Bound in Blue

by Annabel Joseph

  * * * * *

  Jason came to her and hugged her, and touched her face, and said he was so, so proud of her before he headed back inside with Theo. She was glad, because otherwise she might have fallen apart. Mr. Lemaitre looked unhappy. No, he looked miserable.

  “You didn’t like the act?” she asked. She wanted her voice to sound strong and professional, but it shook with nerves. “If you want me to change things, I can. The tricks are what’s important. With Theo’s help, I can adapt them to any theme.”

  No answer. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him, why are you like this? Instead, she started yanking at her blue feathers, trying to peel them from her lids.

  “Stop.” Lemaitre flew across the patio and stilled her hands. “You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll hurt your eyes if you pull like that.”

  Sara looked up at him, this man with her exact same eyes, even the same dark ring around the middle. Was he concerned as her boss, or as her father? Did it matter? She found the edge of the feather adhesive and carefully peeled it away, then the other, more slowly than she would have if he wasn’t staring at her with that grimace on his face. She closed the feathers in her hand, feeling the tickle against her palm.

  “I’ll change whatever you like,” she said. “If you didn’t like it—”

  “I liked it.”

  “If you want to give me some notes—”

  “I don’t want to give you notes!”

  Sara snapped her mouth shut at his sharp voice. This was so hard, trying to be performer and boss when both of them knew they were something more.

  “I can tell you’re unhappy,” she cried. “Tell me how to change it. I can make it whatever you want.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” he said through tense lips. “I don’t want you to change it. It’s perfect as it is. I don’t have any notes for you, no criticism or comments. Only one note, really.” He lifted his arms at his sides. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything you went through, all your struggles. I’m terribly sorry for not being in your life.”

  She bristled at his angry, angsty tone. “This act wasn’t about you. It wasn’t for you. It has nothing to do with you, because you weren’t there. They were my struggles.”

  “Your struggles because of me. I got the subtext, my dear.”

  The way he said my dear snapped her last nerve. “Don’t ‘my dear’ me,” she said, glaring up at him. “You have no right to be upset. It was your choice to leave me there.”

  “I had to leave you there.”

  “And it was your choice to bring me here now. Your choice.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything, for all the ways I’ve hurt you.” He blinked at her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Why are we yelling at each other?”

  “Because I’m angry at you.” She spit the words out, then everything came pouring out, all the feelings she’d kept bottled inside. “I’m angry. I’m furious with you and your fucking coldness. I hate you for not wanting me. I hate you for lying to me and being cowardly. And you know what? I’m angry that you don’t want me. It’s mean, and it’s not fair. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me.” She shouted it the second time, like she could convince him. Like she could convince herself. “I want you to want me and you won’t. You don’t. And I don’t understand why.”

  She made fists and pounded them on his chest. Why? Why? Why? The word echoed in her brain, or maybe she yelled it out loud. She felt his arms come around her and she waited to be pushed away, but he pulled her close instead.

  “Shhh. I want you, Sarantsatsral.” He brushed a hand across her cheek and she felt tears, when she hadn’t even realized she was sobbing. “Please,” he said softly. “You’re crying these tears for me?”

  She pressed her face against his chest. “Yes. Because of you. I want you to be my father. I’ve tried not to want it but I do.” She burst into another bout of sobs, then she felt his fingers against her hair, brushing through her messy buns.

  “Beautiful daughter,” he murmured. “I don’t understand. How can you want me after all I’ve done to you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, drawing back to look at him. “I can’t answer that. I just do.” She looked down and realized her stage makeup had smeared horrible blotches onto his pristine suit. “Oh no,” she said. “Your jacket is ruined. My makeup—”

  “It’s okay.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it against her face. When she reached to take it, her feather eyelashes fluttered up between them. He snatched at them and caught them before a breeze could carry them away.

  “That was close,” he said, letting out a breath.

  “I have more.”

  “But these are special. From the first time you did your act.”

  More superstition. What a strange, complicated man her father was. “Do you want to keep them?” she asked.

  He nodded and slipped them into his pocket, and accepted his handkerchief back. She’d ruined it with foundation and eye shadow but he put it in his pocket too, and then he took her hand. “You know, it was a lot easier for me when you were a concept. My faraway daughter. A secret child I never thought to meet.”

  “Yes, well, it was a lot easier for me before I knew you were my dad.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. I thought I could bring you from Mongolia and put you in a show somewhere. I thought it would be enough for me, to know you were happy and safe, and provided for. But now I realize...” He touched her hair again, with an infinitely tender gaze. “I realize I can’t bear to send you away.”

  The whole last month, she’d ached for this kindness, this recognition. She wanted to stay with him and be his daughter…but she wanted to do trapeze too. “What will I do if I stay?” she asked. “There’s no act for me.”

  He released her and leaned against the balustrade. “That’s the rub. I’m sorry, ma petite. I can’t send you into the rafters of Tsilaosa. A woman died, a woman who looked so very much like you. It’s too much risk. Too much bad luck.”

  “Her bad luck. Not mine.”

  “Sara, I can’t.”

