A few moments later, he leaned back and withdrew, and went into the bathroom to throw away the condom. She knew better than to move a muscle without his permission. She stayed sprawled where she was, feeling sore and punished, just as he wanted her to feel.
Finally he returned and released her from the spreader bar, and stood her up. He held her arm a moment, until she got her legs back, and then he made her look in his eyes. “I only punish you because you need it,” he said.
“Yes, Master.”
“Now walk over to the drawer and get the black clover clamps.”
Her whole body went hot and cold but she obeyed him, because revolt wasn’t an option. She found the dreaded set of clamps and carried them back by their chain. Her rising panic finally spilled out as she placed them in his hand.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, no, Master.”
There might have been a small inkling of sympathy in his gaze. She couldn’t tell for sure through the tears obscuring her vision. He flicked her nipples, leaning down to lick the treasonous things to attention in preparation for the clamps. Her whole body hurt, her asshole hurt, her pride hurt, and when he closed the biting teeth on her nipples, her breasts hurt too. He tugged down on the chain, ignoring her groan. “Tell me what you learned today.”
“Not to keep secrets. Harmful secrets,” she said, gasping through the pain.
He jerked the chain again. “Not to keep any secrets. Slaves don’t keep secrets from their Masters. Not good slaves, anyway.” He wiped away her tears and tilted her chin higher. “Are you going to be my good slave from now on?”
“Yes, Master. Please...” She pulled in her shoulders, giving him her most piteous look.
He kissed her on both her eyes, then gave her a little squeeze on the neck that made her nipples throb harder. “Does please ever work for you, little one?”
“No, Master. It never does.”
“Hush then. You’ve got ten minutes in the corner with the clamps, hands at the small of your back. Then we’re through and you’re forgiven.” He let go of her neck and gave her a crisp smack on the bottom. “Now go.”
Chapter Fourteen: Struggles
Sara went to headquarters the next day at her usual practice time, even though her body still hurt. Even though she didn’t want to. It was Theo’s last day and he told her to come in for one last session. Jason had work of his own, a meeting with Lemaitre and the other directors. They had to deal with the aftermath of the ruined Exhibition. Everyone was freaking out. The artists whispered to each other, retelling the story of Sara and Baat’s botched act and the fight afterward, embellishing it, making it even more awful. Several artists hadn’t gotten their chance to perform because of Baat.
Because of her.
Baat wasn’t there, so Sara bore the brunt of everyone’s disapproval. Even Theo was cool to her, putting her through an especially grueling warm up. You deserve this. You fucked up. He’d ordered the trapeze lowered to its former height, another humiliation. When she finished the exercises he ordered, she swung herself up onto the bar and winced.
Theo crossed to stand under her. “You are injured? What hurts?”
“My ass,” she said through her teeth.
She thought he might offer sympathy, even anger on her behalf, but he only nodded. “I would have done the same. I’m tempted to give you a few whacks right now. I lost two years of my life, watching you dangle from his fingers.”
Even her coach had no pity for her. She hugged the rope and leaned her head against it. “The mat was underneath.”
“The mat saves your life,” he snapped. “Not your career. You still might have broken an arm or leg. You might have been paralyzed. A small chance, but a chance.”
Sara swung her legs, peering down at the blue surface of the practice floor. “My career might be over anyway. I’m supposed to talk to Mr. Lemaitre today at three-thirty. About Baat and my future here.” She wished she could crawl into a hole somewhere. Lemaitre would be angry, and Theo, her wonderful coach, was leaving just when she needed him most.
He took in her bleak expression, reached up and patted the side of her leg. “Come down. We need to talk. Your butt is too sore for trapeze anyway.”
She swung down by her knees and winced again at the ache in her muscles. Theo took her by the waist and plucked her from the bar, setting her on the ground. Even the soft mat hurt her ass. She stretched out on her side and rested her head on her arm.
“Poor punished girl. It could have been much worse, you know,” said Theo. “You could have been in the hospital with some terrible injury. Broken neck.” He kept his voice light, but a muscle worked in his jaw.
“I’m sorry for what happened, Theo. I know it was hard...hard for you to see.”
“Yes, well, you shouldn’t have gone up with him. You should have told someone about his drinking.”
