Little Dancer

by Brianna Hale

  “Yes, I can.”

  The severe look deepens. “Do you want to say that again?”

  I open my mouth, and then close it again and fold my arms.

  “Are you sulking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, because I made a restaurant booking for Saturday night.”

  I immediately brighten. “Oh, really?”

  “I’ll cancel it if you sulk. Are you sulking?”

  I shake my head, smiling.

  “Good girl.”

  On Friday morning I am on the high street posting a letter for my mother when I walk past a red dress in a window. I stop and go back to it. It’s a fire-engine red bandage dress with a scoop neckline. I chew my lip, looking at it. It’s not the sort of thing that normally appeals to me, but for some reason, I want to try it on.

  In the shop I ask for my size and a woman with long, square nails finds it for me and I take it to the change room. The price tag makes me feel faint: it costs a week’s pay. But when I put it on I see why. It fits me like a glove, cinching in at my waist and curving over my hips. It even makes my breasts, which are all right but nothing to throw a parade over, practically demand attention.

  I look so different to how I normally do. So womanly. The part of me that wants to curl up in a blanket and watch cartoons and be petted and cossetted like a princess is still there, but another part of me, the part that wants to hold Rufus’s hand as we walk through Soho and drink white wine and who diligently takes her pill an hour before she even gets his text, wants this dress. I buy it for her, and there’s a minxy slink to her gait as she walks home.

  I’m showing the dress to my mother and asking what she thinks when my father walks in.

  “Do you have a date with Rufus?” he asks. I’ve told my parents we’re dating. They were pleased. My mother looked smug, thinking she predicted the whole thing.

  “Yes. I’m thinking of wearing this. Is it all right?”

  He just shakes his head and walks out again. “Poor bastard. Doesn’t stand a chance.”

  I turn to my mother, biting my lip. “Are you sure it’s all right? It’s not a little too old, is it?”

  She laughs. “Old for your usual tastes, but not too old for you, no.” She studies me a moment. “Is it getting serious with Rufus?”

  I nod.

  “How serious?”

  “Like, super serious. He—he’s my boyfriend.” It’s not a lie, but it’s a half-truth. I can’t exactly tell her what he really is. Yes, he’s my dom. He owns me and I call him daddy. I feel myself choke just thinking about it.

  “That’s wonderful, honey. Are you being careful?”

  I nod, and pay close attention to folding up the dress. I know what sort of careful she means.

  “All right, then. As long as you are.”

  * * *

  When I walk out of my dressing room at the theater, Rufus’s mouth actually falls open.

  “Bloody hell. If I knew you were going to look like that I would have brought a cane or something.”

  “What for?”

  “So I can beat off the hordes of men who are going to trail in your wake as soon as I take you outside.”

  I grin. “Silly.”

  He looks at my feet. I went back to the store and bought a pair of matching red high heels, as nothing I own did the dress justice. The stilettos are five inches high.

  Rufus rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t normally feel like this but I want to lie down and have you walk all over me.”

  “Rufus! You?”

  “It’s a fucking great dress,” he explains.

  The restaurant is just around the corner, and I’m glad because in these shoes I can’t walk terribly fast or far. Inside, we sit very close, talking quietly and laughing loudly. I barely touch my food but Rufus doesn’t say anything about it. I think he knows why. While I’m forking my pasta about on my plate I sneak looks at him, wondering whether to ask what’s on my mind. In a “normal” relationship it’s usual for a couple to ask each other difficult, personal questions, but does a sub have the right? Will he tell me off and tell me I’m prying? But then, Rufus has often said he wants me to be myself. I’ve never felt more like myself than I do in this moment, and I want to ask, so I say, “Rufus, will you tell me a little more about the theater you want to buy, and—and your family?”

  He raises a quizzical eyebrow at me. “How do you mean, princess?”

  “Well,” I say slowly, putting down my fork and resting my hands on the napkin in my lap. “I get the feeling that you don’t think your father would be proud of what you’re doing. Or that you don’t want to tell him about it.”

