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"Hope not. I used some tongue there."
Still smiling at her, he turned and moved back behind the curtain. When Julie shifted, she saw Missive kneeling before a shadowed rope form Julie couldn't make out, because only the blues, or blue light, was on behind the curtain to ensure there were no leaks around it to distract from the Victorian scene.
Missive's silhouette showed her head bowed, her body seemingly relaxed. Yet when Des had shifted her into a submissive state with one key touch, Julie had felt the sizzle of anticipation off the young woman. She thought of how she'd felt when she'd first seen those hanging ropes the other night and understood it better than she wanted to admit.
Des put his hand on Missive's head and stroked her, speaking words Julie couldn't hear. Then the crew needed Julie to move so they could stage another set piece. Julie registered the thrilling feminine cries of the maid as the Victorian Dom put her over his lap and spanked her with the crop, all while she tried futilely to follow his direction and polish his boots in that awkward position.
After the scene concluded, there were four minutes to go. Billie was doing the transition, and Des and Missive's act would follow him.
Abruptly, Julie noticed she wasn't alone. Some of the other performers were gathering in the shadows, staying out of the way but clearly wanting to get a good view of the upcoming act.
The minutes went by both fast and slow to her. Billie wrapped up his part and returned to her in the wings. He positioned himself right behind her, so she couldn't see him, but she would have recognized him with her nose. He favored Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds perfume. When in drag, he always had a light mist of it clinging to him.
She turned to look at him. He now wore a bronze gown with an ebony wig that spilled silk to his waist and over his shoulders. He shifted to link his arm through Julie's.
"What you're about to see, honey-chile, is why we recommended putting him right before intermission," he whispered as the lights went down again. "After his performance, the audience is going to need that wine bar in the lobby."
Julie sighed. "I wasn't sure if I was going to hang around to watch. I haven't figured out how to deal with him doing this to another woman."
"Just watch, baby girl." Billie's arm slipped around her, holding her close with a woman's fragrance and a man's strength. "You'll feel better after."
Or worse, she thought dourly.
In the dark, she heard the hushed conversations and shifting of the audience. She closed her eyes, drinking in that energy. The trundling sound told her the curtain was opening, and the light behind her lids told her the scene had begun. She opened her eyes.
The music cued was a woodwinds piece called "Pan's Melody." As it filled the speakers and poured into the audience, Julie imagined the Fae lord winding through the forest he loved, as much a part of himself as breath, blood and bone.
Light spread over the scenery like a rising silvery moon. The audience inhaled in appreciation, creating a rippling wind sound, echoed by the performers closest to her. While Julie automatically shushed them, she was as engaged as they were.
Des had used light brown jute against a dark brown board suspended about seven feet above the stage. His rope was woven in the shape of a tree against the board, a complicated network of interlaced, spreading branches that twisted into a thick, knotted trunk. As the trunk cleared the board, the rope spread out into a nest of tangled roots, forming a cocoon for the bundle of precious life suspended in their cradle. The rope ends beneath the cocoon anchored it to the stage, more spreading roots.
Missive was in that cocoon, tied in a fetal position. Rope had been wrapped over her eyes, blinding her. Her hands were folded over her breasts, legs drawn up to her stomach. Since she was naked, light played over pale skin.
A cutout looked like the moon shining above. They'd talked about doing an ankle level fog, but Des had nixed that, not wanting anything to obscure his vision. Always taking care of his sub. It was a good aesthetic choice, though. The silvery light added the right touch of ambiance, nothing else needed.
Like Pan walking through the wood in truth, Des appeared out of the shadows of the opposite wing. He was shirtless and wore dark, close-fitting trousers and bare feet. The light played over his tattoos, darkening the sunburst on his back while etching out the dragon on his biceps.
He moved with grace and strength, with intense attention on what lay before him. Julie saw several people in the front rows inch forward in their seats, unconsciously drawn toward him, toward the unspoken messages of the scene, toward all of it. She was very conscious of Billie's firm hold on her waist. She must have leaned forward, and he thought she was about to be drawn out to the stage, enchanted by Pan's allure. She wanted to be amused, but she thought he might be right. She curled her hand around the edge of the podium.
Des circled the cocoon, suspended at eye level. He trailed his fingers along the curve of Missive's shoulder, her flank, and curled his fingers over her ankle. He made a complete rotation around her, shadows dancing and drifting like they would if clouds were wafting over the moon. The effect was spectacular. She was so buying the light designer a keg of her favorite alcoholic beverage.
Des drew a dark rectangular object from his back pocket. A dramatic snap of his wrist revealed and released the blade of the knife, and he swept it across Missive's body. In the same fluid movement, he threw the knife down so it plunged quivering in a rise in the earth, a firmly anchored piece of layered foam board. Des caught her curled body as it unraveled into his arms.
Billie had clutched her at the waist at the same moment Julie had increased her grip on him. Des swayed with the flute piece, turned, turned again, a slow pivot on the ball of one foot. He removed the smaller lengths of ropes from her eyes, around her wrists, casting them away. A new length of rope shook out from his hand on the turn, a silver metallic nylon that reflected the moonlight.
"Now from a static form to ichinawa," Myers murmured. He'd drawn closer for a better view. Since he was her other rigger performer, Julie wasn't surprised to see him. At her quizzical look, he explained in a whisper. "It means one rope. For Des, it's kind of a foreplay before he moves into more demanding disciplines."
Des had Missive on her feet but was holding her with one arm. He spun her away from him and the rope was looped on her wrist. He used that hold and his other hand to spin her back to him, the rope now wrapped around her body, holding her elbows to her sides. Then back out again. He turned and twisted with her, bringing one arm over her head and pulling it back so her hand brushed h
er shoulder blade, elbow pointed up.
Keeping their movements like two dancers, he turned her and brought her to her knees, her head and back in a convex shape, a position that showed her surrender and his strength. Then he had her down in a turtle-like pose, the rope coming through her legs as he tied it to both ankles and plucked on the line, obviously to stimulate her between the legs. He'd looped the rope over the back of her neck, so when she quivered and shuddered, it emphasized how she was unable to lift her head or move out of the compact position.
Des knelt over her, slid an arm under her waist and then flipped her, loosening the rope in several graceful movements and drawing them both back to their feet. Missive was a bending willow in the circle of his arms.
Another rope was lowered. Des picked her up, did that slow turning dance again to bring them to it. As he put her feet on the ground, he attached Missive's bound wrists to the hook at the end of the rope.
"Now the semenawa," Myers whispered to her. "Torture rope, mixed in with other styles. He's like watching a sidewalk painter with no formal training, but endless raw talent. You never know what he's going to do or combine, but it's always a work of art."
