The Audition (2 page)

Saturday, March 2

I wake up to the smell of coffee wafting through the house. A ray of sunlight shines in through the high window set in the basement. Crawling out of my cage, I stretch, before ducking into the adjacent half-bathroom and rinsing my mouth out with hot water. I wish I’d been smart enough to at least pack a toothbrush.

Still, Nikolai would hardly want to hang out with me with my breath smelling like a mixture of stale burgers and beer in a bacteria-infested stew, would he? I hold onto hope.

I’m resolutely avoiding thinking about what today has to offer. I’m trying to not focus on the wall of whips and chains and paddles, because it fixes me with a strange mix of terror and anticipation, and I don’t understand the way I feel. Surely, I don’t want to be whipped by Nikolai. Do I?

My body heats as I imagine the scene. I will be naked, of course, and Nikolai will be clothed. My arms will be tied behind my back and my breasts will jut forward. His eyes will be expressionless, and then he’ll snap his fingers, and I’ll beg him to whip me. “Good,” he’ll say. Only that one word. “Good.”

Snap out of it,
I order myself. It has been a long time since Nikolai Zhdanov approved of anything I did.
Good
is not the word I’m going to hear from him.

***

Nikolai is reading the Globe when I head upstairs. “Good morning,” I say. I’m wearing the white shirt and navy blue pencil skirt I wore yesterday to my failed audition.

He looks at me. “Get naked,” he orders. He points to a spot on the floor. “Kneel there.”

No hello. No inquiries about how I slept. Just an order, nothing else.

We used to be friends, Nikolai and I, six years ago. I’d made him his first breakfast in America, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, because at fourteen, I was utterly incompetent in the kitchen, and also because my mom had to run off to work, and we were out of cereal. I’d pulled the peanut butter jar out of the refrigerator, and had held out the jars of grape jelly and marmalade towards Nikolai, wondering if he’d had a preference. He hadn’t, so I picked marmalade. He’d taken an experimental bite, doubt etched all over his face, and as he had chewed, his expression had lightened. Then he’d smiled at me. “
Spasibo
,” he’d said.

He used to listen to me play, and he’d get impatient with me when I made mistakes. “Move over, Allie,” he’d say and sit next to me on the piano stool. By that point, I was seventeen and had a mad, raging crush on him, and he was twenty-five and had just been appointed principal pianist to the New York Philharmonic, an almost unheard of feat for someone so young. His hands would engulf mine and he’d patiently guide me through the notes.

And now, he’s pointed to the floor next to him, and he wants me kneeling at his feet, naked. I swallow my sadness away and obey him.

“Lock your hands behind your back,” he instructs. He leans back in his chair and watches me, an inscrutable look on his face. I force my expression to complete blankness and obey. Four days to my audition. I will endure.

He gets up and fetches me a cup of coffee, placing it at my lips. I take a sip and stiffen. Milk and a spoonful of sugar. His memory doesn’t fail him; he remembers how I take my coffee. “You remember,” I whisper.

“Do you?” he asks me obliquely. He’s being cryptic, as he is wont to do. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

He holds out a small piece of buttered toast in his fingers, and I flush. I’m supposed to eat scraps from his hand, like some kind of pet. “Is the leash next?” I demand, my voice taut with anger.

I should have kept my mouth shut. “What a good idea,” he says evenly. He gets up, and I watch him head down the basement stairs.

I’m breathing hard. I’m beyond furious with Nikolai. I’m outraged that he’d treat me like some kind of pet. I’m humiliated and embarrassed, and I’m a little turned-on as well. And it gets worse, because he comes back up and buckles a collar around my neck, and clips a leash to it. He takes hold of my arms and cuffs them behind my back, and just like that, I’m cuffed and leashed and at his mercy.

“An animal always keeps fighting, Allie,” he says to me. “It will do whatever it takes to survive. Only humans curl up in a corner and prepare to die.” He gives me a hard stare. “Perhaps treating you like an animal will help you remember how to survive.”

“Fuck you,” I snap. “Stop pretending this is some kind of fucking Jedi mind-lesson. This is just a stroke-fest for you.”

His brow furrows as he works out that expression, and then he laughs. “Fair enough, Allie, my motives aren’t completely altruistic,” he says cheerfully. “But you cannot speak to me that way, not without consequences.” He pulls a pair of what seem to be metal clips out of his pocket. I flinch when I realize he means them to go on my nipples.

“Nikolai,” I beg.

He looks at me. “In or out, Allie?” he asks flatly, with absolutely no expression in either his eyes or his voice.

Damn it.
“In,” I whisper, my entire body tensing up as I try to prepare for the oncoming pain. But there’s no preparation possible. A sharp slice of pain knifes through me as he fastens the clamp on one nipple. I bite my lip and only just prevent myself from whimpering, blinking away the tears from my eyes. The other nipple isn’t spared either – his fingers pinch the clip open, then the flat metal prongs close over my tender bud.