  He smiles down at his steak as he cuts it. “Ah. That. Perceptive little thing, aren’t you?” But his voice is light and teasing, not annoyed. “You’re right that I’m reluctant to tell him. We don’t talk about the theater much. We don’t talk much at all, really.”

  I wait for him to go on.

  “He ran the Palais for nearly twenty years, but I think so much of the memory of it is tied up with my mother’s death. I don’t want to cause him any more pain by talking about it.”

  This makes sense, but it seems such a terrible shame that they can’t even talk about a place that means so much to both of them. Emboldened by the night, the dress, by his support of me, I ask, “Do you think that new memories might help? Like if he came down to London to see the new theater with you?”

  “Once I find one worth buying you mean?” He thinks about this. “You know, it very well might.” He covers his hand with mine. “I’m used to being the one pushing other people to do things, not the other way round.”

  I chew my lip. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Sweet girl, not a bit. I’m touched.”

  When our plates have been cleared, I say, “Do you mind that I wore a dress like this tonight? It’s not...how I usually look.”

  He smiles and rests his hand on his chin. “You can dress however you want. I just want you to be happy. Is that dress how you feel tonight?”

  I nod. I’ve never relished having to do grown-up things but somehow Rufus has made it not only bearable, but pleasurable. I enjoyed going to the doctor to get the pills. I like the way I look in this dress.

  “Well, you look beautiful. I like you when you’re feeling little, and I like you when you’re feeling older. I like you all the time, very much.”

  There’s an odd tug at the center of my chest, and I want to tell him how much that means to me, but I can’t quite summon up the courage. Instead, I look at him under my lashes. “Do you like it when I’m bratty?”

  He grins. “No.”

  I lean forward and whisper to him, my lips close to his ear. “You’re not supposed to fib, daddy.” Then I bite his earlobe.

  He growls at the back of his throat. “Okay, we’re getting the check.”

  We drive to his apartment, because of my shoes, and we’re quiet in the car and on the ride up in the lift.

  Once we’re inside he gestures toward the kitchen, saying, “Do you, um...”

  But I wrap my arms around his neck and press myself against him. He kisses me, inhaling sharply, then picks me up and carries me to the bedroom.

  When he puts me down by the bed I reach down to undo my shoes but he catches my hand and shakes his head. “Leave them on for a minute.”

  I grin at him as he strips me naked except for my shoes. “I’ve been picturing what this would look like all evening,” he murmurs, trailing a forefinger over my bare skin and he walks around me. He tugs me into his arms. “How did I get so lucky?”

  Our faces are so close and I just look at him, feeling myself breathing against him. A few of the butterflies have returned but they’re fluttering with exciteme
nt as well as nerves. Kneeling before me, he takes off my shoes, and looks me right in the eye before he starts to kiss my feet, then my calves, and then my inner thighs, each kiss more demanding than the last. That heady sensation of being subsumed by him and sinking into a place where my mind clears steals over me. The strength of him, his large hands on my body make me let go of my worries.

  He undresses, and then spends a long time kissing me and licking me all over, and bringing me close to coming and then stopping. He’s done this three times, and I’m sweaty and panting when he roles on top of me and pins me beneath him.

  “I might hurt you,” he says.

  If he does hurt me I know that I’ll be able to bear it. “I like when you hurt me, daddy.”

  He kisses me, hungry, demanding. “That’s my good girl.” I’m pinned by the wrists and he’s got a heavy hand on my inner thigh, holding me in place. He looks very thick and I wonder how he’s going to fit. When he does push inside me it feels so tight. He watches the pain flicker over my face, but I don’t close my eyes.

  “You’re being such a brave girl for daddy.”

  And the pain is suddenly gone. He watches me as he fucks me slowly, and I keep my eyes open, showing him how brave I am.

