by Kitty Thomas
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 for several seconds, assessing me openly. He has brilliant green eyes and dark hair. Instead of returning my greeting, he simply nods. I break the stare first, looking down.
“Warm up, and we'll get started on the first pas de deux,” Mr. V. says. “Morgan wants to see how you and Frederick dance together.”
I nod and move to the barre beside Frederick, who is already stretching. He gives me a wink, and I smile back. I'm glad we're dancing together. Frederick has such an easy way that I know I'll feel safe dancing with him.
I chance a glance back to Mr. V. and the choreographer, my heart in my throat. The way he looked at me. His build. His hair color. So much like the man in Mr. V.'s office. And he just nodded. He didn't speak.
Is it him? I feel so ridiculous about all the people I've guessed could be the man whose initials are S.T. The choreographer's name doesn't start with these initials, but does that matter? He'll have to speak eventually. It would be too strange if he didn't. And then I'll know for sure. My stomach flutters with a thousand butterflies as I go through my warm-up routine, unsure if I want this man to be him or not.
“Frederick, Cassia,” Mr. V. says, calling our attention. “We're ready for you.”
Frederick takes my hand and squeezes it briefly. “You'll do great. You're an amazing dancer,” he says, misunderstanding the reason for my obvious nerves.
But I'm grateful I can hide behind this misunderstanding. The choreographer continues to watch me as Frederick and I move to the center of the sprung floor, ready to take instruction.
The choreographer picks up a red piece of fabric and comes to stand beside me. Without a word, he ties the scrap of red silk around my eyes. My breathing goes shallow.
“In this ballet, you'll be dancing with a blindfold for part of it. Can you see through the fabric?” the choreographer asks.
I let out a long, slow breath, trying to will my heartbeat to calm back to normal. It's not the same voice. It's not him.
“Y-yes, Sir,” I say. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to call him by his name. Guest choreographers don't necessarily follow all the same protocols of the company. But he doesn't comment on my formality.
“Good. The audience will be wowed, but it's more illusion than anything. It won't be as easy as dancing without it, but with practice, you should be able to orient yourself on the stage.”
I almost laugh out loud at this. He doesn't know I've been dancing on a stage with a blindfold that isn't just an illusion. This is nothing by comparison.
“Frederick, step back and give her some room,” he says. Morgan turns his attention back to me. “Okay, I want you to try a few pirouettes. Use your outline in the mirror to spot.”
I do as he asks, doing three sharp, quick turns in succession.
“Wonderful. So you can see well enough, then. You can take the blindfold off for now.” I untie the fabric and turn my attention back to the choreographer, trying desperately not to think of the stranger in the theater and all the associations that have attached themselves to blindfolds in the past couple of months.
The choreographer goes on to explain his vision for this Firebird. The blindfold is used as a tool of ensnaring her to Prince Ivan. She doesn't know who has her or what he wants at first. I listen carefully to the new story that has been concocted, and it sounds so much like the story of my own capture.
Just as in the original Firebird, Prince Ivan will only let her go if she promises to return to him when he asks. The choreography is challenging but a pleasure to dance. It's all so fluid, like a dream. I do feel like an actual bird as Frederick and I dance together.
I turn to find a few of the company dancers standing out in the hallway watching through the large picture windows.
When we break for lunch, the choreographer pulls me aside.
“I'm not sure of the company's rules,” Morgan says, “But I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me.”
I gape at him for a moment. In all the initial panic that he might be him, it hadn't occurred to me that the way he was looking at me was garden-variety interest. It's been so long since I've had innocent interest aimed at me that it's hard for a moment to think what to do with it.
Morgan is very attractive. And he seems nice. I'm not sure what S. T. would say about this, but I'm fairly confident that although he only officially owns me for three hours a week, that dating is not a luxury I'm allowed.
“She's married,” Frederick says, saving me from having to navigate the situation. Oh, yeah. I'm married. They don't know about Conall.
“You're awfully young to be so caged,” the choreographer remarks.
I blush at this and allow Frederick to pull me away from the awkward situation. My partner has taken a protective interest in me. If only he knew there are far bigger wolves in my life than Morgan Elliott.
I join Frederick and the other principals for lunch at a nice restaurant downtown that has a light lunch menu. We sit outside in the unseasonably warm day next to a burbling fountain eating as birds play and drink the flowing water.
“What do you think of the choreography?” Frederick asks between bites of pasta.
“I like it. I think it's going to be an amazing show.”
“It looked fantastic,” Natalie says.
“Do you think you'll be comfortable dancing with the blindfold on stage?” Frederick asks.
“Didn't I look comfortable?” Once we were taught the choreography, and I had all the steps down, I started doing the solo with the blindfold, leading into the pas de deux with Frederick.
He laughs. “Eerily so.”
Yes. Eerie. What a strange coincidence. Not only does the story of the firebird mimic my conditions of captivity, but the blindfold does as well.