“What do you say, Allie?” he asks me.

My nipples are burning in agony. My eyes are tearing in response, and my brain is a fog. I can’t think. I don’t know what he wants from me.

“Think, Allie,” he suggests dryly.

Ah, I get it. I’m supposed to apologize for sassing him, even though my nipples throb and ache, and I can hardly bear it. I force the words out. “I’m sorry, Nikolai.”

“Halfway there,” he says. “As you did downstairs last night, you will also thank me for punishing you.”

Fuck him. Fuck Juilliard. Yet, the words come out, soft and compliant. “Thank you, Nikolai, for punishing me.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, coffee?” He holds out the mug of coffee to me again. For a brief second, I contemplate bumping it with my jaw and sloshing the contents all over the floor. But if my smart-ass comment earned me this excruciating burning pain in my nipples, then I shudder at what he will do to me for such deliberate defiance. I take another sip.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask finally, after he’s fed me breakfast, bite by bite from his fingertips.

“Because you have an audition in four days,” he responds.

***

It doesn’t escape me that he hasn’t touched me at all, not in a sexual way. Even when he was fastening the clamps on my nipples, his touch had been devoid of arousal. Strangely, my heart sinks at this, undoubtedly some ridiculous vestige of my old crush.

I tell myself to stop being foolish. That version of Nikolai, the one I knew six years ago, was dark and brooding, but he was also wryly funny, and he was a good listener. That version wouldn’t have put a leash around my neck and treated me like a pet. I was attracted to that version of him.

“What now?”

He ignores my question. “You asked about a safe word yesterday,” he comments instead. “How much D/s experience do you have?”

“I just read a book,” I answer, my cheeks flaming. A complete lie. I have no real-world experience - that much is true. But I’ve known for a while that the idea of someone taking charge of me is a sexual turn-on, and I’ve researched my kinks thoroughly on the Internet. I’ve read articles. I’ve watched porn. I know as much as it’s possible to know from online searches.

The throbbing ache in my nipples reminds me that to know something in the abstract is very, very different from experiencing it. But at the same time, the fluttery feeling in my lower stomach is crystal clear evidence that I’m aroused by the way Nikolai is treating me.

“Never been someone’s submissive?” he probes, and I shake my head. “In that case,” he gestures to me, “we better take those clamps off.”

“Oh.” I sound disappointed, and he notices and laughs. “Do you want them on longer, Allie? You should build up to it, give your nipples a chance to get used to the sensation first. Come here.”

I start getting on my feet, and he growls in displeasure. “Crawl,” he orders.

Face flaming, I crawl towards him. As I move, the leash trails between my legs. My breasts jiggle and a fresh wave of pain courses through my body. I can feel an answering throb in my cunt, and I pray he doesn’t notice the way I’m reacting to the situation.

Of course he notices. He’s clearly experienced in dominance and submission. The amount of equipment in his basement, the cameras in the ceiling – they all hammer that message home to me. His lips twitch at my obvious arousal, but he doesn’t comment when I reach him. His hands just reach out towards my breasts, and he pries the clamps off my nipples.

I stifle a cry as my breasts are wracked with another onslaught of pain. “Hush,” he says, and for the first time, I hear real gentleness in his voice. His fingers stroke my tender nipples as the blood rushes back into them.

This is surreal. I’m kneeling at Nikolai Zhdanov’s feet while his hands rub the feeling back into my breasts. I don’t even know what to do at this point. My childhood crush intersects painfully with the adult that I am. I’m both outraged and aroused at the way Nikolai is ordering me around. “Now,” he says finally. “Get to practice.”

“Please, Nikolai,” I beg. I’m desperate for a hot shower, for a toothbrush, for just a few minutes alone behind a closed door so I can try to process the last twenty four hours. I feel like I’m hanging on by a mere string. When he’s in the room, Nikolai’s strength provides comfort. But alone? I know I’m going to fall apart if I’m in the basement by myself.

His eyes flash with concern for a second, before a carefully blank expression replaces it. “What’s the matter?” His voice breathes curt impatience. But I’ve seen the slight softening of his gaze. I hold on to hope that the version of Nikolai who was my friend is still present somewhere in this hard man, the same way the driven, focused girl that I used to be is still buried somewhere within me.

“Could I shower?” My voice is hesitant.

A brief nod. He inclines his head towards the stairs. “Follow me.” Another order. I’m tempted to say something snide, but I remember the clamps, the leash and Juilliard. Instead, I obey silently.

***

He says something about the guest bathroom being in the process of being renovated, before showing me to his bedroom and waving in the direction of the ensuite. “There’s towels and toiletries in the cupboard,” he tells me, before removing my cuffs and leaving me alone.

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.

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.

“You didn’t fall apart when she died.” My voice is a mixture of accusation and awe. He had lost the career that meant everything to him, yet here he was, strong and whole. I was the wreck, weak and pitiful.

