His other hand covers mine on the barre as though we’re lovers holding hands in a much more innocent situation.
He comes, and I swallow. It doesn't occur to me to do anything else even though I've never been that girl who swallows. I am that girl right now.
He pulls away, zips up. I feel bereft for a moment. I'm so wet and needing right now. I need him. I need him to touch me. He moves behind me, and his hands are on me.
I'm still kneeling, still holding onto the barre with one hand. I need to hold onto something, so I'm not sure if my hand still on the barre is obedience or necessity. He strokes my breasts over my leotard, and then his hand is grinding between my parted thighs. He's on the ground with me, pulling me back, my body flush against his chest as he touches me.
This goes on for a few moments, then he stops and gets up.
“No! Please... please...” I whimper. He can't stop. Why the fuck is he stopping? I know this is not the question I should ask. If I were a good person, if I were a decent or sane person, I would be relieved by this merciful cessation of his hungry hands devouring my body. But I am not a good person. How can I hold onto that myth any longer in light of the harsh relentless truth between my legs?
“Please what?” he asks, his voice hard again. And I can feel his distance from me. He's too far away for me to touch even if I reached out. And I want to reach out. I want to beg for him. I want to crawl.
“Sir, please... please... don't stop. Please.”
I'm still holding onto the barre. My arm is aching, but I can't bring myself to break the position he ordered me into. Mercifully, he takes that hand in his, and pulls me to stand. Then he leads me away somewhere. Off the stage... backstage... I don't know where we're going, but I don't protest.
When we reach the bathroom backstage, I know that's where we are. I feel the tile floor through my soft ballet shoes. I hear the water go on in the shower. A zipper. Clothing hitting the floor. Then he's stripping me. First the shoes, then the leotard and tights. But the blindfold remains in place. The glass door slides open, and he pulls me into the enveloping wet warmth with him.
I know he's seen me naked before on the screen, but realizing his closeness, feeling the hard naked length of his body pressed against mine is another thing. He’s so tall and strong. So much stronger than me. Suddenly being in this confined space with water pouring down on me, naked with a stranger—with my blackmailer—jars me out of his seductive spell.
He could rape me. He could fucking drown me. He could tilt me back and hold his hand over my mouth and just let the water take me. I panic, and then tears come. I’m so isolated from the rest of the world, from anyone who could help or hear me. Suddenly being this vulnerable with this man I don't know scares me in a way I haven't been scared since the note in my locker.
“Shhhh,” he says. “Shhh. You're safe.” He pulls me into his arms, which should feel more confining, more terrifying, but I can feel his steady heartbeat against my skin, and he's stroking my back in the most delightfully soothing way. I shouldn't melt into him like I do. I shouldn't feel this sense of trust flow out of me and into him. Especially not after Conall. This is a dangerous man. This is not a romantic comedy. This is something dark and disturbing and wrong.
But my brain can't process that reality anymore because he's being so gentle. My arms go around him, clinging to him, my head pressed against his chest, sighing like a contented house cat as he strokes the back of my neck.
“I think that's enough for tonight,” he says.
I want to say no. He can't leave me wanting. Even as he says these words, the desire comes flooding back, overriding all doubts and fears. I grip him harder, as if I can stop him from pulling away.
His mouth grazes my ear. “Do you want more?”
“Yes, Sir.” I am nothing but adrenaline. Fear and desire blending together until I don't know where one thing ends and the other begins. But I need him to keep touching me.
“Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” He doesn't say it in the same hard way as usual. And it doesn't come out in a growl. The command is soft, calm.
And suddenly I am soft, calm.
I do as he says, and a few moments later he's washing me, lathering my body, the relaxing scent of lavender permeating the space.
“I'm going to remove the blindfold. Stay facing the wall, and keep your eyes closed. I really don't want to punish you right now. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” It's barely more than a whisper. But he hears me.
He removes the fabric from my eyes, which has miraculously mostly remained dry, since my face wasn't in the water. Then he releases my hair from the bun. He runs his fingers through it. He shampoos my hair and washes my body, and I stand there, obeying him—my eyes closed, turned toward the shower wall, my hands flat against the tile.
Why the hell am I doing this?
“Good girl,” he murmurs in my ear as if it's the answer to my internal questioning.
His hands stroke over my breasts, lingering there. He lingers in this same way on my ass. And then, finally, he's stroking the bare flesh between my thighs, rubbing soothing circles over my clit with one hand as he uses the other to penetrate me. My body begins to move and grind with his thrusting and rubbing fingers.
Desperate vocalizations escape me. Whimpers, moans. Moans that turn to loud, erupting screams of pleasure as he draws the orgasm out of my body. He shatters me and puts me back together as he touches me. He won't relent. He won't stop. He continues until my body can't take anymore. Until my arms and legs are trembling. Until I'm crying from the intensity of it all.
“Shhhh,” he whispers in my ear, as he removes his hands. “I'm going to let you go early tonight. You need time and space to process this. This week, I want you to masturbate to orgasm every night. And I want you to think about what happened tonight while you do it. I want you to make those delicious sounds when you come alone in your bed. I'm going to leave now. Don't open your eyes or leave this shower until you're sure I'm gone.”
The shower door opens, and I hear him step out. I hear him dressing. I hear him leave. I stand in the shower, my head pressed against the tile. I wait. I have never felt this much pleasure with a man before in my life. I've never wanted like this
