by Louisa Trent
I would die on the spot rather let him down.
Squaring my shoulders, I went to the wall. Once there, I did as instructed and remained faced away.
“Lower your drawers.”
My excitement went out of bounds. However, there was a negative side to my extreme arousal – I was at sixes and sevens. My fingers bumped into one another in my haste to pick up my puffy skirts and petticoats and lower my drawers to the floor. I would rather have appeared filled with ennui, as if entering a hidden room was an everyday event for me. And then there was my jealousy, an immaturity which betrayed my lack of sophistication in no uncertain terms.
“How many women have you taken to this secret room, sir?”
“None. You once asked me if I had any knowledge of dark carnality and I told you I did. Years ago, I frequented places where harder-edged practices were freely practiced. I left those places dissatisfied. After we met, though, I came back here and put this room together. ”
“My goodness. I must admit to being a bit overwhelmed by your…I guess…thoughtfulness in thinking of me. Should I feel honored?”
“Feel what you feel, so long as you feel it without shame,” he said quietly. “That is the whole point of this exercise.”
I was of a divided opinion about what I should feel. To be shameless – that placed a lot of pressure on me. Remaining noncommittal, I said evenly, “I see, sir.”
“Do you?”
I hesitated. “I think so, sir. Would you like to fill me in further?”
“That ridiculous trickery you used on me tonight.” He clucked his tongue. “I would have thought us beyond such juvenile tactics.”
Would he never just spell it out? Would he never just tell me what he wanted from me?
Whatever it was, he could have it. But I had to know what it was first.
I sought to draw him. “Trickery? How so, sir? If you would only spit it out…”
“Spit? Gentlemen are never so crude.”
Ha! I was once a kitchen maid in a wealthy gent’s house. I had first-hand knowledge that the wealthy and well-placed of both genders were plenty crude. I’d had my backside pinched by the men and my intelligence questioned by the ladies in ugly, ugly terms.
If this was to be an execution, why wait for the guillotine to fall?
I jumped right in, daring the blade to sever the head from my shoulders. “This is about my being late, sir. Correct? Have you never been late?”
“Gentlemen are never late.”
In my experience, they were always so. Never had I known such a bunch of inconsiderate louts as filthy rich gents. And that inconsiderateness was, according to Mr. Simmons, the reason behind lateness, which was why I had chosen that particular bugaboo to get him all riled up.
I’d had my misgivings initially. But apparently, the ruse had worked after all. He was taking action at long last,
“Speak your mind, Emma! Express your wants. If you need punishment, I am not opposed to supplying the hurt.”
“P-pardon?” I asked, all-flustered.
“I want you happy here, Emma. Within reason – the idea of too much hurt sours my belly – I am willing to see you are happy. If you leave here and seek mastering elsewhere, you can run into all kinds of difficulties. There are reputable sorts who practice dark carnality responsibly, and then there are those bastards who use it as an excuse to abuse women.”
Was Mr. Simmons testing my resolve to stay with him, no matter what? Letting me know if I remained with him our relationship would not follow the traditional path? Was this his way of telling me there would be no red roses in my future?
He must entertain doubts about my consent. He must not think me strong enough to match his brooding passions.
Bring on your whips and floggers and cat o’nine tails, sir. See if I cry off…
Whatever he threw at me, I could match and then some. If this was to be my proving ground, I was ready. Was he?
There were two sides to every coin. In exposing my illicit passions, he exposed his own dark need to satisfy them. Once he accepted that, then the real day of reckoning between us would arrive
So be it.
Right from the first, he recognized my unconventional nature. And why?
Because he shared it.
Eventually, he would have to admit to it. He was simply not there yet. But, with a little push from me, he would eventually strip his civilized façade away and accept his ungentlemanly carnality. I was not about to crumble beneath his “depraved” desires.
Get down in the dirt with me, Mr. Simmons! Own your predilections.
Leading a safe and conventional existence was not for him. And neither was it for me.
“Do I have your consent to proceed, Emma?”
My voice strong, my determination stronger, I replied, “You have my unconditional consent, sir. No need to ask again – the answer is yes to everything.”
I meant that promise too.
“But if it does become too much,” said the careful man, “just tell me to cease. In fact, say the word cease, and it ends.”
“Fine. Fine.” I rolled my eyes inwardly. “Have it your way.”
“Pulling that earlier stunt was beneath you, Emma.”
“What stunt?” He was the one who had been the strongman, not me. Come to think of it, being the recipient of some of his circus stunts sounded tempting…
“The stunt was your attempt to gain my attention through tardiness. A child could have seen through your act. If you needed a firmer hand, you should have told me so. I would have taken care of you.”
“In the future, I…”
“Not the future. Now. Do you prefer a whip, Emma? Or would you rather I use a rod on you, as your dance master once did?”
Before, when I went on and on, bending his ear with my rapid-fire flow of words about my former teacher, he had listened to me. Listened, and heard what I had to say. How novel!
