how it feels.”
“Or…?”
He tsked. “Or you’ll be punished for not doing your homework, and I’ll do it to you on Monday anyway when we meet. Be brave, Ash. Break down boundaries.” His voice went soft and warm like a caress at the last part.
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“Just be careful. If a belt spanking turns you on, nipple clamps probably will too. Remember what I said about touching other parts of yourself.”
“Oh… I…”
“You do remember what I said, don’t you?”
It was pretty much all I’d thought about. “You said to save it for you.”
“Mm-hm,” he drawled, and then his voice turned brusque. “Okay. Just wanted to check in. If you need me or if you have any questions, call me. Otherwise I’ll see you Monday afternoon.”
“Yes, Liam. Thank you.”
I’d almost busted out with the Yes, Sir over the phone. We were supposed to be equals outside the bedroom but now that I’d experienced his dominant side in action, I could only seem to think of him as Sir. Later, as I was doing my “homework” in the dark, by the light of my flickering LED candle, I thought he might as well be lying next to me in my bed. His bed. The bed he’d given me.
I was embarrassed at first and I only fondled myself through the sheer lace of my bra. The second night I pulled the cups down and touched my nipples the way he had, with that same light, lingering touch. I tried to focus on what he’d taught me. No boundaries. No fear or shame. I tried to enjoy it and I did kind of enjoy it, but only when I thought about him at the same time. The third night I made myself go into the bathroom and get a couple of the clothespins. I closed them on my fingertips and it didn’t seem so bad, but as soon as I brought one close to my nipple I lost my nerve and threw them on the side table.
Was I really a masochist? In class, in rehearsals, I could hardly bear to think of Liam and the hurty things he’d done to me. I stammered through my visit to the clinic, wishing he was with me but knowing I’d be mortified if he was. I had a new, weird, hyperaware feeling about my breasts and my ass, all the time. I felt my nipples while I was dancing. Not felt them with my fingers, but felt them trapped against my leotard, or brushed by my wrist when I folded my arms over my chest. I felt his hands on my ass in my daydreams, or his belt. Every so often I touched my nipples during the day, just because it reminded me of him. Just because it felt pleasurable. Because it made me feel brave and sexual.
This was all very alarming to me.
*** *** ***
“Ash-lee. Ashhh-lee.”
I stopped mid-bang, crouched over in the dressing room. I could have sworn I heard Rubio calling me.
“Ash-lee?”
I spun to look at the door. Rubio was calling me. He darted a look around the room.
“Anybody in here?”
“I’m here.”
He made an impatient wave. “No, I mean, anyone else? I need to talk to you.”
The Great Rubio needed to talk to me?
He looked past me and gawked at my pile of shoes. “Geez, girl. You have enough to last all season. Obsess much?”
“I want to be prepared.” He was ninety-nine percent of the reason I did this. He still hissed “Asshole!” in my nightmares from time to time.
“You stay here too late,” he said. “You look like hell. Raccoon eyes. When you ever sleep?”
I squeezed a toe shoe in my palm. “The same time you sleep. At night.”
He narrowed his eyes. He was in practice sweats—and he was sweaty. “Hey, I need your help. You busy? Can you help me a minute?”
I stared at Fernando Rubio. He was asking me for help.
“Sure, I can help you,” I said, trying to sound casual about it. “What do you need?”
“I’m working on steps. I need someone to mark steps with me. You’re the only one here, so come help me.” He scowled at my pile of shoes. “If you have any pointe shoes that don’t sound like hammers, this would be good. Bring them. Come.”
I got to my feet and sorted through my shoes, picking a good pair and dumping the rest into the bin under my carrel. My mind raced in excited shock. Yes, Rubio was mean and rude but I still admired him as an artist—and he wanted me to mark steps with him. He was inviting me into his private creative process.
I had to run to catch up with him in the hall. He led me to the same rehearsal room he’d been in the night me and Liam argued. “You warmed up?” he asked. “Go on. Warm up first.”
I did a few stretches while he paced back and forth, talking through combinations under his breath. At some point I guess he figured I’d warmed up enough because he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the center of the floor. He turned me to face the mirror and described a series of steps in garbled count
s and a smattering of Portuguese. “Okay. You do it?”
I tried my best to execute what he wanted. He stopped me halfway though and changed the steps, partnering and coaching me at the same time. This back-and-forth went on for about twenty minutes, but at the end of it he’d developed a pretty cool sequence. “Stay,” he said. “Remember the steps in case I forget.”
He ran over to his book to diagram the combination. I moved through the steps again without him, marking them in my mind. He had a unique talent for choreography. The steps felt energizing, and I enjoyed the flow and sweep of them. When he had everything down I said, “You’re good at this. Have you choreographed before?”
He wore the funniest expression, like he was trying to think of something nasty to say but couldn’t. He shrugged and half-smiled. “Never like this.”
“I think it’s good when dancers choreograph. The steps feel more organic. Natural.”
He stared a minute, then crossed to me. “What you think of this?”
He showed me another, more intricate combination. I mostly liked it. I told him the parts that tripped me up or didn’t flow right. For another fifteen minutes or so he bounced ideas off me and had me try them out. I don’t know when I stopped feeling self-conscious and started to enjoy dancing with him, but for whole long minutes I wasn’t worried about being judged or measuring up to his expectations. I was collaborating as his dance partner. I was living in his world.
“What’s this ballet about?” I asked as he spun me and caught me in the crook of his arm. He released me with a frown.
“I don’t know what it’s about. Why it has to be about something? Why it can’t just be movement? Dancing?”
“It can be,” I said, trying to regain our earlier camaraderie. “That’s what Balanchine did, right? Just dancing?”
If anything, his glare deepened. “I am not Balanchine. I do my own thing.”
I shrugged, doing some passés to stay warm. “Well, I think it’s good. Even if it’s not about anything. What kind of music are you going to use?”
