Night Two
Tamsin
They weren’t in a show tonight, but Mistress Hell had said they could come any night they wanted, and so they did. The night after a man named Cal Dugan stepped out of the darkness to speak to her, they decanted themselves from a bedroom window onto a wide tree branch, dropped to the ground and escaped to Persepolis.
The other girls chattered and gossiped—who did they want to see tonight, who did they want to fuck? She stayed silent through all of it. She didn’t make it their business what she did at Persepolis, she didn’t make it her business to know theirs. And she hadn’t told them about Cal yet, even though he could bring hell raining down on their heads the moment he decided to do his job.
But she watched for him. As they crawled out of the window, as they drove, as they parked. She watched for him. She’d only gotten the barest sense of him in the moonlight, but it was enough to make it hard to shake the thought of him. He was older, forty maybe, and built like a fucking wall. Over six foot five, surely, with broad shoulders and wide swathes of muscle that his black T-shirt couldn’t hide. He could have picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and disappeared with her into the dark, and she wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
It was shocking how inflaming that thought was.
His face, too—even hidden in the moonlight, there had been the stubbled edge of a proud jaw, the flash of eyes that spoke of experience and worldliness and knowledge—and all of that had been in his hard voice too. Everything about him screamed of the kinds of secrets she’d come to Persepolis to learn, only she hadn’t felt half as terrified, half as wildly aroused at the sight of canes and cuffs as she had at the sight of Cal in the dark. Cal was the kind of dangerous she’d been craving, Cal was the kind of knowledge she was so desperate to know.
And when she’d woken up and the day went as it should, teaching the classes of younger dancers, her father yelling at her but no more than usual, she knew that Cal hadn’t betrayed them.
Yet.
Persepolis was busy tonight—a high-profile Dom and sub were showing off tonight—and it was a Friday. The rich and powerful were out to play, and not for the first time, Tamsin sent up a prayer of thanks to whichever deity had seen fit to send Mistress Hell to their spring show. Whichever fit of attraction had compelled Hell to approach them and offer to introduce them to the club.
She supposed the line between kink and ballet was fairly blurry when you considered it. Pain and beauty in constant exchange. Entire lifestyles built on passion and discipline.
The girls flitted off the moment they stepped into the playroom, little wisps of sex on pointe shoes, caught by eager hands before they could drift very far. Tamsin herself, she decided to watch the show. She’d been back in a private playroom once or twice, and it’d never carried the taste of taboo she craved, not really. It all felt so…sedate. So safe. A leap with no risk of a fall. And so she was glad the other girls were happy enough here, but she didn’t need to engage in disappointing liaisons night after night to know that she wasn’t going to find what she was looking for.
“Back again?” a rough voice asked from behind her. It felt like that voice leaked into every crack in her armor; it blew in like cold, exhilarating rain.
She hadn’t gotten to this point in her ballet studies to let her posture betray her for anything, and so she knew she remained perfectly composed as she turned to face him. In the indoor light, she could see him so much better than last night, and the effect it had on her was…disturbing. He had the kind of gold-infused skin that hinted at Latinx heritage, thick black hair trimmed short, military-style. His eyes were a dark green framed by thick, black lashes, framed by eyebrows that seemed permanently fixed in a suspicious furrow. His jaw was squared and dusted with dark stubble, his cheekbones and forehead were high, his nose the only imperfection in an otherwise perfect face. A crook at the bridge, like it had been broken.
But for some reason that twisted Tamsin up even more. Cal Dugan seemed like the kind of man who would take a punch to the nose and keep fighting, like the kind of man who would refuse to see a doctor about it. Like he’d drink half a bottle of whiskey, grab a mirror, and reset the broken nose himself. So different than the meticulously groomed ballerinos she danced with. So different even than the sleek suits that frequented Persepolis. This was a man who worked and fought with his hands.
And she wanted those hands on her.
“You didn’t tell my father about last night,” she said, skipping past his question and any of the other normal greetings. “Why?”
“You,” he said simply. “I need you to tell me that you’re going to be okay if I tell him, and you haven’t yet.”
And she wasn’t going to. There was a difference between taking her father’s blows and lying about them, and the closer to freedom she got, the clearer that line became. But still, that Cal cared, even as a casual stranger, about what happened to her felt foreign, exotic and enticing and good.
Cal studied her for a minute, then took her arm and led her without asking to a chair in the back. She expected him to offer the chair to her, but instead he sat and pulled her into his lap. Within an instant, she was enfolded in muscle and warmth and a heady masculine scent, wood smoke and skin.
“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.
“Enough people here know what I do for a living. It’s going to raise questions if I’m here interrogating you, and neither of us are ready for that. We’ll blend in better this way.”
And they did blend in this way, just another couple getting ready for the show, anonymous in their pose of affection. But the upshot was that Tamsin couldn’t restrain her body’s reaction to Cal like this, not with so much warm, hard body pressed against hers.
