I’m not angry, just curious. “Is this how you are to all your submissives? This harsh?”
He looks at me, and there’s a trace of resignation in his gaze. “This is what you need right now. You don’t need to be coddled. The harshness, as you call it, is good for you.”
He’s right. I hear it in my playing. I feel it in the sense of peace and belonging that permeates through me. “Are you judging me, Nikolai? For being unable to rescue myself on my own?” I very much care about his reply.
“Of course not, Allie,” he says automatically. His hand brushes against my cheek. “We all need a support system. I’m glad you are here.”
“Six years ago, you offered me help,” I remember.
He gives me a half-smile. “And you weren’t ready to accept it. In the intervening time, I’ve come to realize that in order to be helped, you need to want it. But Allie,” he kisses me and looks into my eyes, very, very intently. “Before you judge yourself too harshly, remember, this time around, you were willing to ask for help. You seized the lifeline. Don’t forget that. No matter how much I whip you with a crop, it is your fingers that play the music, not mine. Never forget – you play the biggest role in your resurrection.”
His words comfort me far more than I could possibly believe. When I sleep in the cage that night, I sleep well, and nightmares don’t haunt me.
Chapter 8
Monday, March 4
The day passes very much like the previous ones. I wake up, and make my way upstairs. I kneel on the floor by Nikolai’s feet, and he feeds me breakfast and offers me sips of coffee. At some point though, he relents slightly and allows me to sit on his lap. I shamelessly snuggle against him, rubbing my face against his neck like a kitten, and whimpering in pleasure as his fingers tweak my nipples.
“To the piano,” he finally says firmly. “We don’t have time to fool around.”
“What if I play really well?” I try and bargain.
He gives me a steady look, and I shut up, quelled, and head downstairs to play.
***
In the afternoon, I curl up on Nikolai’s couch and read a book. Nikolai isn’t at home; he had to leave to run an errand right after lunch. When he comes back in, I look up, but my mind is still on my book. That’s my excuse for what happens next.
“Some of my friends are coming over this evening,” he starts, and before he says another word, I erupt without thinking.
“Are you fucking insane?” I scream at him. “No. Fuck no. I’m not going to be shared between you and your friends like I’m some toy that you get to pass around. If you think I’m going to be good and well-behaved through this, you can go fuck yourself, Nikolai. Fuck you. And fuck Juilliard.”
I’ve risen to my feet, and my voice has been steadily rising through my diatribe. When I pause to draw breath, Nikolai holds up his hand. He looks like he can’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused.
“Allie. Shut up.”
I draw a breath, preparing to tell him that he can’t speak to me that way, then I notice the shopping bags in his other hand. He extends them towards me. “Once a week,” he says pointedly, “my friends come over, and we all play music and drink beer and eat pizza and blow off steam. Since you are here, I assumed you’d like to join us. In the bag are some clothes for you to wear.”
Oh, talk about jumping to the wrong conclusion. I feel about two inches tall.
“And Allie?” His voice is silky. “You have earned yourself quite the punishment for that little outburst.”
I’m too chastened to protest.
***
My embarrassment mounts when I meet his friends.
There’s Ned and Gloria. They are in their sixties. She’s tall and thin, and she wears a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and radiates Parisian chic. He’s rumpled and has a hot professor vibe going on.
There’s Ash, who looks twenty. He hugs his djembe close to him, and seems painfully shy.
Anita brings a guitar and a wide, cheerful smile. From the familiarity with which she greets Nikolai, I’m fairly sure she’s an ex-lover. But there’s no lingering glances from either of them, and she’s warm and friendly when she chats with me.
Finally, there’s Sergei, who holds a saxophone. Okay, Sergei is hot. I kind of regret telling Nikolai I don’t want to be shared. My brain wants to linger on some very inappropriate fantasies of being sandwiched between Nikolai and Sergei.
Nikolai introduces me as an old friend. If he’s angry with me, he shows no sign of it. He beckons me to sit with him on the piano stool, and we launch into a duet.
This isn’t a night of quiet, classical music, serious and contemplative. This isn’t the kind of music that will bring tears to your eyes. No. The djembe’s beats, the saxophone’s strident sound, the guitar’s strums and our own raucous playing on the piano – this is the kind of music that will get you to dance.