She remembered the sheer elegance of the dance, remembered the feeling of tamed power in the well-rehearsed movements of her body when it executed the strain of the arabesque, only dimly aware of her partner’s lips toying with the sensitive skin of her neck. Once upon the time, she had thought there were many commonalities between sex and ballet – both addictive, both ecstatic and both fulfilling when executed well. Her back arched at the sting of the bite as her partner’s teeth sank into her skin. A reprimand for her wandering thoughts.
”I might have to spank you.”
She heard the smile in his voice, not a smile that made her doubt the sincerity of his threat, but a smile that challenged her to do just that. She was glad to oblige, to fulfil his every pleasure – in the end, that was all she desired for the evening. So when his lips tried to find hers, she averted her face, denied him the access he demanded. His reaction was immediate and breathtaking. A sharp series of slaps were alternated on her butt cheeks, each a little stronger than the last. The pleasure/pain sensation reached deep into her, igniting a hidden burn in her core. Her nipples, vaguely interested until now, grew to swollen, hard nubs begging for attention under her low-cut top. But it was not only her own body which reacted to the stimulation. Her partner’s hard muscles tensed. He pulled her close almost violently, leaving her in no doubt about the impressive size of his hard cock under the linen trousers. As a dancer, she understood the endorphin rush from pain, as a woman she had had to learn that the rush could also affect the giver.

As his hands soothed away the sting through the fabric of her short skirt, she finally let her lips meet his. Though this time she was the aggressor. Her lips teased and taunted, painting the seam of his without allowing him any real access, before plunging deep and taking all; feeding on his taste of bergamot and citrus, inhaling his clean male scent, holding it captive to let it befuddle her senses. Her hands, strength in every line, were quick and agile in unbuttoning his dress shirt. She wanted skin, she wanted the feeling of tight muscles under her fingers, of hard strength covered in velvet. She heard fabric rip, and knew it was not his but her clothing which had given under his increasingly frantic movements. He would pay for that. But that was for later. Now she just wanted to enjoy his fervour, his strength as he ran his hand along the back of her thigh and brought her leg up and around his waist, baring her to more intimate explorations in a parody of a dance.

His other hand buried skilfully buried into the hair at the back of her head, bringing it back, denying her the kiss she had so skilfully extended. He held her eyes as his fingers stroked over her ass, teasing the reddened skin, reminding her of the spanks, hinting at what might come after. Most of her bed partners preferred to avoid her eyes, preferred not to linger on the nature of their short and fleeting encounter. He did not. He always made sure that she knew exactly with whom she was. His lips stretched into an evil grin as his fingers toyed along the seam of her butt – a promise? A threat? It did not matter, they had played this game often enough for him to know that she would assent to anal play, were he to demand it.

But his fingers travelled further after only a short flick at the sensitive nerves rimming her anus. Instead, they gathered the slick moisture at her entrance and spread it generously along her folds. With the moisture came a sweet increase of sensation When his fingers parted her labia, when they pulled at the lips protecting her core, it became a slow and sensuous torture. Her hands tried to find the buttons of his trousers, tried to rip it open to reach the velvety skin below and take revenge, but he simply forced her closer, denying her access, and continued his exploration. As his fingers circled her clit, first along one side then the other, she lost her train of thought. He had her begging almost instantaneously. She knew exactly the right sounds to make, the right words to say, to make his arousal follow her own – and with him. it was not always an act. As a prima ballerina she had learnt to please a whole theatre – in bed she only ever needed to please one, and she appreciated the distinction.

When he finally came into her, his movements were just as frantic as hers. He breached her deep and strong, taking her here, against the wall of the opulent hotel suite he had rented for the evening. She used the strength of her long legs to lever herself, to meet each of his thrusts with her own, to wrest the control from him and force his pleasure. He held her gaze almost until the end, but when his cock began to jerk in her, filling her with his seed, he buried his head in the crook of her neck and she held him through the force of his orgasm.

He was in the shower when she left. He had invited her to join him but she had known it was only for politeness’ sake. The curtain on this performance had fallen – though she was sure there would be an encore. One day. So she took the exorbitant fee she charged her clients from the dresser and left discretely. Before the accident she had been a first class ballerina, today, she was a brilliant whore. Who was to say in which position she was giving more pleasure?


Posted on

February 3, 2018

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