The Audition(6)

He looks at me. “Get naked,” he orders. He points to a spot on the floor. “Kneel there.”

No hello. No inquiries about how I slept. Just an order, nothing else.

We used to be friends, Nikolai and I, six years ago. I’d made him his first breakfast in America, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, because at fourteen, I was utterly incompetent in the kitchen, and also because my mom had to run off to work, and we were out of cereal. I’d pulled the peanut butter jar out of the refrigerator, and had held out the jars of grape jelly and marmalade towards Nikolai, wondering if he’d had a preference. He hadn’t, so I picked marmalade. He’d taken an experimental bite, doubt etched all over his face, and as he had chewed, his expression had lightened. Then he’d smiled at me. “Spasibo,” he’d said.

He used to listen to me play, and he’d get impatient with me when I made mistakes. “Move over, Allie,” he’d say and sit next to me on the piano stool. By that point, I was seventeen and had a mad, raging crush on him, and he was twenty-five and had just been appointed principal pianist to the New York Philharmonic, an almost unheard of feat for someone so young. His hands would engulf mine and he’d patiently guide me through the notes.

And now, he’s pointed to the floor next to him, and he wants me kneeling at his feet, naked. I swallow my sadness away and obey him.

“Lock your hands behind your back,” he instructs. He leans back in his chair and watches me, an inscrutable look on his face. I force my expression to complete blankness and obey. Four days to my audition. I will endure.

He gets up and fetches me a cup of coffee, placing it at my lips. I take a sip and stiffen. Milk and a spoonful of sugar. His memory doesn’t fail him; he remembers how I take my coffee. “You remember,” I whisper.

“Do you?” he asks me obliquely. He’s being cryptic, as he is wont to do. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

He holds out a small piece of buttered toast in his fingers, and I flush. I’m supposed to eat scraps from his hand, like some kind of pet. “Is the leash next?” I demand, my voice taut with anger.

I should have kept my mouth shut. “What a good idea,” he says evenly. He gets up, and I watch him head down the basement stairs.

I’m breathing hard. I’m beyond furious with Nikolai. I’m outraged that he’d treat me like some kind of pet. I’m humiliated and embarrassed, and I’m a little turned-on as well. And it gets worse, because he comes back up and buckles a collar around my neck, and clips a leash to it. He takes hold of my arms and cuffs them behind my back, and just like that, I’m cuffed and leashed and at his mercy.

“An animal always keeps fighting, Allie,” he says to me. “It will do whatever it takes to survive. Only humans curl up in a corner and prepare to die.” He gives me a hard stare. “Perhaps treating you like an animal will help you remember how to survive.”

“Fuck you,” I snap. “Stop pretending this is some kind of fucking Jedi mind-lesson. This is just a stroke-fest for you.”

His brow furrows as he works out that expression, and then he laughs. “Fair enough, Allie, my motives aren’t completely altruistic,” he says cheerfully. “But you cannot speak to me that way, not without consequences.” He pulls a pair of what seem to be metal clips out of his pocket. I flinch when I realize he means them to go on my nipples.

“Nikolai,” I beg.

He looks at me. “In or out, Allie?” he asks flatly, with absolutely no expression in either his eyes or his voice.

Damn it. “In,” I whisper, my entire body tensing up as I try to prepare for the oncoming pain. But there’s no preparation possible. A sharp slice of pain knifes through me as he fastens the clamp on one nipple. I bite my lip and only just prevent myself from whimpering, blinking away the tears from my eyes. The other nipple isn’t spared either – his fingers pinch the clip open, then the flat metal prongs close over my tender bud.

“What do you say, Allie?” he asks me.

My nipples are burning in agony. My eyes are tearing in response, and my brain is a fog. I can’t think. I don’t know what he wants from me.

“Think, Allie,” he suggests dryly.

Ah, I get it. I’m supposed to apologize for sassing him, even though my nipples throb and ache, and I can hardly bear it. I force the words out. “I’m sorry, Nikolai.”

“Halfway there,” he says. “As you did downstairs last night, you will also thank me for punishing you.”

Fuck him. Fuck Juilliard. Yet, the words come out, soft and compliant. “Thank you, Nikolai, for punishing me.”