Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,22

it pleases him to hear them. “Yes, Sir.”

I hear a zipper. He strokes my cheek in a mirror of what I attempted to do to him only moments ago.

“Now, Ms. Lane. You will open your mouth and accept me.”

His cock prods at my lips.

An erect cock is all rigid hardness with soft skin on top, but the softness is far softer than I remember, experiencing it now without the ability to see or have any distractions from the tactile sensation. I open my mouth, and he slides inside.

The way he's spoken to me from the moment I've met this stranger should make me angry. I should be offended or at the very least scared. But that voice. Those demands. The way he says these things... It all has a purely erotic effect on my body.

I'm so wet right now that he could slide into more than just my mouth without the slightest resistance. But that isn't what he wants in this moment. What he wants is me kneeling blindfolded and helpless at his feet, accepting him.

“Good girl.”

He's so gentle with me. He is large and hard and thick. The scent of his body makes me want to mount him like a bitch in heat. His hand is at the nape of my neck, guiding but not forcing as I mouth him, kiss him, lick him, suck and stroke him with my free hand. I can feel how close he is with the hardening grip on my neck. He's thrusting inside my mouth, and I accept him, taking him deep into my throat.

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