Free The Dancer and the Dom by J.A. Bailey

 
     
    Prologue
    Marguerite
    The
Royal Scottish Ballet. Paquita. The final moments. Paquita and Lucien are to
wed. The harps tinkle and that is my cue.
    As
I make my entrance across the stage, I glance across at my Master in the wings
and a sadness I almost cannot bear crosses my heart, for at the end of this
performance I will be free. A dancer since I was six, a slave since I was
twenty nine and a retiree at thirty four. Retired as a dancer and retired from
Matthieu.
    I
daren’t change my expression in front of the audience but he locks his eyes
dead onto mine and a glow fills me. I can see he is pleased, though he rarely
smiles and his pleasure fills me with pride. The vibrator strapped to me
underneath my long gypsy skirt suddenly bursts into life as I throw myself into
the most technical section of the dance and just for an instance, I am
overwhelmed with fear that I will stumble or... compromise myself in front of
him and the audience. Somehow I manage to stay composed, even as I want to buck
against it. The pulse between my thighs grows stronger and my sex is throbbing,
twitching and crying with need. There is no escape, I cannot run off, I cannot
rush the dance. There is nothing I can do except complete the routine. I am
almost panting with desire, reaching the furthest shreds of my self-control
when the vibrator stops dead. The sense of loss is incredible and I manage,
Lord knows how, to retain a sense of elegance and limit my shock to pursed lips
and a furrowed brow.
    Suddenly
it bursts into life with a vengeance.  I whirl through the final steps, a fire
burning in my pussy and with a final gasp I explode. Through long training in
restraint, I manage to resist the compulsion to clench my hands, I ride out the
coiling tension and release in my groin but my breath? No. I pant like an
animal. Or like a dancer coming to the finale of a complex routine. The dance
is complete and I turn my face to the audience with tears of gaudy happiness
streaking down my heavily made up face. Oh my Master...
    I
perform my curtsies, smile broadly, wave at the cheering crowds, collect my
bouquets from well-wishers who are here for me, for the final performance of
the famed prima dancer, Marguerite Dusolier — and
dash off stage as quickly as is decent into the arms of my Master, into a tight
embrace.
    “So
this is it, Marguerite. You are free.”
    I
look up at him and my tears start free flowing, my lip trembling. “Can I not stay? I can
still be your slave while I teach...”
    He
shushes me, tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, fingertips lingering on my
neck. “You have been such a good girl. It hurts me to let you go now. But I
cannot be the master you deserve. Not without retiring myself. You deserve a
master who can be as devoted to you as you were to me.”
    I
sniffle and give a sad little giggle. “I don't think I would still be a good
girl otherwise.”
    He
smiles ruefully, those incredible hazel eyes staring deep into mine. “And that
would not do.”
    The
memories flood back. The beatings. The bindings. Sharing me with the wealthy
patrons of the ballet. The night when I serviced five patrons in one night.
Three at once. The memory makes my sex flutter. I sigh and pause.
    “It
would make no difference if I were to beg?”
    His
smile falters and he shakes his head. “No, Marguerite. It may seem cruel now
but you will come to understand.”
    I
sigh. I already understand. I nod and he brushes the tears from my painted
cheeks before kissing my forehead.
    “Farewell,
little slave.”
    ***

 
    Emmeline
took a deep breath and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She just didn’t know
what was up with her today. Maybe it had been the latest row with her flatmate
this morning about Emmeline’s refusal to restock the milk despite Emmeline's
strict gluten and lactose free diet. Maybe it was just that it was a really hot
day and the studio, windowless, surrounded by mirrors and filled with forty
three other sweaty dancers, was