12
When I arrive at the opera house on Wednesday, I'm wearing one of the charcoal-colored leotards, my hair in a neat bun. I feel the weight of the collar around my throat—the only jewelry he allows me now on this stage. The metal cage that ensnares his firebird.
I warm up at the barre in silence, the bright spotlight shining on me.
“Hello?” I call out when I finish, my voice echoing off the walls. He usually greets me when I arrive. “Master?”
I will never get used to this title he's demanded of me. It thrills and upsets me in equal measure. It elates and shames me all at the same time.
“Take off your clothes. Go to the table. Put on the blindfold, then bend over and rest your hands on the table and wait for me.”
I let out a slow breath. I do as my Master commands. Moments after I'm nude with my hands flat on the table, I feel his approach. He strokes my throat, my breast, the flank of my hip.
A moment later, I whimper as cold lubed metal slides into my ass. It's tapered at the top and then flares out at the base so that it fits snugly inside my body. The plug isn't too large. He's penetrated my ass with larger toys before; still, it's so unexpected this early in the night that it takes my body a moment to adjust. He strokes my ass for a few moments.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Yes, Master.” I'm not sure I would call it that, but I know it pleases him to hear me say these words, so I say them. My arousal is already climbing. Why won't he fuck me?
“Stay,” he says. I feel his retreat. Several minutes pass before I hear his voice again over the sound system.
“You can take off the blindfold. Put on the costume and the shoes.”
I remove the blindfold to find a gorgeous flaming red costume with layers and layers of wispy material, lying across the table along with a pair
of red pointe shoes resting on top of the pile of fabric.
I'm about to protest that I need more time because you can't just put on a new pair of pointe shoes straight out of the box. As a dancer, he must know that. But as I pick up the shoes from the pile of red material, I see he's already done the requisite ripping of the satin at the toes, the scraping, the beating of the boxes.
I'm sure he's had these made for me in my exact specifications. All this information is on file with the company after all. With every other string he's pulled, getting that information would be nothing.
“You can test them to see if they're how you like them,” he says.
The ribbons and elastics aren't sewn in yet. Dancers always sew these in ourselves. We are very particular about exactly where to put them for our particular feet and comfort.
I slip into the costume even more aware of the plug in my ass, blushing at the thought of dancing this way. The fairy-like costume fits me like a glove. I twirl in it. “It's beautiful. Is this for the show?”
“No, cupcake. It's simply a gift. I'm not in charge of costuming. I don't have that much power.”
I actually laugh at this.
I try the shoes and test them, surprised that I'm happy with how he's broken them in. I try to imagine him sitting on the stage before I got here, beating the toe boxes against the floor. The image in my mind is comical.
I sit on the stage and sew the elastics and ribbons in. Then I put the shoes on and do a few experimental tendus, jumps, and pirouettes. Everything is as it should be.
“Good girl. Now go to the barre and put the blindfold on.”
I obey his orders, trying to calm the excitement rising within me.
A few minutes later, he's beside me again, his hand kneading the back of my neck. I lean into him, a soft moan leaving my mouth.
“We're going to do the pas de deux you learned this week for Firebird,” he says.
“Do you know it?” I ask, shocked that he would.
He laughs. “Know it? Of course I know it. I choreographed it.”
I stiffen even though I know the choreographer's voice was different. It wasn't him. I know it wasn't him.
“He doesn't have the same voice as you.” I can't help voicing my small doubt.
“No, I'm not the man you met Monday. I taught the choreography to someone who is now teaching it to you.”
“Are you ever going to let me see you?” There is a kind of comfort behind the blindfold. But still, I want to see him. “I-I won't tell anyone.”
He has to know we are well beyond the possibility that the revelation of his identity to me could pose any threat to him. But he doesn't respond to my question.
We dance. Almost every movement creates greater awareness of the toy he pushed inside my ass.
I try to imagine what I must look like on this stage in this swirling fire costume and red shoes, and the black blindfold. When the music stops, we're breathing hard. I want to reach out and touch him so badly, but I know he'll never let me see his face even with only my hands.
I try not to let it bother me, this fuzzy layer between us, the guard he always keeps up. I want him to trust me. I need him to let me in. His mouth is on mine suddenly in a feverish demanding kiss that takes my breath from me. I gasp into his mouth. He rips the costume off me, and I can't stop the tears.
“I... I loved that...”
“I'll buy you a new one,” he snarls, impatiently shoving my tights down past my hips. He picks me up and carries me a distance away. I shriek when he drops me, but the soft mattress catches my fall, and I didn't fall far anyway.
And then he is on me, his teeth biting and scraping at the sensitive flesh of my throat just above my collar. He grips the platinum band and pulls me closer to him, his mouth again finding mine, then he shoves me away, and I fall on my back on the mattress.
He curses as he struggles to untie the knots of the ribbons helping to bind the red shoes to my feet. “Goddammit,” he says again. I think he'll destroy my shoes too, but he finally gets one off, then the other. I hear them crash against the stage far away where he tosses them.
