Les rubans
by Valentine Bonnaire c. March 2013 valentine@valentinebonnaire.com
(for Remittance Girl)
Maman did not ever discuss with me her reasons for wanting me to be a
ballerina. She simply made sure that I had my weekly lesson with Madame
Trussard. Every time I tried to explain to her that I didn’t want to
go, she would simply say, “Silence.”
“But, Maman…”
“You will dance as I wanted to in my girlhood.”
There was nothing I could say. Sometimes I cried before the difficult
lessons, fingering my beribboned costume. My father wasn’t there to
ask. There was no one to tell. And so the years went by at the barre,
my pliés deepening every time Madame threatened to use her crop. She
liked to carry it as she followed the dancers moving ensemble.
We looked out over the city trying to escape the pain of
listening to it whistle in the air, threatening us if we made mistakes.
Only Pierre knew my feelings, because he had watched me for many years.
He had watched me writhe when the crop snapped at my thigh if my
posture wasn’t perfect at the barre.
In my thirteenth year I received my first pink toe shoes. By then, they
had become the most beautiful shoes in the world to me. The ribbons
that I wrapped around my ankles were about Art, en pointe. My body
pirouetting into beautiful form was perfection on the floor, before the
eyes of Madame.
By then, my mother was taking me to the studio three times a week. I
had learned to endure anything, and I had learned to be silent, as the
crop whistled. Papa was always away on business in Bruxelles or Vienna.
I couldn’t speak about pain, I was only to be happy with my new shoes
three times each year, their shining ribbons wrapping me.
At nineteen Madame Trussard insisted that I come privately for two more
lessons weekly in order to shape me for the Corps. Of course, my mother
was ecstatic. At night she would show me pictures of Nijinsky and his
exquisite form. “Five days will be what it takes for you each
week,” she said.
“I might have danced with him,” she frowned. “If not for my own
Papa. You shall dance, as your Papa and I wish a beautiful life for you.
You shall become the greatest dancer ever known. The roses shall be
many at your feet one day, cherie.”
She would say nothing more, except produce her ancient tutu and have me
finger it, and try it on. I was sad that she had lost her dream. I
didn’t realize then that she could really relive her dream of the
dance through me. Maman did not know what was happening to me at the
studio. She did not realize how she had given me willingly to Madame
Trussard years earlier. She did not know the techniques employed to
bend my suppleness.
“Your legs are very strong,” Madame exclaimed the week of my
nineteenth birthday. “I should like to make them stronger.”
“How would you do that?” I asked.
“I shall need Pierre’s help to tie you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He will need the thickest ribbons in the atelier.”
There was a chair in the studio upholstered with fabric that glistened
with elaborate small birds. I had been looking at it for many years but
we were never allowed to touch it or to sit upon it. The birds were
grotesques. Their eyes glowed from within along the silken pattern
where they flew.
Secretly, we ballerinas all called it The Firebird chair, when we had
been young.
“Come to the chair,” Madame said firmly. “Fetch the ribbons,
Pierre.”
He was such an old man by the time I was nineteen. Pierre had been
watching me at the barre as I did my demi-pliés and relevés for so
many years, and he had always been so kind, offering to help me with my
shoes — and bringing me some iced water when he could see I was so
thirsty after practice.
Pierre returned carrying an armful of the many bolts of ribbon Madame
had asked for. “All for you,” he smiled at me.
“Sit,” Madame commanded, pointing at the chair. “Hook your legs
over the arms.”
“Madame, I…”
“Do not say another word.”
Pierre had taken the thickest red ribbon from one the bolts. I could
see him unwinding it in what seemed like yards and yards as it fell
curling to the floor.
“Pierre will be stripping you of your leotards.”
“Madame…”
“Does he need to silence you?”
“Madame, I…”
“Bring the ribbon, Pierre.”
Before I could do anything he had wrapped it around my head, about my
lips. I felt it move between them, as he tightened and tightened it. I
couldn’t have spoken then, even if I had tried. Long lengths of it
fell at my shoulders like ornaments on each side, in spiraling ribbon
curls down to my breasts. He brushed them softly. That Pierre was
going to undress me seemed so out of the ordinary I did not know how to
think of him, suddenly. My eyes caught his, as he smiled a strange smile.