  He withdraws suddenly and I cry out in dismay, but he doesn’t go far. Hooking my thighs over his shoulders, he licks me in the ways he’s learned I like. I bury my hands deep in his hair and watch him. It was just a short time ago that a terrified girl cowered before him, unable to explain or speak in her defense. I wonder where that girl has gone, and if she’ll ever come back. Maybe I’ve outgrown her now.

  Then I can’t think anymore because I’m over the edge, and I clutch his shoulders, my nails digging into his flesh.

  I have no time to recover before he’s above me again, thrusting into me, his hand wrapped around my throat. “You’re so tight after you’ve just come, kitten, did you know that?” he growls. His other hand twists in my hair and grips it tightly.

  Our eyes are locked together, and I watch him through my post-orgasm haze as his eyes darken and his breath becomes ragged. Then he comes, his thrusts hard and sharp, his body going rigid.

  A few minutes later he pushes himself up on his elbows and kisses me softly as he withdraws. “Are you all right?” he asks. “I hope I wasn’t too rough.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say, shaking my head. My mouth curves into a self-satisfied smile.

  He grins at me. “What’s that look? Pleased with yourself?” We lie together, our breath gradually slowing.

  I stretch against him, arms overhead, my body feeling long and luxurious. “Yes, daddy. Are you pleased with me?” Do you know how fearless I am when I’m with you? Do you feel the same way? Do I make you as happy as you make me?

  “Yes, little one. Very much.”

  We lie together for several minutes, his hand rubbing circles on the back of my neck. I watch him in the half-light while his eyes are closed. All the things I was afraid of when I first met him have fallen from me like shackles, but suddenly a new fear steals over me. What if I ask these questions and he doesn’t feel the same way?

  Don’t be greedy, I caution myself. Stop craving more. Enjoy what you have. “This evening was wonderful,” I say after a moment. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, kitten.” He kisses the top of my head and asks, “How about I run you a bath? Stay here. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  He gets up, and a moment later I hear the sound of the bath running as I lie in bed. I twist this way and that, trying to feel an echo of that burn I felt when he first entered me, but there’s nothing there. I liked the sensation of him inside me, and I think I will like it even more the next time.

  “Abby?”

  “Coming!”

  He holds my hand as I step into a bath thick with bubbles and a rosy scent, and helps me knot my hair on top of my head. “Oh my god,” I say, sinking back in the hot water. “Bliss.”

  He laughs. “Back in a moment.” A few minutes later he comes into the bathroom wrapped in a robe and holding two glasses of champagne. “Fizz?”

  I take the glass with a bubbly hand and we clink glasses. He sits on the edge of the bath and trails his hand through the bubbles. “So, was it what you were expecting?” he asks as I take a sip. I consider this.

  “It was you. It was wonderful,” I say.

  He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”

  “No, I mean it. Everything I do with you is wonderful.”

  He rubs a bubbly forefinger over my cheek. “Sweetheart. Thank you.”

  “What was your first time like?” I ask.

  He grins. “Brief. I was fifteen and it was a girl called Michelle and she was pissed off with her boyfriend. She got back together with him the next day. I tried not to take it as a comment on my skills.”

  I laugh, barely noticing as he reaches into the water, raises one of my feet and blows the bubbles off. Then he lowers his mouth and sucks on my big toe.

  I clutch the side of the tub. “Bloody hell.” The sensation of his tongue and lips is sending sensations shooting through me. I can’t tell if it’s ticklish or arousing or both.

  “Language,” he says, and then goes back to what he was doing.

  “I can’t help it,” I say, between eeps and gasps. “My dom has a potty mouth.”

  He moves onto my second toe. I’m finding it hard to hold onto my champagne. “Is that good?” he asks after a minute.

  I nod vigorously.

  “Like, sexy good?” I nod again, and he looks at me for a moment. “I don’t want to...meddle with you if you’re feeling sore—”

  I giggle. “Meddle?”

  He takes the champagne out of my hand. “That’s quite enough for you, young lady. I am asking you if you would like to come. But I understand if you don’t want to right now.”

