I was never more nervous than while I was waiting in the dance rehearsal hall, trying to keep up with small talk with the pianist, while I was waiting for Miloslav Cersenka for my audition to dance in
Defiance
. I was torn. I wanted to do this, and not just for the money I needed to help keep Mr. Masters's lifestyle afloat. I needed this for me too. I was beginning to dissolve into Mr. Masters. If there was ever going to be anything left of me that was me, I needed someplace that Mr. Masters could not go. For me, that was the world of the dance.
On the flip side, however, I was afraid of what was required to become part of Cersenka's troupe—and I remained shocked that Mr. Masters could just share me around like this. First Leonard Handelsman and now Cersenka. Mr. Masters had always been so adamant that there would be no one but him. I felt used and worthless. I consoled myself with the thought that Cersenka may be too ill to follow his custom. Over the weeks of early preparation for the opening of
Defiance
at the Arena Stage, his condition had noticeably weakened and, if anything, he looked even more cadaverous and gaunt than ever before.
In the days since I had asked for and been granted the audition, I had been sitting in on the dance rehearsals so that I could see what dance positions and routines were going to be used and concentrate my audition on those. What surprised me the most about those rehearsals was Cersenka's movement there. He would appear, tapping his ivory-headed cane on the floor as he favored one leg in his steps. But then the music would start and he would be out among the dancers, still the master of all in his flexibility and the grace of his movements as he gave instruction. I ached for him when the day came when he no longer could dance like that. And I thought that the progress of his disease probably was welcome to him—that he preferred death to life as cripple after having been a premier dancer.
When Cersenka entered the rehearsal hall, I stood away from the piano, in the first position, and watched his pained progression to the center of the room from the door. He merely snapped his fingers and the piano music began. Then he gracefully extended his hand to me and put on the mere hint of a smile and I began to move over the floor in the prescribed audition positions.
Cersenka was bare chested and bare footed, clad only in a form-fitting black leotard. Even in his emaciated state, he muscle tone held, and his veins popped out on his chest and arms, indicating there was practically no fat on his bones for them to run through. He appeared made of steel.
At length I had come near him, and he commanded me to take the position of the arabesque penchée, where I lifted one leg high behind me at over a 90 degree angle and moved my torso forward to counterbalance. Cersenka came close to me then and put one hand on my belly and the other one high on my thigh.
"En pointe," he commanded. And, as directed, I went up on my toe. Cersenka, in dramatic strides, walked around in a circle, turning me. His breathing was raspy and I felt the hand he had on my thigh move up and cup my basket.
I knew now that I had passed the dancing segment of the audition and we were now in the second phase—the phase where he possessed me as his.
"Felix, enough, thanks. You may go."
Cersenka was addressing the piano player, who brought the music to a graceful conclusion and stood up, bowed, and walked out of the rehearsal hall in long strides.
I was alone with Cersenka now. He was breathing heavily, and it wasn't all a result of his condition. I was trembling from the feel of his strong hand cupping my cock and balls through the tight-fitting unitard material and the dancer's belt.
He was still circling around in the center of the hall, with me in the arabesque position. I felt his hand going from my basket up my extended leg, and he was pushing the red terry cloth leg warmer off my calf.
"Change position, arabesque penchée," he barked, and came down from en pointe, and lifted the other leg up as high as the first one had been and went back en pointe. Cersenka circled me about a few more turns and then ran his hand up the extended leg and pushed the other leg warmer off.
His hands went to my shoulders, and he pulled the straps of the torso portion of my unitard down over my arms and down my chest and then all of the way off me. I was naked now, except for my dance belt and my ballet slippers.
"Drape pas de deux, legs extended," he commanded and turned me away from him and lifted me, my back against his chest, and I extended my legs, knees bent, out to the side in graceful ballet pose. I was trembling, though, knowing what we were building up to, trying to control myself and to remain in traditional ballet positions at all times and to move into them and from them as gracefully as possible. I knew this was all part of the audition.
He had one arm around my belly, holding me to his chest, and his other hand was gliding below the waistband of my dancing belt. He started fondling my cock and balls and his lips went to the hollow of my neck. And I began to moan for him.
In smooth movements, he pushed my dance belt down below my ball sack and his own leotard down below his.
"Ankles on the back of my thighs," he whispered in a hoarse voice, and I brought my legs around his and hooked them above the back of his knees. He lifted me then and settled my channel on his already-condom-clad engorged cock, and he was raising and lowering me on his tool, fucking me as I groaned and moaned for him.
He wasn't steady enough on his feet to do this for very long. He pulled me off his cock, stripped me altogether of my dance belt, and hobbled over to the piano, carrying me in front of him. He gently lowered my butt to the piano keyboard and moved in between my legs. He slid into again, and then we were fucking in earnest, my buttocks making discordant music on the keyboard.
He was wheezing and breathing heavily, and I was afraid he was going to expire on the spot, but he also was whispering to me how good a fuck I was—and a very nice dancer too.
He wasn't particularly large or vigorous, but I gave him as good a ride as I could, and running my hands over the veins popping out on his torso and arms were arousing to me. I imaged that when he was younger and healthier he was quite a good lover.
I did what I could to convince him he was still a good lover, and he almost cried at my acceptance of him moving inside me. I pulled his face down to mine and gave him a sweet kiss as I felt his pelvis jerk and the filling out of the bulb of the condom inside me. He was smiling in gratitude when we part.
I started to whisper, "Did I—?"
"Monday morning at 9:30 sharp. Here and ready to dance," he murmured back at me.
And, with that, I became a member of the cast of
Defiance
.
* * * *
"Now? You want me to go with you now?"
"Sure, now," Gil said to me. He was smiling and holding up a picnic basket. "This food's not going to be in very good condition the next time Masters and Handelsman are gone for half a day without expecting us to tag along.
"But I've got to practice," I said. "I got a place in the dance troupe."
"So I gathered," Gil said. He gave me a funny look, but I had no idea why. And then he continued on. "You don't think there's any way Cersenka's going to fire you from the troupe, is there?"
I surveyed his face for evidence of censure. I'm sure he knew what I had to do for Cersenka to get the job. But he probably didn't know that I'd already become a favorite of Cersenkas and was being taken frequently in the dressing room he occupied at the theater.
Catching my expression, Gil stammered out, "I mean we're too close to the opening for him to replace you, aren't we? And . . . and I've seen you dance. I don't think there's any chance he'll want to replace you."
