Her lips were velvet, her tongue ruthless, working me with a grace that made sense. Of course, a ballerina would know how to use every muscle with precision. She sucked me down, slow and deep, eyes locked on mine, as if daring me to look away. I couldn’t.
Every stroke made my thighs tremble, my breath ragged. She moaned around me, the vibration sending shocks through my core. I bucked forward helplessly, lost in the wet heat of her mouth.
“Please, mmmmmm don’t stop,” I begged, my voice breaking.
She didn’t. She worked me harder, her saliva sliding down to my balls as she continued to suck and gag. When I felt her fingers brush further down until they were rubbing the rim of my asshole, causing my whole body to bow toward her, causing the pleasure to burn so sharply I thought I might break. My release tore out of me in a ragged cry, my thick load spilling into her throat. She swallowed every drop, eyes never leaving mine, like she’d just claimed something no one else ever could.
When she finally stood, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, still smirking. “Told you I could handle it.”
I dragged her into my arms, kissing her like a starving woman, my hand sliding under her glittered costume to feel the slick heat waiting there. She gasped into my mouth as my fingers found her, stroking, circling, until she was trembling against me the way I had against her.
The red light above us flickered, casting us in shadow and sin, as her cries joined mine in the empty club.
And just like that, I knew: she wasn’t a stage name, a fantasy, or some one-night slip.
Soleil was going to ruin me, and not because she would mistreat me, but because she would leave me open and vulnerable, making it the perfect setting for love to bloom.
I was raised to believe that too much freedom was dangerous and would lead you down a path of treachery.
My father, Pastor David Barré Sr., made sure of that. Every Sunday, he filled the pulpit with talk of salvation and sin, grace and punishment, as if the entire world existed in black and white. I used to sit in the front pew, hands folded over my lap, pretending I wasn’t counting the minutes until the final hymn so I could breathe again.
When you grow up in a house like mine, everything about you is measured: your tone, your posture, your skirt length, your thoughts. Even your dreams have to behave.
But I was never good at behaving.
I was delicate, sure, born with sickle cell, always skating between pain and peace, but beneath that frailty was something else, hunger. I spent so much of my life in hospital beds, hooked to IVs, watching my body betray me. So when I could move, I moved.
Ballet saved me first. The stage became my sanctuary. I learned to turn pain into performance, control into grace. I was on track to be a prima ballerina, and maybe I could’ve been if life hadn’t had other plans.
Because the truth is, I didn’t just want to be admired, I wanted to be seen.
That’s how I found myself at Provocateur, a place where the lights are low, the music is thick, and no one cares about the pastor’s daughter or the sick girl with the perfect pirouette. There, I’m not Lena Barré. I’m Soleil, the Midnight Ballerina.
On that stage, I own every look, every sigh, every sin. I dance for me, for freedom, for the right to choose how I’m seen and what I give. I bring men and women to their knees through rhythm and control, and I don’t apologize for it.
That’s how I met Zaria.
Beautiful and bold, Zaria was all curves and confidence behind the bar, with a smile that felt like both a dare and a promise. She saw me. Not the image, not the illusion, me, and I wanted her badly just as bad.
Yes, Zaria is a trans woman. Yes, I love her. And no, I don’t care what anyone, not even my father, would think. Being with her makes me feel alive in a way I didn’t think possible. Our connection is electric, tender one moment, wild the next. She’s my secret, my escape, my peace.
But lately, peace feels fragile.
Calil Black, the fine-ass professor with a mind like lightning and a mouth full of temptation, has been testing every bit of control I have left. I tried to ignore it, to keep my world in two neat halves, the one where I teach pliés at Winston Hills Dance Academy and the one where I sin in platform pleasers.
But boundaries don’t meanmuch when a man like Calil decides he wants you, and the universe has a cruel sense of humor.
The night he walked in on me sucking Zaria’s beautifully curved dick at his brother’s house, of all places, was not on my bingo card. The look on his face said everything. The look on Zaria’s face told the rest.
They’ve been circling each other with quiet disdain since the moment I introduced them. I keep pretending I can control it, that I can keep my two worlds from colliding. But every time I’m in the same room with both of them, I feel the air shift, heavy, magnetic, dangerous. I went to show Zaria where the restroom was since I’d been here a handful of times, and as soon as we walked into the bathroom and I kicked the door closed behind us, I couldn’t help myself; I had to touch her, kiss her, taste her.
“Mmmmmm,” She moaned, fueling me further, “Baby, you wanna do this right here, right now?”
I ignored her apprehension as she leaned against the bathroom counter, where I could feel her heart pounding in her chest as I dropped into a squat, face to face with the growing evidence of her arousal, and pushed her dress over her wide hips and pulled her thong to her ankles as I wrapped my soft lips around her dick, my tongue exploring every inch of her length. The sensation was electric, sending shivers down my spine and making my knees weak. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment, the way she felt in my mouth, the way her hands gripped my hair, pushing herself deeper.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and in walked Calil, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the scene before him. I expected shock, disgust, maybe even anger, but what I saw in his gaze was something elseentirely: desire, intrigue, a spark of something raw and primal.
My eyes met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The air in the room grew thick with tension, a silent conversation passing between us. I could see the questions in his eyes, the curiosity, the hunger. And in that moment, I realized that he saw me, truly saw my commitment to pleasure.
