Page 17 of Once Upon a Dream
He took a seat.
The first show ended fast enough, applause and wolf whistles echoing through the room, and then a woman he recognized took the stage—Mistress Hell, a half-Persian Domme with an affinity for young women and riding crops. Cal had done her background check four years ago; in real life, she owned a pricey graphic design firm and volunteered twice a month at a food shelter. But at Persepolis she was Hell embodied, and God help the little submissives she took under her cruel wing.
And tonight, there appeared to be twelve of them.
The girls mounted the stage behind Mistress Hell. In the bright lights, a person could see every small curve and dip of their bodies underneath their thin leotards; Cal had to stifle a groan when he realized he could see the dark buttons of their nipples through the fabric. They’d added small tutus to their outfits, and when Mistress Hell snapped her fingers, they all dropped to their knees facing away from the crowd. She snapped again, and they dropped to their hands, on all fours now.
Another snap and they went down even farther, foreheads on the floor, tulle framing each perfect ass. It made for a spectacular sight, all those toned legs and asses in every shade of brown and black and beige, a rainbow of smooth skin raised over those delicately-laced pointe shoes, and Cal had to shift in his seat to allow for his thickening cock. He never thought he’d get off on this kind of shit, but as Mistress Hell began laying into them with a riding crop, he began to see the appeal. All that firm flesh, just offered up, getting flushed and angry under the crop. And—ah, fuck—the wet spots growing on the leotards as the girls got hot from it. They squealed and squirmed, wiggling at Mistress Hell until she’d give them the crop to rub against, and rub against it they would, like needy little kittens.
He wanted to be the one to rub them where they were wet, the one to make those tight asses glow with heat. He wanted to walk up and down the row of those ballerinas and take turns with each one of them. Lick them from clit to puckered hole. Fuck them, going from one to the other to the other, dipping inside every single cunt. He wanted to paint all their asses with his semen.
He ground the heel of his palm against his erection, desperate to relieve the ache there.
Shit, shit, shit. This was spinning out of control. He was not getting paid to jerk off to his employer’s teenage daughter and her friends. He needed to get out of there.
Just as he stood up, Mistress Hell’s show ended and the dancers rose gracefully and exited the stage. The lights to the playroom came on—the shows were over for the night. The rest of the playing would happen privately. And even though he hated himself for lingering to check, he couldn’t stop the urge to know. Would they play more? Was Mistress Hell going to take them back to her room and make them lick her pussy? Would they split up amongst themselves and go with other members?
That seemed to be the case. Two or three girls with a man, a girl with a mistress, another girl with a master, three with a genderqueer Dominant named Jackson. By ones and twos and threes, they were all claimed by hungry club members and taken away, tulle and pointe shoes and all.
All except for Tamsin.
Tamsin stayed in the playroom until all of her friends were squired away to be fucked, and then she began to head for the staircase. Cal stepped into the shadows, cock still throbbing, and waited for her to pass by.
And then he followed her.
Up the stairs she went, through the bar, not pausing to say hello or glance at the river or anything. And then she walked through the front door. Cal gave it a moment and then followed.
Outside in the warm night air, Tamsin walked slowly down the path to the riverside, her head tilted back, as if she expected to catch raindrops on her tongue, only it wasn’t raining. If Cal could have seen her, he knew her eyes would have been closed. It was the same way she danced, chin up, eyes closed, moving inside of a dream. It pulled at something inside him, that habit of hers. Empathy maybe. Nostalgia for the kind of loneliness the young feel, still so free of the jaded anger of the old.
She moved nearly as silently as him, but even in her pointe shoes he could hear the whisper of her tread. He’d learned to walk quietly in Fallujah, in heavy boots walking through rubble. It was easy to be quiet on a flat river path.
Finally, she stopped and sat on a bench and began to untie the ribbons around her legs.
A fucking shame.
He should go now, he knew that. But he also knew that he should have been gone forty minutes ago and yet he was still here, still unable to detach himself, still having dangerous kinds of thoughts.
She’s nineteen. She’s your client’s daughter. You’re a stranger to her.
It was her sigh that undid him, finally, and the way she slipped off her ballet shoes and cradled a foot in her hands. Even from the safe distance of several yards, he could see the tape and bandages holding her poor feet together. Jesus Christ. Was that what all their feet looked like under those sweet shoes?
Why he did it, he couldn’t later recall, but he knew that sigh and the sight of that bruised and bloodied foot was part of it. But only part. The other part was submerged somewhere deep inside of him, a loneliness and a lust that had been denied for too fucking long.
“Tamsin,” he said, stepping out of the shadows.
To her credit, she didn’t jump at the sound of her name. She didn’t act frightened. Cal had to wonder how many older men approached her in the dark if she was this casual about him being here. It was just the two of them on the riverside, and Persepolis was the only light and safety for miles. She should feel all kinds of unsafe and it worried him a little that she didn’t. He kept his distance from her bench, kept his hands open and outward facing to show her that he meant no harm. That he wouldn’t advance any closer.
“Who are you?” she asked curiously. Her voice was as dreamy as he’d thought it might be from watching her. Floaty and a little reserved, like she was in her own world. Like she was lost inside it with no one to show her the way out.
“Cal Dugan. Your father hired me.”
She didn’t seem surprised by that at all. “Of course he did,” she murmured, looking back down at the river. “What for?”
“To follow you. To find out why you and your shoes look like shit in the morning.”
She smiled at that, but only a little. “I should have guessed.”
That surprised him. “Really? You should have?”