  “It’s silly, this superstition. I’m great at trapeze.”

  He turned his head sideways and scowled. “You almost fell at the Exhibition, remember? I still have nightmares about it, and probably always will.”

  “That was different. It had nothing to do with any weird circus curse.”

  He said something fierce and blustery in French and stared out at the city for a long while. Then he straightened with a sigh. “Perhaps there is a way. Your fiancé suggested an entirely new show.”

  “In Paris?”

  “Yes. To replace Tsilaosa. It’s not a bad idea.”

  “And I could do trapeze in that show?” she asked, clasping her hands together.

  Her father took a deep breath. “I might be able to bear it. You’re very good at what you do. Very skilled.”

  His praise thrilled her, but something else thrilled her more. “You called Jason my fiancé.”

  “He is your fiancé, is he not? He told me he was.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve heard it out loud,” she said with a kind of wonder. “He’s full of good ideas, isn’t he?”

  “Proposing to you was one of them. Even if I think you’re too young.”

  She looked at him from under her lashes. “That sounds like something a father would say.”

  A glint of humor curved the edges of his lips. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  They stared at each other, and Sara could see the change in his eyes. Some barricade had lifted. He’s going to be my father. He is. She felt so relieved, so happy. And a little embarrassed about the things she’d said in the heat of the moment. “I’m sorry I yelled at you and said I hated you. I didn’t mean it. And I’m sorry about your clothes.”

  He brushed at the stains on the front of his suit with a smile. “I hear that babies ruin their parents’ clothes with regularity. And that teenage chi
ldren are full of angry tirades. You’re only making up for lost time.” He sobered and reached for her hand. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for, but I’ll do what I can. Sara…I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll get everything right.”

  She moved into his arms when he opened them. “I won’t get everything right either. That’s how families are, I guess.”

  And this was how families hugged. This time their embrace wasn’t stormy, with pent up emotions. It felt natural. Relaxed.

  “So, if I mount a new show in Paris, you’ll help me?” he asked against her ear. “You inspire me, you know.”

  His words settled in her heart, a forever-memory. “Of course I’ll help.”

  He clasped her closer and rested his cheek against her hair. “I’m proud of you, Sara. I love you. I’m glad you’re my daughter. I’ve wanted to say all of those things for some time now.”

  She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She just breathed in, and breathed out, and thought how wonderful it was to be held again in a father’s arms.

  Chapter Nineteen: To This

  Jason paced the living room and watched out the window, waiting for Sara to get home. As soon as they’d returned from Marseille, he’d asked her to move in with him, so his home was her home now. Both of them were staying in Paris for the foreseeable future, thanks to the new show, and she was wearing his ring. At some point he’d make his eternal girl into his eternal bride, when they had time to sit down and plan a wedding.

  That time wasn’t now.

  A lot had happened in the last few weeks. For one, they’d entered the planning stages for Cirque Élémental, a new production based on the elements: fire, air, water, earth. Sara’s act fit perfectly in the air category, and several other acts were being developed with complementary themes. She’d worked hard to regain her cast mates’ trust after the Baat debacle, and eventually, the whispers and judgments faded away, replaced by different whispers: She’s his daughter. Lemaitre’s her dad!

  Lemaitre let the gossip engine spread the news that he was Sara’s father. To spare her embarrassment, he led everyone to believe she’d known all along, and chose to keep it a secret since he was the big boss. And after all his doubts and reservations, Lemaitre impressed Jason with his paternal instincts. Lemaitre gave his daughter attention, but didn’t smother her. He tried to make up for lost time, but didn’t stress over all the history they’d missed.

  All of this suited Sara perfectly. She adored her father and called him “daddy,” which was sweet if slightly squicky. Both of them were happy, and that made Jason happy too. Lemaitre took Sara out to dinner every Saturday night, and no one, not even Jason, could interfere in this father-daughter time. He tried not to be jealous, and anyway, Sara told him all about their evenings as soon as she got home.

  At last he saw her getting out of Lemaitre’s car and waving goodbye. After the rat-a-tat of her shoes on the staircase, he met her on the landing and embraced her. He never got tired of touching her. He’d never take her closeness for granted after that long month she was away from him. When he kissed her, she tipped her head back for more.

  “Oh, baby,” he whispered against her lips. He rubbed her neck and gripped it just to hear her moan. With his other hand he undid the button on her skirt, easing it down along with her black silk panties.

  “Where did you go this time?” he asked, starting on the tie at the back of her blouse.

  “Vietnamese,” she said. “It was delicious.”

  “You’re delicious.” She giggled as he nibbled her shoulder. Her blouse came off, and then her lacy bra. Pretty but unnecessary, especially at home where he kept her naked. This undressing was a custom of theirs now, a ritual of his ownership and her slavery. He gave one of her nipples a pinch.

  “Any news? How’s your dad?”

  “He’s well. Hard at work on Élémental, just as you are.”

  He smiled. “And you too. All of us are in this.”

  “He said only one act is driving him crazy. An acrobat. He said you’d know who it was.”

