MIA
The final note is flawless and elation swells, knowing that I’ve pleased him. He stands with his hands clasped into a prayer, his eyes gleaming with pride or affection or possession.
Katriane Atterton rises to her feet, her claps the only sound in the stillness. But it’s not me she turns to. I am not worthy of her attention, only her son.
“Very entertaining, my dear. You’ve trained her well.” She pats his cheek and he almost nuzzles into her touch. She backs away a little, seemingly shocked by his response. There’s an energy pulsing through Sebastian, so much so that he doesn’t notice his mother’s reaction.
“She was perfect.” He turns to me. “You were perfect. Beyond perfect.” Clasping my face between his hands, he presses his lips to mine roughly. “We need to celebrate.”
His mother takes another sip of her wine. “I believe that’s my cue to leave.”
He’s still staring into my eyes, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. A small wave of fear washes over me at the intensity I see in them. They are licked with darkness and stained with a devilish delight. The door closes behind his mother and we are alone under the glare of the spotlight.
“Come.” He takes my hand as I step down from the platform and follow him over to the piano. Sitting down on the stool, he shakes out his hands. “I need to play.”
Resting his fingers on the keys, he draws in a deep breath but doesn’t move. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a blindfold, looking over at me wickedly.
Leaning close, he whispers. “Don’t say a word.”
My heart beats a little faster as I drop to my knees, dread twisting in my gut. He wraps the strip of material over my eyes.
“It can be so much more powerful when you’re unable to be distracted by the things you see.”
He tightens the knot at the back of my head and I hear him get to his feet. His footsteps echo behind me, then his hands are under my elbows, urging me to my feet. His fingers work at the buttons on the back of my dress and then I feel the material slide down my body and fall to the floor. I’m standing naked before him, in nothing but a pair of high heels, my arms hanging limply by my sides. I jump a little when he brushes his fingers against mine, but fortunately, he doesn’t notice. Pulling my hands behind my back, he twists silk around my wrists tightly. I want to tell him there is no need. I’ve learned not to resist, but deep down I know he is not doing it to control me, he’s doing it because the thought of me helpless before him is what sets his blood on fire.
“My sweet songbird,” he coos in my ear. “Everything you were on that stage is because of me. I have given you the voice of an angel and it is time to praise your god.”
His hands thread through my hair, twisting knots around his fingers as he jerks my head back to rest on his shoulder. “Your perfection belongs to me. You belong to me.” His voice deepens and his breath tickles against my ear. “Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me. You desire me.”
“Yes, Maestro, I am yours. Do with me what you will.”
He yanks my hair harder. “I do not seek your permission. I seek your love. Tell me you love me.”
The words get stuck in my throat. I’ve lied to him many times before, why is it so hard now? Just because my mouth forms the words, does not mean I believe them. It does not make them true.
“Fucking tell me!” His voice echoes through the room, bounding off the walls and drilling into my head.
“I love you.”
“Say it like you mean it. Make me believe.”
“I love you,” I say with more conviction.
“Again!”
“I love you, Maestro.”
“Call me by my name.”
“I love you, Sebastian.” The words tear my throat, causing me more pain than the hours of singing.
He lets go of my hair and slides his hands around my waist to pull me closer. He kisses my neck softly, like butterfly wings hovering in the air. It almost feels good. Almost makes me feel safe. And then he’s gone, the warmth of his body disappearing from behind me.
A single note of the piano floats through the air and he begins to play. The tune is familiar. It reminds me of one of those jewelry boxes with the ballerina that dances when you lift the lid.
“Did you know that it is rumored that this was composed by Henry the Eighth in an effort to win over the affections of Anne Boleyn? Most disregard that belief though, due to its more Italian style of composition.” He plays some more, the notes filling the cavernous room. They sound both empty and weighted at the same time. “I still like to believe it’s true though, the way it speaks of his heart in captivity, the torment of his enraptured soul.”
The song draws to a close, but he keeps playing, another tune, one darker and more sinister. I am trapped by the notes.
“Do you have a favorite composer?” He doesn’t wait for my reply. It’s as though he’s lost in a conversation with himself. “Most people will say Mozart or Beethoven because that’s all they have heard of. They don’t know any better. But for me, it has always been Rachmaninoff. He is real. He is raw. He writes with his heart on his sleeve and that heart is black.” The tempo of the music picks up and his fingers pound the ivory relentlessly. “He revels in defiance of musical expectations. He knows pain. Can you hear it? Can you hear the affliction of his soul?”
Whether it’s the darkness, or whether it’s the way he plays the notes, but the music invades me, setting my heart pounding. He plays and plays as I kneel on the cold floor. Sebastian’s right. There’s nothing to block me from the music, nothing to shield me from the violence of the notes. By the time he’s finished, I feel like I’ve been stripped bare, my skin flayed from my body, leaving the nerves raw and exposed.
I hear the scrape of the piano stool and the echo of his steps as he lifts himself to his feet. He circles me like a predator ready to pounce, ready to devour.
“Stand.”
I lift myself to my feet shakily, finding myself unbalanced without the use of my arms or my eyes. One of my nipples tightens in pain as he grips it between his fingers.
His moan fills the air.
There’s a rustling as he removes his clothing. The sound of his bare feet on the floor as he walks over to lock the doors. I draw in a trembling breath, willing myself to stay strong, willing myself into obedience to save myself from the risk of punishment. His steps are quicker on the way back, as though his patience, his desire to draw this out is fading. Pushing his fingers into the back of my scalp, he uses my hair to direct my movements, walking me forward until the surface of the piano presses against my stomach. Then he pushes me down, pressing my cheek into the smooth coolness. His cock slides between my thighs.
“You were beyond perfection, my sweet songbird. You deserve to be worshipped. You deserve to be revered.” He leans over me, covering my body with his own. “But not by me,” he hisses in my ear. “By me, you deserve to be used.” He holds my head down, mashing my cheek into the piano as his hard cock pushes against my entrance. I squirm a little, knowing I’m not ready for him.
“Maestro—”
“Silence!” He pushes into me at the same time as he shouts, plunging in his full length, giving me no time to adjust to his size.
A gasp of pain spreads as a foggy breath over the blackness of the piano. He thrusts furiously and cruelly, pounding himself against me in a fit of rage or passion or uncontrollable lust. My hip bones are tender, bruised against the edge of the piano. My cheekbone is shoved against the hard surface until I fear my skin will split open under the pressure. He’s like someone possessed, a demon of lechery intent on quenching his need.
I close my eyes and do my best to remain silent under his punishment, his celebration. He lets out a cry when he comes, pulsing within me, filling me with his demon seed. And then he slides out, stumbling to maintain his balance, drunk on his release.
I slump to the floor, the feel of him oozing between my legs. When his heaving breaths calm, he crouches beside me, pulling me onto his lap and stroking the hair from my face.
“You are perfection,” he breathes. “And you are mine.”