The lights fell and the couple took the stage to applause, the Dom fastening his submissive wife to a St. Andrew’s cross. Which was when Cal leaned forward and whispered in Tamsin’s ear. “Now, what am I going to do with you?”
He meant about telling her father. She knew that, yet it was hard to remember with his lips at her ear and his warmth at her back. Hard to remember he didn’t mean the kinds of dangerous, dark things she wanted him to mean.
“Whatever you like,” she said, meaning that he should do his job or not—she didn’t have any expectation of changing his mind. But the moment the words left her mouth, she knew they sounded much more breathless and eager than she intended.
“Is that so?” he murmured. A couple walking past glanced down at them, and Cal stroked a warm hand on the outside of her thigh to maintain the illusion that they were just a couple snuggling up for the show. She was only in a leotard, and it was bare skin he was touching, sending goose bumps rippling everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
She was hardly able to stand it, the feeling of that calloused hand so possessive on her skin, the solid wall of his chest big enough that she could curl against it. Never had she felt like this, never had she imagined a man could be anything stronger or harder than the ones she’d already met. But those men barely qualified for the label of man, not after meeting Cal, who seemed like he’d already lived three lifetimes in the time it took most people to live half of one.
“You used to be a cop or something?” she asked. It was out of nowhere in terms of their conversation, but not of her thoughts—she had to know what made a man like him. What scars and horrors added up to the hulking mass of raw danger he was now.
“Soldier,” he corrected, still stroking her leg. “Iraq and Afghanistan. Left a few years ago.”
Suddenly she wanted more. More contact, more of his face and his voice. She twisted in his arms and he allowed her, watching her with that same expression of aloof suspicion that he watched everything with. She turned so that she was straddling him and facing him, her pointe shoes tucked delicately under her folded legs, her center resting directly against—oh.
He was hard.
He watched her face as she realized this, as her lips parted and her face flushed.
“Go on,” he said, and there was a hint of lazy admiration in his voice. “Sit on it.”
She hesitated. If she went any further, she was pushing this conversation past the casual—or whatever passed for casual in their situation—and into the territory of the sexual. She’d be admitting she wanted him. She’d be acknowledging that he wanted her.
Suddenly, there was nothing she wanted more than just that, to push them into something glittering and sweaty and raw. She sat on it—on him—feeling the impossibly thick, impossibly long ridge of him flush against her center. Through the thin fabric of her leotard, she could feel every seam of his jeans, the line of his zipper, the exact width and heft of his penis. There was a part of her—a big part—that wanted to rub against it like she’d rubbed against Hell’s riding crop last night. To grind down until she worked off some of this tension that he knotted inside her.
He seemed to read her mind. “Go ahead, princess. Make yourself feel good.”
“It seems wrong,” she said, even as she started swiveling her hips against him.
“This is a club full of wrong, sweetheart.”
It was different, surely he saw that. “But you’re old enough to be my father. That’s bad to like.”
A flash of teeth in the dim light. “Very fucking bad.”
“And you could ruin my life if I didn’t do as you said. It’s wrong to like that you have that power over me.”
His hands brushed along her waist, slowing to explore her navel through the leotard. “But you do like it?”
She couldn’t explain it, she didn’t even want to try. “I do,” she admitted.
“You like bad things.”
“I wanted…I’ve wanted bad things for a long time. But it’s never felt bad here, just safe. Not until you.”
She couldn’t believe she was confessing all this and yet the thrill she felt when she saw Cal’s stubbled jaw relax in understanding was worth it all.
“I think I get it now,” he said, leaning back in the chair, as if to enjoy the view. He idly plucked at a nipple through her leotard, and she nearly had a heart attack. The pleasure shot to her center like a lightning bolt.
“Get what now?” she whispered.
He stared up at her. “Why you close your eyes when you dance.”
That’s not at all what she expected him to say, and she slowed the motion of her hips as he continued. “You close your eyes so you can pretend you’re not alone.”
Her breath caught.
“And,” he said, his hands settling on her hips. “You close your eyes to dream that someone will take care of you.” He flipped her around with those large hands, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Settling her so she sat in his lap again, facing the stage, her legs open and hooked around the outside of his knees.
“And I bet you thought you’d be taken care of here,” he said, one hand holding her hip steady as the other reached around to stroke along the lines of her inner thighs. “Isn’t that right, princess? Find other people who liked the same kinds of wrong?”
She nodded. It was all she could manage. He was right, of course, so very right. If there was anything she thought Persepolis could promise, it was that there were people here just like her, lonely and hungry for the same things she wanted. But it was all so predictable here. Pain and bondage. No one cared about the grittier kinds of power exchange…like being spread open and touched by a man twice her age. Like fantasizing that he was making her do it or else he’d tell her father everything.
God, she was fucked up. But she already knew that. What she didn’t guess was that there was a man like Cal around who would see it so clearly.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me the kinds of wrong you are thinking about right now.”
She squirmed in his lap but couldn’t make the words come out.
