The Dancer and the Dom

The Dancer and
the Dom

J.A. Bailey

Copyright 2013 ©J. A. Bailey

All rights reserved. No part of
this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Prologue

Marguerite

The
Royal Scottish Ballet. Paquita. The final moments. Paquita and Lucien are to
wed. The harps tinkle and that is my cue.

As
I make my entrance across the stage, I glance across at my Master in the wings
and a sadness I almost cannot bear crosses my heart, for at the end of this
performance I will be free. A dancer since I was six, a slave since I was
twenty nine and a retiree at thirty four. Retired as a dancer and retired from
Matthieu.

I
daren’t change my expression in front of the audience but he locks his eyes
dead onto mine and a glow fills me. I can see he is pleased, though he rarely
smiles and his pleasure fills me with pride. The vibrator strapped to me
underneath my long gypsy skirt suddenly bursts into life as I throw myself into
the most technical section of the dance and just for an instance, I am
overwhelmed with fear that I will stumble or... compromise myself in front of
him and the audience. Somehow I manage to stay composed, even as I want to buck
against it. The pulse between my thighs grows stronger and my sex is throbbing,
twitching and crying with need. There is no escape, I cannot run off, I cannot
rush the dance. There is nothing I can do except complete the routine. I am
almost panting with desire, reaching the furthest shreds of my self-control
when the vibrator stops dead. The sense of loss is incredible and I manage,
Lord knows how, to retain a sense of elegance and limit my shock to pursed lips
and a furrowed brow.

Suddenly
it bursts into life with a vengeance.  I whirl through the final steps, a fire
burning in my pussy and with a final gasp I explode. Through long training in
restraint, I manage to resist the compulsion to clench my hands, I ride out the
coiling tension and release in my groin but my breath? No. I pant like an
animal. Or like a dancer coming to the finale of a complex routine. The dance
is complete and I turn my face to the audience with tears of gaudy happiness
streaking down my heavily made up face. Oh my Master...

I
perform my curtsies, smile broadly, wave at the cheering crowds, collect my
bouquets from well-wishers who are here for me, for the final performance of
the famed prima dancer, Marguerite Dusolier
—
and
dash off stage as quickly as is decent into the arms of my Master, into a tight
embrace.

“So
this is it, Marguerite. You are free.”

I
look up at him and my tears start free flowing, my lip trembling.
“Can I not stay? I can
still be your slave while I teach...”

He
shushes me, tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, fingertips lingering on my
neck. “You have been such a good girl. It hurts me to let you go now. But I
cannot be the master you deserve. Not without retiring myself. You deserve a
master who can be as devoted to you as you were to me.”

I
sniffle and give a sad little giggle. “I don't think I would still be a good
girl otherwise.”

He
smiles ruefully, those incredible hazel eyes staring deep into mine. “And that
would not do.”

The
memories flood back. The beatings. The bindings. Sharing me with the wealthy
patrons of the ballet. The night when I serviced five patrons in one night.
Three at once. The memory makes my sex flutter. I sigh and pause.

“It
would make no difference if I were to beg?”

His
smile falters and he shakes his head. “No, Marguerite. It may seem cruel now
but you will come to understand.”

I
sigh. I already understand. I nod and he brushes the tears from my painted
cheeks before kissing my forehead.

“Farewell,
little slave.”

***

Emmeline
took a deep breath and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She just didn’t know
what was up with her today. Maybe it had been the latest row with her flatmate
this morning about Emmeline’s refusal to restock the milk despite Emmeline's
strict gluten and lactose free diet. Maybe it was just that it was a really hot
day and the studio, windowless, surrounded by mirrors and filled with forty
three other sweaty dancers, was sweltering. Maybe it was the fact that this was
the seventeenth damn rehearsal for Giselle and there were at least another
twenty two to look forward to. Perhaps it was even that the tinkling piano was
just out of tune enough to grate on her ears.

For
whatever reason, today she was just not getting into the flow of her dance.

Madame
Dusolier prowled along the balcony, looking down at the dancers over half-moon
glasses and crossed arms. Her instructions resounded across the room, her
shrill tones at odds with Giles's piano accompaniment. “Plie! Sissonne ferme et
plie! Un, deux, trois
—
”

In
perfect formation, forty four perfectly tight, muscular female legs pointed to
the ceiling in a
penchee
. A heartbeat later the room thudded as one as
each dancer bounced from
penchee
to
plie
to
pas-de-bourrée
.