“She wasn’t my mother,” he points out reasonably. “And I was older than you, better equipped to deal with life’s vagaries.”

Life’s vagaries. English isn’t even his mother tongue. It’s hard not to be awed by Nikolai.

“Resume,” he says, pulling away and turning my body back towards the piano. The brief moment of comfort is over.

***

The second playing of the concerto does not go better. I’m tense and on edge. My body aches with Nikolai’s displeasure, and my eyes prickle with unshed tears. My emotions are a wild tangle, but I’ve built a strong barrier around them.

He comes behind me. “Keep playing.” Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see his strong, scarred hands rest on the piano stool, before he starts pulling the stool away from the piano. I stand, but I keep playing. It’s all I can do in this situation that is so outside anything I’ve ever experienced.

The piano stool is moved just far enough back that I can’t sit on it. I feel Nikolai’s hands at my right ankle next, as he raises my foot and places it on the stool. I have one leg on the floor, and the other folded back on the bench. My torso bends towards the piano – it’s the only way I can stay balanced.

My body throbs with need. This pose, with my ass thrust towards Nikolai, is clearly erotic. Will he touch me now? I really, really want him to touch me, to stroke my folds with those fingers, to play my body the same way he was playing the Mozart piece when I walked down the stairs.

“Keep playing,” he repeats.

How?
I want to scream silently.
How am I expected to keep playing when I can feel your hands cupping my butt, spreading my cheeks apart so my pussy and my asshole are revealed completely to you?

I play. My pacing is all messed up. My fingers strike the wrong notes far too many times. But, though I wait for the riding crop’s sting on my body, it doesn’t come.

Instead, Nikolai
explores
me.

One hand rests firmly on my butt cheek. The other caresses my wet folds, and I can feel my pussy swell and drip even further in response. I can’t stifle my soft moans as he touches me. His finger penetrates me, and his thumb circles my asshole, preparing me for that assault.

I whimper, but I keep playing.

Two fingers in my pussy now, thrusting in and out of me. A hard spank on my ass, the sound echoing around the room. “More passion, Allie,” he says evenly.

Blood pounds in my head. Lust swirls in me, radiating from the spot where his hands play with my body as if I were a piano, to be caressed with calm expertise. And, as if I were indeed an instrument that he’s coaxing music from, I hear the notes change. All the passion that is gathering in my body, I pour forth into the music.

I’m not even going to pretend that my playing has technical merit, because it doesn’t, and how can it? His fingers pump in and out of my pussy, making squelching noises as he invades my body. His hand spanks me with perfect rhythm, each one making a sharp sound as it comes in contact with my firm flesh. But somehow, in all of that, my walls are down enough for true emotion to pour through.

The notes get more garbled now, as I inch towards a climax. My head lowers towards the piano keys, my hair cascades down on the instrument. His fingers are hitting my g-spot with each push. I can feel my pussy quiver around him, and my entire body shudders.

As my fingers crash down on the keys in a thunderclap of discordant sound, I orgasm.

***

“Play the concerto again.”

I look at Nikolai, dazed. My skin is still damp with sweat. My cunt still trembles as a result of my climax. My entire body feels boneless and sated. I am in no condition to play.

But I obey him, and as I play, I realize I’ve never played Chopin better.

When I’m done, I look up and wait for him to speak. “Sex relaxes you, doesn’t it, Allie?” he says. “Once you come, you are like a sweet, pliable kitten.” He grins. “Who plays the piano like an angel.”

“If only I could wear a vibrator to the audition,” I quip, and he laughs easily. Sadly, that isn’t really a feasible idea. I’d show emotion and feeling, but I won’t hit any of the right notes.

I can see the outline of his erection through his pants, but now that I’ve climaxed and played the Chopin Concerto the way he wanted to hear it played, he shows no further sign of desire. I shiver. My body still aches from my cropping, and my heart aches as well.

“The passion you display,” he says to me. “Learn to channel that into your work.”

“Why?” I challenge him. “If it all goes into my work, is there anything left?” I look at him boldly, and I cup my breasts. “What about everything else? Sex? Love? Life?”

My gesture is a blatant come-on, but he doesn’t respond to it. When he looks at me, there is darkness in his eyes. I get the sense that I’ve scratched at an old scab, one that hasn’t healed completely. After all, this is who I think Nikolai was before the accident. Driven and passionate, and everything in him was oriented towards his career and his music. I didn’t think there had been room for anything else.

And now? It occurs to me that I have no idea who he has become. I don’t know what he does for a living. I have no idea if he’s married or engaged, or if he has a girlfriend, or dozens of willing submissives.

I only know his address because he has sent me a Christmas card every year for the last six years, a gesture that always both moves me and infuriates me.

I know nothing about Nikolai, and he seemingly knows everything about me. “From what I hear,” he says, his lips compressing in disapproval, “you don’t seem to have any passion for life or love. You are hardly in a position to comment.”

My hands fall to my sides, and I press my lips together, chastened. I don’t speak further.