I’m playing his body. Each twitch of his legs, each tightening of a muscle, each grunt of sound from his throat – these are the cues I’m responding to as I suck. I sense he’s ready before his hands tighten in my hair. He warns me, his voice thick with desire, that he’s about to explode, but I already know, and I’m prepared, and more than that, I want this.
I swallow every spurt, my fingers digging into my palms as pleasure threatens to overwhelm me. After, I clean his still hard cock off with my tongue. He looks at me then, finally, and his thumb gathers up a drop of semen dripping down my mouth, and feeds it to me. I suck his finger clean. I’m so close to the edge. I want to come. If he’s not going to touch me, I’m going to finger myself to a shouted orgasm. Every nerve of mine dances with need.
“Head back downstairs. Sleep in the cage.” The words are an order.
I should feel slapped, and insulted, but I don’t. I don’t always understand Nikolai’s methods, but they seem to work. And I know Nikolai. My Juilliard audition will come first. I made him ejaculate in my mouth, I think to myself with a smile. I feel good. I feel powerful.
“Yes Sir,” I say. I don’t know where the Sir comes from, but of course he notices, and his lips quirk.
“Allie?” He holds my gaze, and his eyes are intent. “No fingering yourself downstairs. No getting yourself off.”
I should be more annoyed than I am. I just nod. “Why?” I ask in mild curiosity, though I already know what his answer is going to be.
Sure enough, he says exactly what I expect him to. “Because you have an audition in four days.”
Chapter 6
Because you have an audition in four days.
Of course that isn’t it. That’s never it, is it? I have a theory about why Nikolai won’t fuck me and why I’m still sleeping in a cage on thin blankets.
For six years, I’ve been a gloriously undisciplined mess. My entire life has been one giant cry for help, yet I pushed away the one person who might have helped me. Already, in one day, with Nikolai’s firm treatment, I feel more grounded and more assured.
In some way, through the way he’s humiliating me, I’m finding my strength. Not to resist him, not to endure. I’m finding the courage to embrace what I want and fight for it.
Juilliard. Nikolai. No matter what happens this week, the two of them will be forever entwined in my heart and soul.
***
I’ve tossed and turned for a few hours, but I can’t sleep. At the start, I’m too sexually keyed up to rest. The urge to touch myself is strong, but I take heed of Nikolai’s words. Somehow, though I should be angry, obeying his desire makes me feel the same way I felt when my head was in his lap and he was stroking my hair. His order becomes the thread that connects us – me, sleeping in the basement in a cage, and him, upstairs in his bedroom.
I wonder if he’s lying awake as well, or if he’s deep in sleep. And if he is, does he dream of me?
Finally, I give up and get out, pushing the cage door open and stretching. The room is dark, and I pad over to the light switch, turning on just the one bulb above the piano. I need to play. The music needs to become the outlet for my churning emotions.
I’m naked. Somehow, even though I was dressed when I headed downstairs, it felt wrong to be wearing clothes in this dungeon. I’d disrobed before going to bed in my cage.
Now, I sit on the stool, naked again, and my mind flashes back to earlier today, when Nikolai spanked my body with a riding crop.
The notes sound in the room. I can hear emotion, but I’m dissatisfied. I want more. I am capable of more.
The walls of the dungeon, filled with their instruments of pain and pleasure call to me in the darkness. As if I’m sleepwalking, I obey their call. In a daze, my fingers glide over a pair of nipple clamps. These are different from the one Nikolai used on me earlier today. These are more delicate looking, and a thin chain connects them.
I pinch a nipple, almost on autopilot, before guiding the clamp on. A sharp twist of pain greets that gesture, one that reawakens the lust in my cunt. But I daren’t touch myself. I have my orders. So, I just pinch the other nipple, and I attach the other clamp. Then, I resume playing.
As my fingers stroke the keys and the music pours forth, I’m very aware of the pain in my breasts. The initial sharp lance has softened into a background ache. When I move over the piano, my upper arms brush the clamps, sending fresh jolts through me. Instinctively, I’ve widened my legs as much as I can, though I make sure I can still hit the piano pedal.
I feel very wanton and very perverted.
Real melody emerges from the keys, and satisfaction surges in me. I start at the top of my recital, and play each piece, all sixty-seven minutes of it. Bach. Mozart. Chopin. Liszt. And finally, the three Ginastera Danzas, which is my wild-card choice, to showcase my expertise with more contemporary composers.