“All who want to dance the lead must go through the fire,” Madame
said slowly.
“It will not be too much to bear,” said Pierre. “I will be
wearing a mask as I play for you later tonight, and other nights as you
learn the ribbons.”
I could hear the sound of something mechanical dropping from the ceiling
of the studio. Madame was changing the lighting to a dark navy glow.
An inked navy, like the night. Four iron rings dropped from suspended
chains into place around the silk chair. She fixed the stage lights so
they lit each one. The rest of the room was quite dark and the rings
were very old and rusted. I stared at them as they dangled.
“Undress her, Pierre,” Madame said, handing him a pair of scissors.
“I shall fetch her new crimson shoes myself.”
Pierre began at my feet, cutting off my black dance slippers, first one
and then the other. My toes curled as he moved to slice away my thick
dancer’s leotards, cutting them very slowly and deliberately as he
stroked the muscles of my tensed calves. At last one leg was free of
its casing. Madame had returned with my new shoes. They were the
darkest red, from the oldest shoemaker in Paris. Pierre kissed my foot
before he entrapped it in the shoe and wound the ribbon laces up my
calf. He caught one of the rings and lowered it, slipping my pointed
foot inside, before binding me to it with the ribbons all about my
ankle. Madame must have pressed a button because suddenly the ring
moved skyward until my legs were violently split apart. One remained
hooked over the chair and the other arched up into a split.
Pierre commenced at the other side, removing everything until I was
naked to my waist. He slowly caressed the inside of my tender thighs,
stroking the muscles which had tensed beyond compare. I could see
Madame looking at mon petit chat. This is what Maman had always told me
to call the place between my thighs. She was looking at me and her eyes
seemed to burn with a desire I had never seen. Soon Pierre had finished
with my other foot and I could feel the rings begin to lift until my
legs were in mid-air like a suspended acrobat. They moved apart until I
was in the splits and quivering. Only my shoulders remained on the
chair, as my hands tried to grip something, anything.
Madame ran her crop along the inside of my thighs, back and forth.
“You have known its kiss for many years now,” she cautioned. “At
the barre.”
I began to tremble as it moved against the nakedness of mon petit chat.
Madame laughed softly. She gripped me there with her whole hand and
squeezed very hard. The pressure of her palm was almost intolerable. I
would have gasped if not for the ribbons at my mouth. She did not
release her grip while Pierre continued to cut away my leotards from my
breasts.
“You must fondle her a little, Pierre.”
He paused to smile at her, before the scissors finished the last inches.
“So the little cat softens and purrs.”
Her grip was the grip of iron, compared to Pierre’s delicacy. His
fingertips were like feathers caressing my nipples. She did not move
her hand once. I could feel what I thought might be her nails applying
more pressure to me. Pleasure at my nipples, and pain below. It was as
if I were divided in half. Her hand only gripped me tighter as Pierre
made my nipples rise to reach his soft and delicate tongue. He lapped
and lapped them as if he were licking at a dish of cream. Each time I
writhed at his tongue’s movement it seemed to excite Madame. She slid
the crop along my belly, caressing it lightly . Finally she released me
from her hand. It was throbbing where she had held me in a grip of such
force.
I had felt her crop for so many years as it bit into my thighs at the
barre I was frightened as she tickled it over me gently. My nakedness
was hers, as the crop moved to my nipples. I never felt Pierre slowly
take my wrists and attach them to the rings with the longest ribbon
curls. I never felt him slip the last of my leotard away with his
silent slow clipping. I could only feel my flesh against the chair,
nude against the birds with the grotesque eyes that followed me while
she slid the crop against me, slowly, taking the longest time while she
watched my eyes follow its path.
The rings lifted my arms and pulled me into the air until I was
horizontal and hanging from the ceiling. It felt that I might split
apart, so violently did they quarter me in all directions. I was
floating above the chair, when Madame ordered Pierre to caress my petit
chat. If only Maman knew, I thought. Would she have stopped my
lessons? His caress began so softly at first. Just feathery along my
skin, while Madame snapped the crop in midair. I could not close my
legs to protect myself from his fingers. Madame ticked my nipples with
the leather. She told me she would need to don her leather opera gloves
for me, when Pierre had finished. My body shook violently in the air as
I climaxed at his tongue’s pressure. Madame assured me I would be
punished. “Because you let Pierre excite your flesh when a dancer
must be disciplined,” she laughed.