At the time, I thought my tale of discipline must have sounded highly unusual to him. Perhaps not. Perhaps his interest in me had only increased then.
Mr. Simmons speech was normally slow and methodical, unrushed. His rapid-fire speech now betrayed his arousal when he said:
“Choose, Emma. How else will I know unless you speak?
“The rod, please, sir. First. Then feel free to throw the whole lot at me, anything from your bag of tricks will do me.”
“Greedy pus.”
Above my laughter, I heard him approach, saw him restrain my wrists separately within iron clamps attached by heavy chains to the brick wall. The restraints put me in the proper mood. Though something was missing…
“Wait, sir! What about ankle manacles?”
“Next time.”
I tried not to sulk. But I did turn back and stick out my tongue at him. When it came to food, bread was my weakness. I was only getting half a loaf here.
“Scream all you like, Emma. No one will hear you in here. I had this small room soundproofed.”
Advanced planning, eh? So like him…
And here I thought myself the devious one. Wrong. So very wrong! He had kept this room hidden, waiting for just the right moment to spring it on me.
Another thing. He could have slid my clothing down over my hips. Instead of taking his time in the interest of building my suspense – a technique employed to good effect in theatrical drama – he not only wasted the opportunity, he ruined a perfectly beautiful outfit.
Why?
To get at me all the quicker.
Later, I would have to stitch everything back together again. Wasting money bothered me. By necessity, I was of a practical bent. My sensibleness came of owning only one outfit, purchased secondhand.
So, there I stood, naked from the waist down, my ankles tangled up in my lowered drawers. Rather than complain, I pretended the underwear were the missing shackles.
“Extend your hips outward,” he advised, his language less crisp and precise than usual, almost guttural, his tongue thick on t
he directive.
My heart skipping a beat, I did as told, which was difficult what with my drawers hobbling me. No mistake, I did appreciate having my limbs restrained even if only by my unmentionables. It was only that – this would have felt more like an erotic scenario if my feet were also clamped in metal.
Authenticity was everything. And I did have that small obsession about details…
My mental meanderings came to a sudden halt when the rod slashed the air, crisscrossing the flesh of my full bottom.
No act, I yelped. Because ouch it hurt! Not quite the playful fantasy encounter I had envisioned. My former dance master’s discipline had tickled in comparison.
No tickle here.
Nevertheless, I bore up under it, my commitment to dark carnality ever strong.
“Two more,” he told me, his voice as tight as my nipples.
“Understood, sir,” I gurgled, and purposefully turned into the next lashing.
The rod, made from an extremely lightweight balsawood, was as flexible as Mr. Simmons was rigid, and not nearly harsh enough for my tastes.
I made do, shivering in unadulterated pleasure as I pulled on the chains.
Once again, Mr. Simmons approached me. Without asking if he might, he ripped the bodice of my expensive gown and camisole down the front. The sides hung gaping at my sides.
Needlework was not my forte. Indeed, I detested the chore. If the proof was in the pudding, not begrudging the hours I would later spend mending showed my love for him. Even if my fingers bled on the needle, the ragman was not getting this lovely outfit.
“I shan’t break the skin,” he told me on a hush, and flayed my bottom again. For the third time. This was one more than the number he had quoted me. But who was counting?
Me.
His lack of self-control here gladdened me.
Owing to his background – son of a prostitute, former circus performer, owner of an illegal gambling establishment – he tried so hard to measure up to some idealized standard of what a gentleman was supposed to be. It did my heart good to see him forsake that idiocy here with me.
Mr. Simmons was the kindest and most caring of human beings, the very definition of a true gentleman in my book. No reason for him to constantly have to meet some requirement he set himself. Or worse still, that society set for him. He was his own man. About time he realized it.
Gasping, my knees weak and collapsing beneath me, I hung by my wrists from the stout chains, my reddened nipples – hard, elongated, blood engorged, and painful – poking the air. And still, I willed him to continue.
He did.
“Christ, but you are beautiful, Emma.” Then, on his second rasped breath, he said, “I mean to reinstall your hoops.”
At his words, I snapped against my restraints, then came on a hoarse scream. Not until much later, when I had my wits about me again, was I able to negotiate, “When for my hoops?” I clarified. “Their reinstatement, that is, sir?”
“Today.”
In fear of a customer hurting me, Mr. Simmons had originally removed those nipple hoops. Reinstalling them meant something totally unexpected, totally significant as well:
The question of my going to some other man was moot. Mr. Simmons was committed to keeping me all to himself.
Chapter Thirteen
I no longer performed.
Since my first erotic interlude with Mr. Simmons, I took not a single step. Nor had I done any exercises at the barre, a regimen I used to follow religiously every day. My hosting duties at the gambling den paid well and I thoroughly enjoyed the position, but…my ambition to make a name for myself in dance circles was gone.
