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So, I smiled wryly. “Mr. Ito, I’m shocked. I don’t perform on command. Not for free, anyway. You’ll have to wait until the proper pitch to see the full song and dance.”

For a moment, his calm shattered with surprise. Was that too flirtatious? Or was he just not used to being played with?

He smiled broadly, and his gaze grew bolder than before. “I look forward to it.”

****

Naked on the marble floor of his apartment, blind and deaf to the world, I’ve had plenty of time to consider this particular posture. I think it’s called a kowtow. I’ve seen it in Asian films when someone has serious begging to do. It’s an inherently vulnerable position, head on the floor, ass raised. Especially sexual when one is naked except for a hood.

It has a lot of potential as a dance. Like a cocoon or a seed ready to burst forward. An entire life cycle in a few choice poses. Rise to the feet. Stretch toward the light. Once upright, spiral on the foot. Reach for the air, the audience, the aether for attention and affection. Wilt unfulfilled. Die by degrees. Finish—no, not crumpled and lifeless, there’s too much desolation in that—finish in the same pose. Hopeful in rebirth.

Could be cute.

The muscles in my back twitch. Stillness is the hardest part of any performance for me. Especially when I little. So many people—photographers, choreographers, pornographers—want blond-haired children to be asleep.

The temperature rises. Like being under stage lights. I’ve laced the silk hood close to my neck, so there’s no space for me to peek out under.

But I know he’s arrived. Raising the lights, looking at me.

Or maybe it’s my imagination.

I read once, when deprived of its senses, the human brain will create artificial stimuli. Phantom sounds. Fairy lights.

But I’m so still and so aware of my body, I’m sure there’s the slightest vibration in the stone. Which is impossible. I strain to hear his footstep or his breathing. Mr. Ito, such a quiet hunter.

I wish I could remember his face; wish I’d met him more than once before masks and blindfolds. He towers in my mind, broad and stern. Sometimes I remember a youthful innocence in his cheeks, though there’s nothing innocent about these private performances. Other times I remember an older man and a touch of silver, though that doesn’t track with his strength, his desperation when he finally gives in and fucks me.

He enjoys tempting himself. If he’s actually here, tonight’s game is called, “How long can I walk around my toy before I can’t control myself?” Maybe it’s “Who will break first?”

If he is actually here, I don’t need to tempt myself. I don’t mind losing his games, so I make a soft little moan and lift my ass.

He’s here all right.

He sucks in a breath as if the sight of me hurt him. Then he descends, like the king of the heavens stealing a beautiful golden-haired slave. Fingers dig into my hips, teeth graze the curve of my shoulder, lips brush my mid-back, palms press my head. He moves so quickly, I can’t pinpoint how he’s standing. Can’t anticipate where his next caress will crush me. Can’t decide if he wants me to fold and fall or if he wants resistance.

I squirm to avoid the kisses that hurt and the bites that excite. My own voice sounds oppressively loud, as if the silk echoes every pant, every gasp, every whimper.

As soon as his finger invades my ass, I hold my ground. He’s in a fierce mood tonight, and since I’ve prepared for his invasion, he takes full advantage. If he’d left me with more than a shred of dignity, I might be embarrassed that before I left the theater, I’d spent a good long time in the bathroom with a tube of liquid silicone, hoping for this exact attack.

Mr. Ito pauses, two fingers buried deep, staying still. His ragged breaths are choked by passion. Or is that my own labored breathing? When Mr. Ito starts making demands of my body, I get disoriented.

Something slithers. Not my hood. Nothing on my skin except the heat of the lights, the coolness of his breath, and the tiniest flick of his fingers far inside me.

No, that’s his trousers opening—I imagine what they look like. Black. Tight on his meaty legs, expensive stitching, and shiny buttons. He’s teased himself too much. The snake of his cock strains along his thigh, unable to find enough stretch to escape its perfectly tailored prison.

Once Mr. Ito helps it free, the head licks between my cheeks, under his fingers.

“Okay?” His voice is maddeningly calm. Unruffled by the brutal sex he’s about to inflict on his helpless toy. As if he’s deciding what shoes to wear and my opinion is a mere formality and won’t impact his choice.

I don’t trust my own voice. Too unreliable. It may come out too vulnerable, too breathy. Or worse, if I try to match his coolness, too sarcastic.

So, I nod.

He spreads his fingers and pushes his cock underneath them like he’s stroking his own head as he forces into me.

Fuck! Get a longer-lasting lube.

I control myself. Don’t use foul language in front of the patron. My squirming makes him crush my shoulders, sink his cock deeper. But he frees his hand. Much better.