Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,16

such an animal magnetic way. He takes his hands off my hips, and I almost beg him to put them back. I need his hands on me. The list of reasons I'm crazy just keeps getting bigger with every second I fall into this seduction.

This man is evil. If he would blackmail me like this... I don't even know who he is. He could be anybody. But I don't care. I don't care. Please please please touch me again.

As if hearing my silent prayer, his fingertips brush against my nipples, which harden instantly against the fabric of my leotard. Maybe they were already erect. I can't think. I've never felt so out of control of my own body's reactions. He takes my wrist again and brings my arm down into a low resting position in front of me.

He moves into my space even more. I almost flinch away even as I want to lean into him. His mouth presses against my throat in a devouring kiss. Then he pulls away.

“I will fuck you soon, but not tonight.” It's a promise, practically a vow.

Then he leans in again and smells my neck. “Good, you used the bath oil. Did you follow the rest of my orders? Rose petals and candles? Soak until the bath goes cool?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.

There’s a pause, a long pregnant silence, as though he’s assessing the truth of my words. “Good girl,” he finally says.

I feel him move away from me then. And I wait. I stand exactly as he placed me, and I wait. I want to cry. I want to fall to my knees and beg this man to fuck me. The need for him is so primal, so consuming that nothing else matters. No, I'm not scared he'll fuck me. I'm scared he won't. I'm scared that along with whatever other mind games he designs for me, that he will lead me on and tease and torment me, but never let me experience the bliss of his body inside mine.

A few minutes pass like this, then his voice comes out of the speaker again. “Remove the blindfold and go to the center,” he says as if nothing happened. As if he never left his hiding place. And for a moment, some hysterical part of me thinks everything that just happened was all my imagination.

I step away from the barre, shaky and flustered. I feel the warm wetness surging between my legs. He leaves me desperate and wanting, craving. He's all business now. For the rest of our time together, he runs me through my corps choreography for Swan Lake—all except for the parts I dance with Henry.

“That's enough for tonight. Go backstage to the dressing rooms. Take a shower, change back into your street clothes, and come back to the stage.”

I'm a bit surprised by this order. I thought he'd work me until the very last second when he promised to release me, but a hot shower sounds really fucking good right now. I go backstage. He's left me a trail of lights along the hallways, through the dressing rooms, all the way back to the shower.

The bathroom has been newly renovated. So work has been done on this place. Everything is clean white tile and sleek steel lines for the counters. Fresh pale blue towels wait for me on an elegant slatted wooden bench—like something you might see in a spa. There’s lavender soap in the shower.

I look around, half afraid and half hoping he'll come in while I'm undressing, but I know he won't. He won't let me see him. I look up to find a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling, angled down over the shower. Is he sitting in a control room where he can observe the screen I'm on? Is he touching himself?

I swallow hard, but I strip off my dance clothes, free my hair from the bun, and step into the shower. I feel his eyes on me through the camera lens. I half expect his voice to sound through a speaker in here as well with a new list of demands, but it doesn't. The only sound is the spray of the shower. Here I’m allowed both the sweet privacy and relentless torment of my own thoughts.

I clean up quickly, use one of the towels to dry off, and change into my street clothes. My hair is wet and flowing past my shoulders. I put my things back in my dance bag and return