In a panic, I decided to reclaim the awe-struck dancer I once was. To show myself that dancing was not the passing phase of an orphaned girl’s lonely childhood, I decided to reintroduce ballet into my life. Nothing too extreme, a gradual process. And I knew just how to proceed:
I would take Clarissa’s earlier suggestion to heart and become involved with the children of working prostitutes – those employed here at the gambling den as well as those living in impoverished circumstances on the street.
And so I did, slowly but surely, both teacher and budding ballet students taking small steps, I introduced young boys and girls to the discipline of dance. My tenure as a teacher was never meant to be permanent. The idea was to expose children to various creative outlets over the course of ten weeks before another person with expertise in a different field of study stepped in and took over. The children would get a broader perspective of the arts that way.
Fine by me.
Not only was teaching a creative vehicle for me, teaching also gave me motivation to get into dance again myself. Expressing why ballet meant so much to me to a group of young and enthusiastic students shaped the idea why I did what I did in concrete terms. Putting my love into words, using simple language, solidified why I was bereft without dance in my life, how unmoored I had felt of late because of the lack.
After class finished, I always stayed on to try some new steps by myself. Not choreographed, naturally, just some free-form moves.
The room where I held the class and where I later practiced alone was suitably cheerful for the age group I taught. As well it should be. Children should have bright and happy surroundings. At my direction, Mr. Simmons had spared no expense in fixing up the empty space. Workmen arrived daily to install mirrors and wall-mounted barres. They repainted the space a warm and inviting yellow. New flush-mounted ceiling lights were installed. The hardwood floor was already level and recently refinished, so no additional repair work was necessary there.
Straightaway, I learned some students in my class were gifted with genuine talent, while others had a sense of humor about their shortage thereof. Regardless of their skill abilities, I made sure all my students enjoyed themselves. We laughed at our own clumsiness on our toes, but never one another’s lack of agility.
I kept to a schedule. After my students departed for the day, I began my own private class of one. My alone time was not without disappointment. A few weeks removed from the discipline of ballet and my muscles proved sluggish. Far too slow in responding. Though my rustiness frustrated me, I resolved not to give into despair. After all, like everything else in life, practice made perfect. The point was to keep trying, to continue to challenge myself, no matter what.
After finishing the de rigueur stretching at the wall mirror, I decided to rehearse the steps of Swan Lake, the ballet that had resulted in my firing at the dancehall. At the end, I gave a final bow.
Thunderous applause came from behind me. Apparently I’d had an audience for my entire practice session without any awareness of the fact. This was not beyond the realm of my experience. Dance had always transported me. Swept away, I forgot all my cares and woes and lost myself to the number. The roof could have collapsed overhead, ceiling plaster falling all around me, and I would have been hard-pressed to notice the source of the debris.
Finally, I discovered the origins of the clapping. A handsome gentleman I had never seen before at the gambling den stood at the partially ajar classroom door. Beside this stranger was Mr. Simmons. After giving a formal curtsey to both men, I looked for an explanation from the former, who promptly said, “I hope we did not disturb you?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Well good! Interrupting you was not my intent. I only wished you to meet an acquaintance of mine. Emma Jones may I introduce Mr. Claret, the owner of a small musical theatre company starting up here in Boston?”
I dipped another curtsey. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Claret.”
“Non, non. The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. You dance very well, Emma.”
The stranger’s slight French accent and his impeccable style of dress brought back fond memories of Madame Madeline, and I smiled in memory. Though – introductions also had me bristling.
Both men had used my first name, their familiarity telling me that Mr. Claret either knew of, or strongly suspect
ed the intimacy of my relationship with Mr. Simmons. I felt myself blush at the knowledge. What must Mr. Claret think?
Most likely he thought nothing untoward. The intimacy I shared with Mr. Simmons was the same as the intimacy shared between any other wealthy male patron and his female whore. The familiarity all came down to money and personal favors.
I was a kept woman, therefore a possession. Although our circumstances were a bit unique in that Mr. Simmons already had a mistress, one of long standing, and he paid both of us for sexual relations. He also paid me for my position here as hostess. I was saving both sources of income to return to the dance world someday. Or, so I had told myself.
Mr. Simmons cleared his throat. “Mr. Claret has several years experience with the Paris Opera Ballet and aims to branch out here in America. For that reason – Mr. Claret has a proposition to make you, Emma.
And there it was now – the hand of Mr. Simmons in all this.
“I do indeed have a proposition for you, Emma,” Mr. Claret chimed in. “After hearing about your dedication to dance from Mr. Simmons and seeing you perform just now in the flesh, I would very much like to offer you an apprenticeship at my Boston-based new troupe, the musical theatre production Mr. Simmons just spoke of. Also…”
My eyes bugged with eagerness. “Yes, Mr. Claret?”
With little in the way of fanfare, he handed me his business card. “Hold onto my address. You would greatly benefit by an association with me.” As an afterthought, he added, “And with my new dance troupe, which I shall run along the lines of the Paris Opera Company. Honestly, there will be little distinction between the two, both onstage and off.”
And then I knew – Mr. Claret was French in more ways than an accent and an haute couture sense of fashion.