Emmeline
took a deep breath and worked through the motions but she knew that there was
none of her customary emphasis or feeling in her steps. She thought about
Madame Dusolier and the demands she placed on her dancers; thought about the
flecks of sweat on the polished floor that were easily visible within the first
fifteen minutes of practice; thought about the mosaic of evaporated marks and
smears that would be within touching distance of their noses as they did their
floor stretches at the end of rehearsal. Maybe her parents were right. Twenty-three
years old and still not lead dancer in the Royal Scottish Ballet. Hell, not
even in the main corps of the Ballet but in the stock retainers. Her father’s
“helpful” suggestion that perhaps she consider taking up night classes “as a back-up
plan, perhaps in bookmaking”
—
that had stung. Perhaps
she really wasn’t good enough.

“Dancer
thirty-three! What are you doing flailing like that?”

Shit.
She looked up at Madame Dusolier’s outraged eyes and nodded. She winced
inwardly, willing herself to get a grip.

Pick
yourself up girl, you need to stay in this production.

It
was then that she saw him.

Matthieu
Bartoli. The most prestigious director ever to grace the company. Stood to the
left of Madame Dusolier and staring at Emmeline right as her embarrassment was
at its peak. Emmeline felt her stomach flip several times before sinking to her
knees like a cartoon balloon deflating.

Come
on girl!

She
picked herself up and threw herself back into the dance. She leapt higher, flicked
toes with more emphasis
—
and yet she just felt
more and more self-doubt. Was she overcompensating now?

"Droit
et sissonne et..."

Was
he still watching her?

She
looked across as discreetly as she could and gulped as she spotted him. He was
evidently engrossed with something on his phone now but goodness, he was a
handsome devil. Tousled salt and pepper curls framed cheekbones that could
slice diamonds.

"Et
droit
—
"

A
step to the right and she snuck another peek. He was tall and slender, but
muscular
—
the
typical dancer’s body shape. Somewhere in his late thirties or early forties,
he wore expensive looking glasses but then again, he wore expensive looking clothes.
Elegant and tasteful, she thought. A cross between a Monaco millionaire and a
university lecturer.

Emmeline
caught herself and gently shook her head. It really had been too long since she
had been with a man and it was evidently showing. She was behaving like a
teenage girl.

“Dancer
thirty-three, remain behind after practice.”

Time
held still for a blink before she again nodded her acknowledgement. She could
sense the gaze of every other dancer upon her. Just how much trouble was she
in?
If I'm lucky, I'll only be fired from this production and not... Not the
entire company....

Nerves
gave way to sheer terror and her body responded accordingly. She danced like a
dervish. If she were to leave the company today, it would be after she had
danced and enjoyed every step and felt the music in her soul. Her muscles could
tear, her ankles could snap and there was a fair chance that some of her toes
already had. If everything broke, well, she could study to be a bookkeeper. No
ankles needed for that, after all. No need for knees that bend without creaking
or for pretty feet. Right now, she just needed to dance and let all the emotion
drain through her.

Four
hours later, practice was over.

The
piano came to an end, limbs were stretched and water bottles were emptied into
mouths and over faces. Emmeline laid her foot onto the bar and leaned into the
stretch, felt her breasts press into her thigh. She hated that she was the only
dancer who needed a sports bra. Sarah, one of Emmeline's oldest dancing
friends, had always laughed that if she had a rack like Emmeline's, she would
be like a tomcat, out on the town every night to get laid. Sarah didn't have to
leap about with them on her chest, Emmeline noted wryly.

She
felt the pull of the stretch and the relief that coursed through her thighs but
still there was the residual tension in her limbs like tangled elastic bands
twisted into her muscles. That and the pulsating knot of nerves in her stomach.
Nausea curled around her abdomen as the memory of her call back returned.
Emmeline’s pulse hammered as she watched the other dancers file out of the
room, glancing back at her with barely concealed curiosity. All too suddenly,
the studio was empty. Even Madame Dusolier had gone. The door clattered shut
and Emmeline was alone with Bartoli.

He
stood, disinterested, polishing his glasses with precise, rhythmic swipes
before putting them back on, pushing them up his nose and looking over the
balcony at her.

Matthieu
Bartoli. Matthieu Bartoli is looking down at me.

He
looked at her much as a professor might observe a particularly interesting
butterfly pinned to a display cabinet. She took a step from one foot to the
other. Then to the other. He still did not speak, holding his chin between
finger and thumb and began walking the length of the balcony, appraising her.
Moments passed. Already very nervous, her knees started to tremble and she
wondered whether this silent treatment was some sort of test.

“M-Monsieur
Bartoli, it is a real
—
”

“Speak
when spoken to.”

Curt
and clipped and no possibility of misinterpretation. She shut up and looked at
the floor, aware of his continuing pacing in her peripheral vision.

“Your
performance today. You have some natural ability. You are also
—
”
he rolled each syllable in his mouth like a boiled sweet “
—
undisciplined.”

Her
eyes, still looking towards the floor, flashed wide. That was surely a
provocation and she should absolutely not allow herself to respond. She
couldn’t help but bristle though. How on earth could eight hours a day, five
days a week, fifty weeks a year be considered undisciplined?