He violently rips the tights off me. His own clothes follow in a flurry of zipper and pulling of fabric and tossing of clothing away. A blissful sigh leaves my mouth as he sheathes himself inside me.
I knew he was big, but the feel of him this way is the most exquisite burn of pleasure and fullness. As he moves inside me, the toy in my ass shifts as well.
“Who do you belong to?” he growls as he fucks me. His arms are wrapped around me, completely enveloping me. I feel like his firebird, trapped, helpless and hopeless with no choice but to dance to his tune.
“You, Master.”
I wonder if he knows about the choreographer asking me out and what happened after. I wonder if he put him up to it to test me and see what I would do—just another spy. Just another camera lens watching me and reporting back to my master.
Will he become like Conall? Possessive and trapping? I struggle in his arms, feeling smothered, afraid that he is my new Conall. Will I have to kill him, too? How could I ever? He plans everything so carefully, his guard is never down. And I need him. I want him. The things he makes me feel... I could never...
His mouth kisses and sucks against my throat, and I come undone in his arms, my pleasure flowing out of me in a long wave. He thrusts one final time inside me, the movement so harsh, it's like a brand on my flesh, like he's trying to permanently mark me with his cock.
He takes the toy out of my ass then falls on top of me, holding me, and I start to cry.
He rolls off of me but doesn't leave. He strokes my hair. “What's wrong, cupcake?”
“Are you going to get jealous and possessive if another man looks at me? Are you going to make threats and... like Conall... please... I can't do it again. Please...”
“Shhh,” his fingertips trail over my cheek, wiping my tears, then he moves down, fingering my collar, then stroking small circles over my breasts.
“I'm not threatened,” he says. “I know you'll always fly back to your cage to me. You're such a very good girl.”
“The choreographer asked me out for lunch,” I say.
He doesn't stop his gentle caresses. His fingers don't pause or stutter over my skin. “Did you go?” he asks.
“N-no. Frederick told him I was married.”
He chuckles. “Frederick makes a good guard dog. Would you have gone?”
I shake my head. He doesn't comment on this. He doesn't call me a liar or make threats or shout about how he'll fucking kill the choreographer. He just stands and pulls me up with him. Then he carries me back in the direction from which we came.
He sits me down on the chair at the table.
“Stay. Leave the blindfold on,” he orders.
He returns a few moments later, and I hear a large cap unscrew, and then a liquid being poured. A spoon prods at my lips.
“Open, cupcake. You sounded like you were getting sick yesterday. I need you healthy for rehearsals. I can't let you come down with anything.”
It's warm, soothing chicken soup. It tastes homemade, like the other things he's fed me.
“Did you make this?” I ask.
“I make everything,” he says. And there are so many layers of meaning in this simple statement.
As he's feeding me, I wonder how he knows I sounded like I was getting sick yesterday. Is the choreographer reporting back to him? Does he have recording devices? Another spy? I don't know, and it takes too much energy to care.
So I just let him take care of me.
13
Weeks more have passed, and I've given up the hope that he'll ever truly let me into his world.
The Firebird opens on a Sunday night. I'm so nervous. I can't fucking stand this. I need the curtain to open. I need to start. Once I get out there, I know I'll be fine. I've never been this nervous in my entire life. I've been on this stage performing four nights a week during the season for years now.
> But being in the corps, you can pretend no one pays attention to you. If you mess up, chances are most people didn't notice. Their eyes were on another dancer—usually one of the principals. But tonight, it's all about me. It's all on me.
A weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders, and I suddenly understand why there’s such a strict hierarchy in the ballet world. I understand now why Natalie and Frederick command the respect they do from the entire company. It's because the weight of all of our jobs to some degree rests on them. All the principals carry this weight.
The strength of the company rests on their talent, and not just their innate talent but what they actually bring to the stage when the pressure is on. Suddenly, I feel unready for this. I've dreamed and dreamed and wished on every candle and star in my path for ages, and yet now... what if I fuck this up? What if I'm not ready?
It doesn't matter if I'm the best dancer in the corps. What were they thinking putting me in this role? We aren't supposed to, but I peek through the edge of the curtains to the box where I'm back to being convinced that my mysterious lover, benefactor, and tormentor sits at every performance. But he's not out there. He's not here.
Maybe he's running late. Or maybe he's never here until right before the curtain rises. I don't know; I've never stolen a peek before the show like this before.
Panic surges through me. I need him here. He doesn't make me nervous or distract me. He makes me feel grounded, anchored to this plane of reality. And he's not here. The theater is packed. Whispers of the new and exciting Firebird choreography and the new principal dancer have swept through the city, and probably the larger ballet world as well.
I'm going to die. I cannot do this. Then a hand is in mine. Frederick spins me around to face him. “Hey. You've got this. You'll do great. And I'll be out there with you. Old pro here, remember?” He winks at me, charming as ever.