“Turn her, Pierre.”
The rings moved until I was folded in half before they flipped me over.
Pierre took his place in the chair of birds, and Madame arranged my body
until my breasts hung just above him like fruit from an arbor. He took
them in his hands softly, running his fingers over my nipples and
suckling on first one, and then the other so gently I trembled terribly
with pure desire. I would have sung at the exquisite delight he made me
feel, if only I had had my mouth to tell him. The red curls of my
bindings dropped around his face and he smoothed my eyebrows with a
fingertip.
My bottom was facing Madame. I did not know she had moved between my
legs, because they were split apart so terribly by the rings. Suddenly
I felt her gloved hands begin to stroke the firmly tensed globes of my
flesh. For all of Pierre’s delicacy, her hands were cruel. Pierre
caught my nipples against his tongue again, delicately lapping back and
forth like a little cat at cream. Madam kneaded my bottom and my thighs
roughly. My muscles were so tense at her touch, where they had softened
so much into Pierre’s tendresse. It was a study in contrasts as I
tried to recoil from her and stretch toward him. I could not stop the
wetness between my thighs. It was Pierre’s doing.
Madame knew and she was going to punish me for the wetness.
She was going to whip me because of the wetness.
Suddenly the rings adjusted again and my body lurched forward over
Pierre. Mon petit chat was directly over him in the chair. My legs
widespread, my little lips below so widely open and unprotected. Madame
could have done the worst to them. But she wanted to have Pierre excite
me all night with his tongue. Her black-gloved hands moved up and down
my thighs as Pierre licked me so very gently, lapping at me. She
watched as I tensed over and over, flexing uncontrollably, incapable of
stopping my desire, incapable of stopping what was flowing from me as
Pierre licked slowly and in long strokes over and over.
“You should not be wet, cherie.”
I shook as she said it, trembling against her leather-clad palm.
“The male dancers who will hold you as the Firebird cannot have you in
this excited state.”
Pierre kept up his lapping and I could not stop myself, I was coming and
shaking against him. His tongue languidly traced me as I bucked at her
words trying to distance myself from the pleasure of his mouth upon me.
My whole body moved through a series of tremors, as I strained against
the rings.
“You must learn to control your excitement.”
I could hear the sounds of Pierre’s tongue as he groaned against me
and the lapping sounds he made as he licked so gently. I was going to
come again against him, when I felt Madame pinch me suddenly at my
bottom. It was a long sharp pinch and it hurt, as much as she had hurt
me when she gripped me firmly the first time.
“I will have to whip her at the barre, Pierre, for this excitement.”
“Yes, Madame.”
Her gloved hand slid between my thighs and came out covered in a whitish
silken fluid that had emanated from me. She brought it to my face.
“Do you see what I have to drive from you?”
I nodded.
“Every ounce of your desire.”
“We will commence with lessons tomorrow, then,” she nodded.
“Tonight Pierre can have his pleasure for as long as he likes.”
Madame was removing her long black gloves. She placed them on the small
of my back with her crop. The rings creaked a little as they lifted me
again to eye level for Pierre, as he stood at my side. He had access to
every inch of me. My body bucked and I groaned as his lips began again
so very, very gently. Licking my nipples over and over and over like a
tiny cat. He had all evening for my whole body, over and over and over
again. Maman had left for Bruxelles with Papa. Madame Trussard had
been happy to have me stay at the atelier for two weeks in their
absence.
“Of course,” she had told Maman. “It will be nothing but
discipline for her.”
Madame was taking her leave of us suddenly. A cool gust of air blew in
from the paned doors as she opened them at the balcony.
“Make sure that she understands how difficult our task will be
Pierre.”
“À demain” I heard her call as the studio door closed softly.
~
Copyright March 2013 Valentine Bonnaire. valentine@valentinebonnaire.com
All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part
without written permission from the author.
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 
mille grazie Lady Flo! xxoo!
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