Page 6 of Ward

“I’ve caught some performances there. Whenever I’m at the ballet, I can’t help thinking it must hurt to dance on your tiptoes.”

“It does hurt sometimes.” She pulls the tail off a piece of shrimp. She has a heartier appetite than I would expect from a dancer, but I imagine she burns through a lot of calories during practice. “My whole body will hurt for a few days after a show, but I don’t think about it while I’m performing. The adrenaline rush drowns out the pain.”

The skin on my neck prickles. “Does it?”

Grace nods. “It’s like slipping into a trance. The beauty of the moment takes over, and I feel...drunk.” She stares off into the middle distance. “I don’t have to think about anything else. I’m just there, in my body, and yet above it somehow.”

What she’s describing sounds like a close cousin to the sensation submissives experience as they slip into the trance-like euphoria of subspace. Brain chemicals flood the nervous system in response to the sting of pain or the gush of pleasure. BDSM often feels like a dance, so it makes sense that Grace would experience a similar release.

As a Dominant, I experience my own type of rush. One that heightens my senses while allowing me to maintain control. Rather than zoning out, I focus in on the person I’m topping. How they’re feeling, what they’re thinking, the way my words and actions affect them.

Hearing Grace explain how it feels to surrender to the art of movement summons a barrage of sounds and images. The desperation in a whispered please. The pink glow of pale skin after a kiss from the crop.

If Grace is this beautiful at my table, I bet she’d look exquisite on her knees...

I shut that line of thinking down the second it arises. Grace isn’t my biological niece, but by taking her in, I’ve accepted her as family. She’s only seventeen, for Christ’s sake. A child in mourning. Too young to consent to anything even approaching submission.

I make a mental note to call Fiona, one of my occasional play partners, to see if she can come to the house next week for a session. Jen’s right: it’s been way too long since I let loose. My mind is getting restless. All this pent-up tension isn’t good for anyone.

“Anyway,” she says, tucking a blonde curl behind the shell of her ear. “I’m sure that sounds really strange.”

“Not at all.” I take a generous sip from my wineglass.

“It feels weird not to be practicing six days a week.” She gazes down at her plate. “I haven’t danced since I found out they were gone.”

“You’re welcome to practice in the gym.”

I’m relieved when her frown rolls over to reveal its soft underbelly.

“Thank you, I will. Just so you know, I hope to be back at school in a week.”

“That soon?”

Grace shrugs, once again bottling her pain. “I can be sad here, or I can be sad there and still graduate on time.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “I’ll be at the New York office a fair bit next week. You can let my staff know if there’s anything you need. I hope we can have dinner a couple more times before you go.”

“That would be nice.”

I’ll admit, her resilience is admirable. But everyone has a breaking point. When the enormity of what she’s lost hits her, and the pain she’s been bottling up all these years finally shatters, she won’t be able to smile her way through it.

She’ll be forced to surrender.

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