“Jason already lectured me and wrecked my ass.” She rolled onto her stomach, burying her head in her hands. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.” She started crying and hated herself for it. It wasn’t professional to cry in front of your coach. She thought he might stalk off in disgust, but he sat and waited. She peered over at his fingers tapping the mat. Those fingers had dropped someone once, someone who’d died.
“I’ll make it up to you.” She rolled back over, wiping her tears. “What can I do?”
“You can stop crying like a baby, and start talking to me about your new act.”
“What new act?”
“Your new solo act you’re going to have to learn now that your partner’s gone.”
She blinked, sitting up. “I’m going to do a solo act?”
“You already know some tricks. When you go to Lemaitre, you can ask him for this opportunity. You can ask him for anything you want, and if he thinks you can do it, he’ll say yes.”
“But...” A solo act? Just her doing tricks on the trapeze? “I don’t know if I can do that, carry a whole act by myself.”
He scowled at her. “I will spank you again, right now, on your painful ass. I don’t care who sees.”
She scooted back from him, just in case he was serious. “But you’re leaving. Who’s going to help me?”
“How about helping yourself? You’re the only one in your partnership who ever had a heart for trapeze, for performance,” he scolded. “And you’ve been practicing tricks for weeks, solo tricks you could use to anchor your own routine. This I-don’t-know-if-I-can nonsense makes me angry. Of course you can do it. You only need determination, and ideas.”
She stared into Theo’s avid gaze, an idea forming in her mind. “I could make up my own story. Couldn’t I? Would that be okay?”
“Of course. Make it what you want.”
She could make it a story of her struggles, a story of a lonely, blue-eyed girl from Mongolia torn between two worlds. A story of a girl who couldn’t please everyone, no matter how hard she tried. The story of a girl trying to balance selfishness and ambition on the way to achieving her dreams. She threw out ideas as they came to her, egged on by Theo. He helped her refine her vision and put the depth of her feelings into words.
Before long, the two of them had sketched out a loose story for an act. They began to talk about transitions and tricks, even costuming and colors to support the theme. Blue. They both agreed the colors had to be blue.
Sara got so excited, she took to the trapeze and started practicing, ignoring the pain in her ass cheeks. This was more important. This was progress and inspiration. This was expiation, a way of making things right. She’d create a solo act and perfect it, and Jason would be proud, and Lemaitre would forgive her—
Lemaitre! She looked at the clock, shocked to discover they’d spent two hours practicing. It was already three.
“I have to go,” she said. “I have to shower and change before I meet with Mr. Lemaitre.” She started for the locker rooms, then turned back and gave Theo an impulsive hug. “Thank you. I feel so much better. But...if he
’s mad at me... If he tries to fire me...”
“He’s not going to fire you.”
“But he might be mad.”
“He’s probably stressed out, yes. You and Baat stressed out a lot of people.” He squeezed her extra hard, then tilted her head up. “Listen, ma chère. If Lemaitre starts scolding, tell him about your big plans for the act. Tell him everything. The theme, the story, the colors.” Some shadow crossed his face, and he hesitated. “Most of all, share the things you shared with me, about your struggles and fears, and your loneliness. These are things he should hear too.”
Sara didn’t know if she could be that open with Mr. Lemaitre. She looked at the clock and ran for the showers. She wished she had time to find Jason and tell him about her new ambitions for solo trapeze, but that would have to wait.
* * * * *
Sara ended up running the last half of the way to Mr. Lemaitre’s office, so she arrived winded and disheveled after all the care she’d taken with her appearance. The receptionist asked her to sit a moment while she notified him she was here. Sara waited in a row of chairs outside his office, her heart beating with nervousness. Would he be angry? Kind? Encouraging about her future? If she had to beg to stay on, could she do it?
Yes.
She smoothed back her hair, blowing away an errant strand when it fell in her face. She loved the color and beauty of the Cirque CEO’s office, but it was always so quiet. She drew in a deep breath and before she let it out, the receptionist looked over and signaled her to go in.
As soon as he greeted her by the door, she sensed she wasn’t in for a scolding. He used her full Mongolian name and gestured her toward a chair, and then sat down behind his massive desk.