  “Are you kidding? Please meddle with me.”

  He reaches over and pulls the chain attached to the plug and the bath starts to drain. “That’s my girl.”

  When I get out of the bath he rubs me down with a bath sheet, and we go back to bed. Propped on an elbow, he looks down at me and frowns. “Are your breasts bigger?”

  “Yes. It’s the pill. The doctor said I might gain a pound or two.”

  “Well, lucky me.” He pushes my breasts together and licks across both my nipples at once.

  When he’s finished sucking my toes some more—definitely arousing—and then my clit, he tucks the blankets over us and we settle down to sleep.

  The room is softly dark, but I can’t sleep so I watch Rufus instead. His face is sweet in repose, mouth slack, brow clear. I feel an ache as I look at him. There’s something burning deep in my chest, a little seed he planted the first time he looked deep into my eyes. The first time I saw him at the back of the theater. The first time he made me feel safe. It’s been growing quietly ever since, and I know it’s going to keep growing until it fills up every part of me. I want to tell him about it, but the thought of speaking it out loud is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever faced, so I keep it secret, and just let the burn grow.

  * * *

  The next day at the theater I stop and look at myself in the mirror in the middle of doing my makeup. I feel...different. It’s the sex and taking the pill and being someone’s sub and all the other crazy things that have been happening to me, but it’s more than that. I’m happy.

  “Vain today, isn’t she?” says Vee, noticing me staring at myself. Alice and Dionne look up from their makeup and grin. Vee winks at me and goes back to applying her mascara.

  “I had sex for the first time last night,” I blurt out, going red.

  All three of them stare at me, and then simultaneously squeal and squash me into a group hug. I’m laughing so hard by the time they’re done t
easing that I have to reapply my pancake.

  “Hey,” I say, when my foundation is done and I’m highlighting my cheekbones with silver glitter. “Do you guys ever get the feeling that your parents think it’s silly, what we do? Dancing, I mean?”

  Dionne casts her eyes to the ceiling. “The feeling? They used to tell me so all the time when I began. I’ve told them not to say anything now if they can’t say anything nice.”

  Vee thinks for a moment. “Not silly, exactly. Mine worry about what I’ll do for work if my knees give out tomorrow.” She snaps her eyeshadow closed. “I mean, I get it, they’re right in a way, but...”

  “But we have to do it anyway,” I finish. “We can’t live our lives worrying about what-ifs and what other people think.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Alice pipes up.

  I turn back to the mirror and start painting my lips with a slender lip brush. I was talking about dancing, but I realize that what I’ve said applies to my relationship with Rufus, as well. I doubt my parents would understand it, if they ever found out about the things we do, but it’s my choice.

  If they ever found out, I think, and pull a horrified face at myself.

  When I’m ready I leave the dressing room, and Rufus walks past me in the corridor on my way up to the stage. He’s carrying a toolbox and wearing work gloves, and when he notices me he holds up a hand and glances at his watch. Then he gives me a look and puts the toolbox down.

  “We’ve got just enough time.” He pulls me into the cleaner’s storeroom and locks the door from the inside.

  “Well, this is fancy,” I say, looking around at the mops and the huge bottles of cleaning fluids.

  “Oh, does princess think she’s too good for a storeroom?”

  I’m emboldened by the loss of my virginity, the confession of it to the other girls. “Yes,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. My heart flutters high in my chest. I’ve never openly defied him just to see what he’ll do.

  Rufus’s eyes turn flinty and he backs me against the wall. “Like hell you are. Put your foot on this shelf.”

  For a second I just look at him, an insolent lift to my chin and a teasing smile on my lips, but then his eyes narrow and I do as I’m told. The acquiescence to his demands feels as good as his gloved hand pushing my thighs open. He pulls the other glove off with his teeth. I expect him to lick me or rub me like he usually does, but once he feels that I’m wet he slides two fingers inside me. When it was his cock all I could think of was how strange and tight it felt, but today it feels unexpectedly good as his fingers delve into me.