“Shoes,” he prompted, when she stood, still staring at him. Her mind was clearly as muddled with lust as his. Her fingers fumbled with the ribbons as she drew them up and around each ankle, tied them, and tucked the knots inside.
“Okay, up. First position.” He took her through a short series of rudimentary exercises. Pliés, chassés, battements, relevés. He stood right in her dance space and scrutinized her form. If only she made a mistake, even a small one, he could smack her lovely bottom in reprimand, but she was perfect as always. He thought about making the exercises harder, the tempo faster, to purposely trip her up, but the practical part of his mind kept insisting on rest. Seven days of resting.
Maybe next week.
For now, once he’d warmed her up and watched her lovely, nude body work through the movements, he put on some music, some indie with a good strong beat. It wasn’t the classical she was used to, but he’d seen her dancing to it in his head. He partnered her, fed her the steps as he thought of them. She performed flawlessly. Her little hand grasped his, and her body moved through space. When she leaned on him, he gave her perfect balance, his own solid strength.
Then he pulled her down with his heart full of desire and his limbs alive with lust for her. He spread her legs. He would only taste her; that wouldn’t tax her too much. He would only slide his tongue over her pussy lips, up to her clit that bloomed under his kiss. She tasted so sweet; the scent of her triggered some deep animal impulse inside him. He sucked and stroked her and thrust his fingers inside her tight wetness. She moaned in response and twisted her fingers in his hair.
He could feel the exact moment she started climbing, and he pressed his tongue hard against her clit, moving it back and forth. She bucked as his fingers found and stroked her G-spot inside. Rest be damned. He feasted on her until she screamed her release. He reveled in the feeling of her walls clenching around his fingers and the soft satin of her pointe shoes sliding across his back.
Jackson woke before her the next morning. It was Sunday. No class, no rehearsals, no performances—a day of rest for them both. Well, rest in a certain sense of the word, he thought, watching her sleep. As it turned out, Jackson didn’t leave the bed until long after noon.
No, he stayed and watched her sleep, adjusting his erection when it became too painful. When she began to stir, he leaned over and fingered her awake, preparing her to take his cock. She was quickly wet, and he slid his fingers through her pussy, gathering the moisture. He pressed one slippery digit down to rest against her asshole. She flinched and tensed.
“Okay, girl. Not this morning. But soon.” She made a soft, scared noise that excited him. He fumbled with the condom wrapper, then gathered her close and plunged into her tight, hot pussy. He looked down at her, thrilled by the way her features softened and her mouth fell open as he fucked her. The pleasure he gave her was written all over her face. They moved together, and each time he slid into her, he felt closer and closer to her. Tension grew in his dick, his balls. Sensation threatened to overcome him. He pulled himself together and refocused on her. God, she was never more beautiful than when she let herself go, when she gave herself up to his ownership of her.
He felt her shake, felt her hips press up against him with urgency. As her excitement mounted, she closed her eyes and threw her head back. “Look at me,” he said. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to see who’s giving you pleasure.”
She opened her eyes and gazed up at him, flushed and fuck drunk, but self-consciousness bloomed soon enough. It wouldn’t do. He would have to train it out of her. He wanted her to be nothing less than an uninhibited, mindless slut in bed, her self-awareness a thing of the past. He flipped her over and reentered her from behind. He forced her to spread her legs wide when some self-protective instinct had her drawing them together.
“Let me fuck you. I’ll do as I like to you, won’t I?”
She moaned in tortured assent and opened to him. He held her hips hard and fucked her, glorying in his mastery of her. Her arching, helpless attempts to find her own pleasure drove him on all the more. He came with a growl, shuddering through his own nerve-bending orgasm. He purposely didn’t let her come. Afterward he lay beside her and told her again, “Look at me.”
She looked over, flushed and beautifully unsatisfied. “If you want to come, girl, you’re going to have to come my way. There’s no other way, is there?”
“No, Sir,” she said, her gaze shying away.
“Look at me.” His sharp tone drew her focus back to him. “I want to be able to touch you whenever and wherever I want to and not have you flinch. I want you to talk to me about sex without blushing and looking away from me.”
“I’m sorry. It’s hard for me.”
“I know, and you’re not good at sex. I remember,” he teased, then fixed her with a stern look. “I think a more focused training program is long overdue.”
She swallowed. “Um… maybe.”
“The correct answer is ‘yes, Sir,’” he said, taking her face in his hand.
“Yes, Sir. Yes, please train me. I want to please you. I do, more than anything.” Her eyes looked deep into his, and he felt again the magnetic connection to her. Each time it shook him more.
“Good girl.” He released her and smoothed his fingers across her cheek. “Now, I’m not going to restrain you. You control yourself. I’m going to touch you—everywhere—and you’re going to let me. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And every time you pull away or cringe or blush, that’s one stroke of the crop.”
“The crop?” Her eyes went wide.
“Yes, I know you’ve never felt the crop. It’s about time you did. It hurts. So try, girl. Try your best.” He slid his fingers down her belly to the warm, smooth opening between her legs. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you feel good. If you let yourself go, I’ll make you come. Do you want to come, girl?”
“Yes, Sir.” Her words came out in a sigh.
“Then let me touch you.”
He began the slow, intimate work of desensitizing her to inhibition and embarrassment. He played with her, fingered her, stroked her, explored every fold and crevice of her. She blushed red—he knew she couldn’t help it—and dropped her eyes away. “That’s one, girl.” She looked back at him, a rebuke and a plea at once, but he only laughed. “Two. For looking at your dominant that way.”
He kept on, fascinated. He loved watching the pleasure war with the self-consciousness behind her gaze. The earned strokes mounted—three, four, five, six, seven, eight—but she persevered and gradually he felt her open to him. Her submission seemed to deepen, the blushes replaced with the flush of heavy arousal. When he had her near the edge, he stopped, took one taut nipple in his fingers and pinched hard. Her eyes closed. She gasped and jerked away slightly. “Nine,” he said, and her eyes popped open. He pinched harder, and her hand came to his. She stopped short of trying to stop him, but he hissed and said, “Ten. Put them over your head. Both of them.”
Tears welled in her eyes as he pinched her other nipple, but she obeyed. She kept her hands open and limp on the pillow over her head.
“Please…”
“Please, Sir,” he corrected. “Eleven. Am I hurting you, little one?”
“Yes, Sir.” Another flinch and shake.
“Twelve. Lie still. Just accept what I do to you. Just take it. You’re going to be fine, and this gives me pleasure. Hurting you.” He saw the desire flaring alongside the pain in her eyes. Two sides of the same coin. “Breathe deep. I’ll let go in a minute.”
She held still, tense. It would obviously take more than one round of training, but he was already looking forward to future sessions.