“What did Henri say?” Bruno asked, hardly able to contain himself. Normally, I liked his enthusiasm, but he seemed to be delighting in this situation a little too much.
You covered your face with your hands. “Henri says Sergei… that he, um…” you shook your head, too embarrassed to continue.
“What is it?” Bruno asked impatiently. His expressive eyebrows shot higher on his forehead.
“It’s too fucked up. Henri’s probably lying about it anyway.”
“I’m not lying.” I was offended you’d think so little of me.
“Stop.” You held up your hand to silence me. “Whatever the reason, Sergei’s a dick. And I’m going to take a long hot bath because my entire body hurts like hell. And I know that no matter what I do, he’s going to do the same thing to me again tomorrow.”
What I didn’t say, and what you didn’t understand until much later, was that Master Sergei liked to punish you. Similar to Derek, your old nemesis, Sergei derived pleasure from hurting you in a nonconsensual manner. Even better if he could scare you while doing it. You didn’t understand the depravity that could take root in a man’s mind, but I recognized it as something I fought against in myself every day.
You went into the bathroom, shut the door, and drew the water, then sat on the toilet in only your sweats, one of the pant legs hitched up to your thigh where you’d been icing your knee.
“May I join you?” I didn’t want to intrude if you wanted your privacy. You seemed a bit unsettled by what I’d revealed about your sadistic ballet instructor.
“Yeah, of course.”
I watched you undress. You were shy at first when you thought I might be watching, but you’d gotten so used to me lately, I worried you might no longer view me as a potential suitor. Perhaps I had been relegated to your third roommate. As much as I encouraged you to pursue a human companion, selfishly, I still wanted you for my own.
There were bruises all over your arms from where you’d been hefting ballerinas. Your legs, too, were covered with scratches and marks where you’d lost your balance or collided with the floor or another dancer. It happened more often than I could have ever imagined. What was seen on a stage was quite the opposite from what could be witnessed inside a studio—like a ballerina’s brutalized feet hidden by her pretty, silk ballet slippers. Your own feet bore the scars. Your toes were gnarled and callused from having to carry so much weight on the balls of your feet, and I’d been telling you to get one of your blackened toenails examined by the school physician for weeks. None of you reported your injuries for fear that you might be told to take some time off. I’d never met a hungrier group of youths, both physically and mentally. You took your bodies for granted to the point of abuse.
But this wasn’t the time for nagging. This wasourtime, and I cherished it.
You climbed into the bath and slowly submerged yourself in the warm water, then leaned back against a towel you’d wedged on the lip of the bathtub. Luckily for the four of you, the school employed a cleaning service to come around once a week and clean the bathrooms and kitchen, so you didn’t have to concern yourselves with it. It seemed the school structured its program so that its dancers could spend as much time as possible in the studio. The academic classes you took at the nearby high school were abbreviated and finished by noon. The small café in the building offered a variety of caffeinated beverages and pre-prepared, nutritional meals for immediate consumption. Madame was wise to encourage you to audition for this program. Your dancing had progressed at an expeditious rate. If Sergei didn’t injure you in his wanton pursuits, you had an excellent chance of becoming a company member.
“Mmmm, this feels good,” you murmured. Your nipples hardened, such tempting targets. “I wish you could be in here with me.”
“Me as well,” I said longingly. I was jealous of the water that caressed your skin, the steamy air you inhaled into your strong, healthy lungs, the hands you possessed that could give you pleasure when I could not.
A few minutes passed where I simply gazed upon your naked, lounging form as the steaming water relaxed your muscles, and the tension left your face. The weightlifting regimen the school required, along with thepas de deuxclass, had developed your upper body quite nicely. Your abdominals rippled with every twist and curl of your torso. Your glutes were even more pronounced than a couple of months ago, and your thighs were powerful enough to suffocate a man. What a marvelous transformation I’d had the pleasure of witnessing. You had not an inch of underutilized flesh on you. Tight and sinewy with that beautiful bronze skin mapping out a lovely landscape. And so much young blood coursing through your veins. I longed to run human hands over your warm skin, feel that strong throbbing pulse under my fingertips, and savor every succulent piece of you.
“What are you thinking right now?” you asked as if sensing my amatory thoughts.
“How I’d like to wash your back for you.”
“I’d like you to wash my back,” you said with a lazy smile. “And my filthy cock too.”
You thought you could shock me. As if I hadn’t seen and done everything in my two thousand years of existence. Sometimes I pretended to be offended.
“I’ll be eighteen soon.” You opened your eyes to search me out. We’d made an agreement to wait until then before figuring out a solution to our problem—you, with a body and me, without. I had some ideas.
“I’d like to surprise you on your birthday,” I said.
You sat up in the tub, sloshing water over the side. “Really?”
“Would you like that?”
Your grin stretched from ear to ear. “Hell, yes I would like that.” You smacked your hands together then reached down and grabbed your genitals aggressively. “I hope it involves some dick. I’ve had blue balls for the past two years.”
“We need to go slow,” I reminded you.
“Yeah, yeah. I just want to get you in a body, Henri. I’ve been doing some research. I think I could impress you with what I’ve learned.”
I chuckled. “Lovemaking isn’t like one of your pornographic videos.”
You raised your eyebrows in mock disappointment. “It’s not?”
