Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,37
slut,” he says. But his voice is an approving growl. “I knew you were the perfect slut to train.”
I'm not a slut. I've never been a slut. I've been shockingly chaste all things considered. I've only slept with Conall. I wasn't in a convent or anything, but with dance, I never had time for much of a social life. I could have and probably would have gotten involved with a dancer at the company eventually, but Conall was there first.
Which was my bad luck.
A year ago, when the full enormity of my situation with my husband had hit me, I'd realized with utter horror that he might be the only man I ever slept with for the rest of my life. I couldn't imagine an affair—I was too afraid. And I couldn't imagine him ever letting me go. I would never know the touch of a man who knew what to do with a woman's body.
But this man now before me, this man whose hand still hasn't left my cheek... He knows. He knows exactly what to do with a woman's body. He knows every secret desire, every fantasy, even without me giving voice to it.
His hand slides down to my throat, gripping me, but not hard. It's an assertion of dominance, of his power over me. As if I need reminders. He releases me, his hand moving down to rest on my waist.
“Open your mouth.”
My mouth falls open, and his tongue sweeps inside. He could have just kissed me. I would have responded without the verbal command. But he enjoys keeping me on edge. He enjoys my obedience... all the ways he asks me to make myself vulnerable to him. All these risks he asks me to take in service of his demands.
He stops kissing me, and a moment later, his mouth is latched onto my breast, sucking my nipple into a hardened point. He steps back from me, and a whimper escapes my throat at the lost contact.
“Please...” I whisper.
“Second position. And Relevé.”
I'm so frustrated. Last week he promised me pleasure. He promised if I was good that this week would be all about pleasure, and he's teasing me. But I do as he says. I extend my arm out to the side in a gently rounded curve, move my feet into a wider stance, and rise up onto pointe.
“Good girl. Under no circumstances are you to break your lines.”
As if I would break my lines. I've stood up on pointe for ten minutes at a time to strengthen my feet. People not in the dance world mistakenly believe that the toes take all the weight, but they don't. It's the box of the shoe supporting us. A lot of it is strength, of course, but the shoes are at least half the magic.
I'm sure this will be easy. But then I shudder as his tongue sweeps over my clit. I gasp at the unexpected contact and almost falter.
He smacks my ass. “Lines!” he growls.
I hold my position as he takes his time feasting upon me. He licks, and kisses, and plunges his tongue deep inside my welcoming body. After he finishes this exploration, he returns his attention to my clit. I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold, trying desperately to hold this precarious position he's put me in.
When I'm at the edge of my orgasm, he pulls away.
“No! Please... please...” It takes everything inside me not to move toward him, or at least toward where I think he is. I'm still holding my position. It feels like it's been a thousand years, but in all likelihood has been less than five minutes. I'm not tired yet, so it can't have been very long.
“When you come, I want you to be loud. I want them to be able to hear your moan all the way in the cheap seats. Do you understand, cupcake?”
“Y-yes, Sir,” I manage. I'm starting to really worry someone is watching us. At the same time there is this dark and decadent place within me that thrills at this possibility even as I'm horrified by it.
His mouth is between my legs again; his tongue is forceful, demanding. He sucks on my clit. There is such a frenzy in him that it demands my body's response. I grip the barre harder, but I don't moan; I scream out my pleasure. If we aren't alone, there’s no question that my voice is heard all the way back in the cheap seats.
His mouth latches harder on me,