“You
imagine that ballet is any less a source of expression than speech. You danced
this morning with an attitude that was painful to watch. You ended today with
much more promise. A professional would not have found herself in such a
position, offering such inconsistencies to the audience.”

Emmeline
continued to look at the floor, face heated with shame. She knew she had been
distracted but she did not think it could have been that noticeable. He
continued to pace. She bit her lip as her eyes welled up.

“Do
you imagine that if you don’t apply yourself, if you just turn up and
approximate the moves, that somehow your dancing ability will magically be of
the standards required in this company?”.

“No,
sir,” she whispered, voice shaky.

He
stopped pacing and turned on his heels, with all the grace and elegance of the
retired prima dancer, a look of smug triumph on his face. “We are going to need
to apply some training methodology to you. Some additional training that I am
not so certain that would be suitable for the other dancers. And yet. And yet I
have a feeling, an instinct, that you have the necessary potential. You have a
natural grace and a reverence, a submission to the music. These can be
developed.”

He
descended the stairs by Giles's piano, hands held behind his back and stepped
with deliberation towards her, then behind her. She continued to look towards
the floor and gulped.  A whiff of bergamot and mandarin aftershave swept across
her. She heard a click behind her and she looked up immediately to the mirrored
walls. Bartoli held a switchblade.
Why on God’s Earth has he got a knife?
Before Emmeline had chance to ask the question, he lifted the shoulder band of
her leotard and slid the blade through the material with a snap.

“What
are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.

Slap

She
cried out as his free hand swatted her thigh, leaving a scarlet palm print on
her pale skin.

He
took her other shoulder band and slit the material. “Do not move.”

Stiff
as a bolt, she stood to attention. He peeled the top of her leotard down to her
midriff, a wry smile crossing his face as he saw the sports bra underneath and
her breasts crushed against her chest. Holding the handle of the blade to her
skin, Bartoli drew the blade down the fabric of the leotard, the blade humming
down the length of the material, until he had cut the fabric from its armpit
down to hip. He repeated on her left side and the leotard peeled away from her
sweaty skin to the ground. He withdrew the blade and with another click folded
it away. Bowing down, he collected the shredded leotard and inhaled the scented
crotch deeply, never taking his eyes from her. The embarrassment was
overwhelming and she looked away, flushing scarlet.

“Remove
the bra.”

With
trembling hands she slowly pulled it over her chest, tugging at it firmly with
her thumbs as it clung to her skin before she dropped it to the floor, her
breasts gently swaying. Her brunette chignon, impeccable throughout the dance,
now fell half up and half down in dishevelled locks of wet loose hair. Naked
except for her ballet shoes, she instinctively hugged her arms to herself,
cupping her full breasts with her folded arms.

“No!”
he snapped, pulling her arms away roughly. “You will not hide yourself.”

Taking
a step towards her, he brought one hand to the base of her spine and brought
the other to her pussy and cupped it, his middle finger probing beneath her
folds before gently pressing into her. She murmured with pleasure despite
herself, a thrill shooting up her spine like a lightning bolt. Why on Earth was
she letting him do this? Even if she did think he was hot, she had never let
anyone touch her until at least the fourth date.

He
leaned in to her, his lips brushing her hair.
“What will it be, little one? You
can leave the company if you are only going to run through the motions when you
feel like it. Or, should you be obedient, I may accept you as my slave and
allow you to call me Master and I shall reforge you as a dancer truly worthy to
be part of this company.”

Emmeline
stood agog, eyes wide, sure that she couldn’t possibly have heard what she did.
He pressed his finger deeply into her, penetrating her and she felt her blood
rush to her pussy. Why was she finding this degrading treatment so exciting?

"Call
you Master? You mean
—
" she swallowed,
too embarrassed to say precisely what she intended.

"Do
I mean what? I do not believe I was unclear."

"Like
sex dungeons and gimp masks and that weird shit? I'm not into that!" she
blurted the words out, cheeks heating furiously.  Panic bubbled within her that
Bartoli would be angry at her. As if he would be into that weird stuff or even
know about it! But her pussy flushed with warmth and wetness.

Bartoli
smirked but did not move. "My slaves would be expected to do whatever I
ask to please me. I might suggest judging by your reaction that perhaps you are
not such a good judge of what you are and are not 'into'."

As
though waiting for its cue, her cunt quivered around his finger and she moaned
quietly.

"What
if I... If I can't do it? If I'm no good at it...?"
Why am I even
considering this?

"A
good slave trusts in her master." He looked into her eyes, his hazel gaze
bearing down upon her.

"You
will be my slave," he stated.

His
finger pressed more deeply into her and she gasped. It was no good. She was
lost.
I've fallen down the rabbit hole...