She swallowed. Half a block.
“Yeah. Yes, I will. Can we go home now? I’m really starting to feel the cold.”
At dinner they talked about Christmas. Nutcracker would continue until the first week of January, so Prosper couldn’t get away. Jackson could and planned to visit his family and friends back in Chicago. Prosper knew he felt guilty about leaving her behind at the holidays. And to be honest, the idea of it upset her. Sure, she could spend the night of Christmas Eve after the performance with her dancer friends. Partying, drinking. She could sleep in Christmas morning, do whatever she wanted. But she’d be doing it without him.
Still, she had known. He had an entire life back in Chicago, and her life was here. She had a job that required her to perform, a contract. He could take two weeks away; she couldn’t.
While they talked about the holidays, he had asked questions about her family. Prosper didn’t have much to say that he would understand. Apparently he came from a healthy family, a family that wanted to come together for the holidays. He had two brothers and two sisters, seven nieces and nephews, and parents who still followed the holiday traditions of his youth. He described Christmas Eve with his family, football and pizza for the guys while the women baked cookies for Christmas Day. Later they hung up stockings and sang holiday songs with the little ones. He described it all with such enthusiasm and detail, Prosper almost felt herself there.
Prosper had long since gotten over the fact that her family was different. She had an entire part of her family and history living far away on some Amish farmland, completely uncaring that she was alive. The family she did have, she had broken with for complex reasons that she couldn’t share with him, that she couldn’t share with anyone. Dance was her family now, the other dancers her siblings. The company was her parent, and the theater was her home.
And Jackson was her life. Two weeks without him. Merry Christmas and happy New Year.
After dinner she wanted to forget about the holidays, forget about the fact that he was going away. She felt grouchy and emotional. She wanted him to hurt her so she could bawl the way she wanted to and he wouldn’t know it was because of him. He put his elbows on the table and looked over at her. She rolled up her napkin and placed it next to her plate and waited, as she did every night, for directions.
“Clothes off and go stand facing the wall. That wall,” he specified, pointing to the far side of the living room. Familiar emotions assailed her. Shame, nervousness, and hot, shivery arousal. She stood and undressed, then walked to the opposite wall, hyperaware of her nudity. She kept her hands at her sides as she’d been taught. No covering up. When she reached the wall, she stood against it, her nipples and knees touching the cool white-painted surface as Jackson required. She heard him leave the room, go up the stairs. A moment later she heard him padding back down.
She jumped when he put his hand on her hip. The thick carpet muffled everything. His other hand parted her ass cheeks and probed there. She blushed and burned, but she didn’t dare pull away or make any defensive movements. The hand left, then returned. She felt cold lube shoved up inside her. He played with her ass a lot, training it, he said. He seemed to believe he’d be able to fuck her there one day, but she was doubtful. He was big; she was small.
Ouch. Ouch. Speaking of big, the toy he was pressing against her was stretching her painfully. She moaned, frightened of being hurt. He withdrew it, but it was only temporary relief, because next time he drove it a little deeper. In, out, increasing its forward progress in small increments until he finally drove it home. It was the biggest plug he’d ever used on her, and she felt it inside her like some unwelcome invader. Her ass ached as she clenched around the toy, unable to relieve the unnatural feeling of fullness. He pressed on it for good measure so she shuddered, and then he kissed her shoulder. She wanted to look back at him, to question him, to be soothed by him, but she knew her eyes were supposed to stay forward. She stared at the white wall and then felt something ticklish trail down her back. It took a while for her to place the sensation. Frayed rope.
“Give me your hands.”
It was a relief to hear him speak. She thrust her hands behind her back.
“No, over your head. Cross your wrists behind the back of your neck.”
She reached up and back, crossing her wrists as he’d told her to. The itchy-soft rope slid down her forearms, a sensory tease that made the hair rise on the back of her neck. He wrapped each wrist three or four times, then drew them together, letting out the rope a little. She felt a tugging as the two lengths of rope securing her wrists were pulled down and wrapped around the front of her waist, then around back again, and pulled snug. She felt him manipulating the rope in the middle of her back, cinching the ropes together, then felt both lengths drop down between her buttocks, over the flange of the toy stuck in her ass.
She held her breath as his hands came around the front. What he was doing to her felt so novel. No one had ever played with her this way, teasing and trussing her up so slowly and with such intent care.
His fingers played over her skin in soft tickly caresses as he moved the rope and formed the knots. Each light touch aroused her, sent frissons of lust arcing through her veins. She knew she couldn’t look away from the wall, but she was sure the expression on his face was similar to the expression he wore in the studio when he was pushing her into this position or that, looking for that perfect arch or port de bras. She loved his face when it looked that way, how he looked when he was bringing his visions to life. She imagined herself as his canvas, his sculpture, his work of art.
She subdued the animal urge to grind her hips and stood still like a statue as he drew the ropes up between her legs, parting her ass cheeks so the rope rested right against the toy. He stopped and knelt beside her, then pushed her out from the wall. She stole a look down and saw him making a loose knot in the ropes, his mouth pursed in concentration. When he finished, he slid the knot between her pussy lips. Her breath was coming in little gasps. What he was doing to her had her so turned on she was afraid her legs would give out. She wanted to arch into the knot, relieve some of the erotic tension she was feeling, but she didn’t dare.
He stopped and frowned, apparently unsatisfied with the placement. He pulled the rope away and adjusted it twice more until the knot rested squarely on her clit. She was going to shame herself in a minute and come without permission. She was humiliated by the wetness that must have coated his fingers and surely soaked the rope. He gave it a good tug in front. She felt the toy bob in her ass, felt the scratching pressure on her clit and pussy lips, and moaned. He ignored her, leaning to secure the ropes over the crossed area at the front of her waist. He stood and looked at her.
“How does that feel?”
She wanted to answer but found herself only able to pant.
“That good? I’m glad you’re comfortable. I have a few things to do before I get back to you.” He turned her so she faced out into the room and walked away.
She stood, throbbing, melting. A quick test of her bonds revealed the devious efficacy of his design. The slightest shift to relieve the strain on her arms resulted in the rope between her legs being pulled more tightly, driving the toy in her ass deeper, the knot more firmly against her clit. She spread her legs, but it didn’t help. It only made things worse.
She glanced over at Jackson clearing the table and was quite certain she saw a smile on his face. Sadist. It was impossible to stand still, but more impossible to bear the aching tease of arousal that resulted every time she moved. How long would he make her wait this way, tied and sopping wet between the legs?