  Jason did know how it was, but he didn’t want to think about that now. Sara whined as he pinched a little harder, then he bent to lick the ouchy away. He had no reason to punish her. Well, except that she liked it. She drew in a breath as he teased the other nipple. “He also said he heard from Baat. He’s finished with rehab and doing really well. He’s even gone back to work.”

  “With Circus Mongolia?”

  “No, in a touring circus this time. In a larger troupe.”

  Jason was happy for Baat, but Sara had always been his primary concern. He slid his hands lower and grabbed her ass, squeezing the cane tracks he’d put there last night. Her hips bucked against his front, and she reached—without permission—for the front of his jeans.

  “No,” he said, pushing her hand down. “Not yet. Talk to me first. So Baat’s better and he’s working again. Is there any chance he’ll come back to the Cirque?”

  “I know he won’t.” She went up on her tiptoes as he fingered her slit. “Daddy—Daddy says he has a new partner with lots of experience. That she’s very good.”

  “God, Sara. It’s so weird when you call him daddy.”

  “Why? He’s my dad.”

  Jason smiled and smoothed the lines from her forehead. “I know he’s your dad.” He stopped molesting her a moment to gauge her mood, her reaction to this news about her ex-partner. “How do you feel about Baat working with someone else? Does it make you sad?”

  “No. I’m glad he’s better, and I hope she makes him happier than I did. He deserves someone more like him. Someone who’s content to stay in Mongolia, someone not always focused on crazy dreams.”

  He took her face in his hands and cupped her cheeks. “I’m glad you had crazy dreams. They brought you to me. To this. You’re exactly who you should be.” He waited for that to sink in. “And you’re exactly where you should be, here in my arms.”

  “I know, Master.”

  “Do you really know? Or do you need me to prove it?” Her shiver and fearful look started a pulse in his cock, a drumbeat that seemed to pound whenever she was near.

  “I love when you prove things to me,” she whispered. “When you really prove them hard.”

  “Upstairs, little one,” he said, turning her toward the hall. “Wait at the foot of the bed. I’ll be up in a minute.” As soon as I compose myself. As soon as I regain my control.

  If I ever regain my control, now that you’re in my life.

  * * * * *

  Sara skittered upstairs and dimmed the lights to her Master’s preferred scene level, and then positioned herself to wait at the foot of his bed. Their bed. It was her bed now too, with her Mongolian leather cuffs bolted to the headboard, and a matching pair he’d ordered for the footboard. The bed was set up to restrain her more than offer relaxation, but that was okay with her.

  Since she’d moved in with him, they’d developed all kinds of habits and protocols that kept her in a constant state of longing. The way he touched her, the way he talked to her, the way he kept her naked, the way he sent her upstairs whenever he liked...

  He wasn’t only a Master, though. He was a caring fiancé too. He took her on dates and bought her gifts, and talked a lot about their future. He could be tough and exacting, and then be so sweet she wanted to cry. She never knew what she’d get with Jason. Sometimes she got both sides of him at once, and those were the most wonderful times.

  She heard his footsteps and straightened up her slave pose, arching her back a little more. Her pussy was already wet. It wasn’t only the waiting. It was the way he made her do it, in that pose that offered everything, that forced her to be open and displayed for his pleasure. He required that pose because it reminded her she was his, that her body was his to use however he wanted, whenever he wanted.

  Oh God, she got so out-of-her-mind horny whenever she thought about it.

  Her feelings must have shown on her face, because as soon as he looked at he
r, he chuckled and started stripping off his clothes. She stared as he revealed each elegant, muscular part of his body.

  “Come here, Sara,” he said when he was finished. “Look what I’ve brought you.”

  She hurried to him on her hands and knees. His gift might have been lingerie, or chocolate, or a hurty new whip. Any of them would have made her happy. But no, it was a coiled length of soft rope, custom-dyed in a pale blue color.

  “Oh, Master. It’s beautiful.” She touched the woven edge. “Where did you find it?”

  “I ordered it from a guy I know. I was inspired after watching your act.” As he spoke, he knelt and drew her arms behind her, and started tying them together from elbow to wrist. Each tug, each touch, each whisper of his fingertips aroused her more. When he finished, he helped her stand and walked her over to the full-length mirror in the corner, and turned her so she could see what he’d done. He’d crafted beautiful knots, a ladder of them matching her eyes and her ring. As she looked over her shoulder, she caught his gaze in the glass. Her heart was too full to come up with fancy words.

  “I love you,” she said instead, tugging at the bindings. No, she couldn’t get free. Which was good, because she didn’t want to get free.

  He squeezed and caressed her breasts. “Thank Master for helping you be a pretty, color-coordinated little slave.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Against her better judgment, she added, “Although I think it’s more for your benefit than mine.”

  He snorted. “Aching for a few more marks on your ass?”

  She looked back to study those in the mirror too. “Yes, Master. If it pleases you.”

  Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. If it pleases you. Such a limited vocabulary for the depth of these games they played. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “Who are you?”

  “I’m your slave, Master.”

  “Are your eyes pretty?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Is every part of you lovely and beautiful to your owner?”