The Audition(8)
The hot water is blissful, and I savour every minute of my shower. The tension drains away from me, and I let my mind wander. And of course, I fixate on Nikolai and his basement dungeon.
I wonder if I should be afraid. But I’m not. I’m apprehensive, of course. But my nerves are caused by the way I’m reacting to Nikolai. At the ache in my body when I watch him watching me. At the very real desire to have him gather me into his arms, put me over his lap, punish me and keep me safe.
He’s not interested in you, kiddo. You remember what he said yesterday? He’s humiliating you so that you fight back. There’s no attraction when he looks at you. Heck, for all you know, he could have a harem’s worth of submissive women, ready to fulfil his every desire.
That thought depresses me a lot more than it should, but I straighten my shoulders and cut off this path that my mind seems intent on wandering down. It doesn’t matter what Nikolai thinks or wants. The only thing that matters is Juilliard, and my second-chance audition.
Chapter 4
The melody stops me in my tracks as I descend down the stairs towards the basement. Mozart’s piano concerto no. 3, played the way it should be. With tenderness and love and feeling.
I’m naked again. The collar is around my neck and the leash trails behind me as I walk down. I took it off to shower, but now, I wear it again, and strangely, it feels good.
Nikolai turns towards me as I enter the dungeon, and he smiles when he sees me. He doesn’t hide his approval. “Very nice,” he says, his talented fingers reaching up to trace the collar. “Very well-behaved. I like that.” He moves over on the piano stool, and pats the space next to him. “Come, sit down. Hands on the keys.”
I can feel every inch of his hard thighs as I sit. He’s so close to me. His woolen pants itch slightly at my skin. I can smell him, a combination of mint and clean freshness and man. I feel the effects of his nearness in the heavy ache of my cunt.
His hands move, and he lifts my right thigh up and places it over his own. “Spread your legs,” he orders. “Play for me.” His fingers take hold of the end of the leash, and he tugs, to punctuate his desire.
Play for me. Such an incredibly erotic line.
I pick the Chopin Piano Concerto No 1, another part of my program. He listens in silence for a few minutes, before he shakes his head. “Stop.” He moves my thigh and gets up, walking to the wall of whips. When he returns, it’s with a riding crop. “I’m looking for emotion,” he says. “For a lowering of your walls. The music should flow through you. You are just a conduit, do you understand? The melody is paramount.”
The walls are for a reason, there in order to protect my heart from further damage. I never wish to relive the day the police knocked on my New York apartment door in the middle of the night. “There’s been an accident,” one of them had said, his eyes sympathetic. And in that moment, I’d gone from being a girl on the cusp of womanhood, safe, secure and loved, to someone who had found herself very, very alone. Nikolai had tried to reach out, but I’d pushed him away with cruel words and bitter reproaches. Finally, he too had retreated.
The snap of the crop on my thigh interrupts my reminiscing. “Allie,” Nikolai’s dark eyes flash. “Play.”
I play, and I can tell that I’m displeasing Nikolai with each note. I can hear why. The melody emerging from my fingers is stilted and wooden. Devoid of feeling.
Smack.
The crop lands on my nipple, sending a sliver of pain through my body. “There is no emotion in your playing,” he says coolly. “Open yourself up.” Another stroke lands on my ass. “And Allie, it will go poorly for you if you stop at any time. Play through your punishment.”
I resume the concerto. The crop thwacks my skin. I grit my teeth and play, and the pain keeps coming, wave after wave, as Nikolai remains displeased by my performance. Finally, I slam my fingers down on the keys, all ten of them, in a crash of sound. “I can’t, okay?” I yell at him. “I can’t drop my walls. I can’t feel. This is all I have left in me.”
“Put your hands on the keys.” His voice is dangerous. “Resume.”
Damn it, why won’t he listen to me? “Nikolai,” I start. My voice sounds defeated. “I can’t.” My skin throbs everywhere the crop has landed. There is a lump in my throat. I can tell I’m at the verge of tears, only I haven’t cried since my mother’s funeral.
“Allie,” he says gently. “Come here.” He sits on the piano stool next to me, and gathers me into his arms. I bury my face in his shoulder while he strokes my back, long, soothing strokes that somehow make me want to burst into loud tears. It feels good to lean on someone.