“Don’t worry,” he said gently in her ear. A pair of blunt fingertips skated up her center, skimming across the fabric stretched over her pussy, and she tried to move closer to them, closer to the pressure, but they moved back to her thigh. “I’m going to take care of you, sweetheart. I promise. But first I need to know exactly the kinds of bad, wrong things my little ballerina is wanting.”
So she told him. About the age difference and how it turned her on. Her blackmail fantasies. And more things too—how she wanted to be forced to crawl across the floor like a pet, how she wanted to look down and see a man’s bare feet next to the pale pink of her ballet slippers, how much she wanted to watch him fuck her friends, every single cheap and tawdry way she wanted to be used and see others used around her. When she finished, she became aware of how much harder he was underneath her now, how the probes of her breasts and cunt had gotten harder, more insistent.
“You are so brave telling me such bad things,” Cal whispered in her ear. “And brave girls get rewarded.”
His fingers nudged along the crotch of her leotard, pushing underneath, and she almost came, she was that worked up, but then his fingers moved to her soaking wet folds, and she knew for sure she wasn’t going to last long. His other hand moved to her breast, kneading the small curve of flesh as his other hand began exploring her in earnest now, dipping just inside her wet hole, rubbing up to her clit, which was swollen and hard.
“Oh, little ballerina,” he groaned in her ear. “It’s been so long since someone’s taken care of you, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.” It came out as something like a whine.
His voice was soft when he asked, “How long, princess? Since you’ve had what you need?”
She tried to think. “I’ve fucked a couple people here at the club—”
“But that’s not what we’re talking about and you know it,” he cut in. “How long since someone has given you what you need?”
And the honest answer to that was never. “They haven’t,” she said, her voice sounding unaccountably sad.
Cal tsked, big fingers starting to gently twist their way up inside her now. “What a fucking shame. But I’m almost grateful because—” his fingers slid in even deeper and she squirmed in his lap “—it means—” He slid up to the second knuckles and curled his fingers, driving pressure against her soft front wall. She gasped, her head dropping back onto his shoulder “—that you are starving for it right now.”
And she was, oh fuck, yes she was. Starving like she hadn’t eaten in days, empty like she’d been hollowed out and filled with air instead. “Please,” she whimpered. “Please love me.”
She didn’t have to explain herself to him, she knew from the growl behind her and the way his hand cupped her possessively that he understood. He knew she didn’t mean love like a feeling, like a commitment to a future, like red roses and musical greeting cards and dinners full of small talk. She meant love like a verb, a very specific verb. She meant care for me, make me feel good, stay with me tonight. She meant come inside me, hold me so tight I can’t breathe, touch me, touch me, touch me.
“I’m gonna,” he said into her ear. He twisted her nipple sharply through the leotard and she cried out. “And I’m not a fancy guy, sweetheart. You want me to stop, you say ‘stop.’ You want me to wait, say ‘wait.’ Got it?”
She nodded eagerly, ready to move past whatever barriers were keeping him from possessing her right now, and he seemed to feel the same way, because he shifted and his hand abandoned her breast. She wanted to pout at the lack of contact, but all attempts at pouting fled the moment she saw what he was reaching for in his back pocket.
A small folding knife.
She stared at it in the dim light, at the nicks and scrapes along the painted handle, wondering if he carried this knife while on deployment. If he’d ever used it to hurt someone.
Cal flicked the knife open with the ease born of lots of practice. “Don’t,” he said, “move.”
She didn’t.
She held completely still as the knife moved between her legs and the tip pricked carefully at the sensitive skin where thigh met cunt. And then his fingers withdrew, wrapped around the crotch of her leotard, and with a swift cut, her leotard was cut open.
The knife was folded, put away, and then Cal’s fingers tugged her leotard up past her hips. She was fully exposed now, so exposed that all any stranger had to do was look at her and they’d see her nakedness. See the wet place where Cal’s fingers were once again buried. See the hard points of her nipples through her leotard and the flush on her face and the tense lines of her thighs where she strained to hold them open.
“Someone might see,” she said, and she wasn’t sure if it was in a tone of protest or wonder.
“I want them to see,” Cal answered. “I want them to see what a little deviant you are.”
She tried to think of a response to that and she couldn’t. His touch felt so good and the way he fingered her—slow curls inside coupled with the press of his palm on her clit—had her insensate. She was going to come soon. And hard.
“Let’s play a game,” he growled into her ear.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“The game is that you have to do what I say, when I say it. And if you don’t, I’ll tell your father where you’ve been sneaking off to all these nights.”
She shivered. It didn’t take much imagination to recall the feeling of her father’s blows. “Is…is the game real?”
Cal paused before answering. “Do you really want to know?”
No. It was fucked up for sure, but the very real threat of her father finding out made the whole thing feel so much more…delicious.
“No,” she said, feeling certain of this one thing at least. “Don’t tell me.”
His hand withdrew from her folds again, and when she looked over at her shoulder at him, he was sucking her taste off his fingers, his eyes hooded. “You taste sweet, princess. Just like a little ballerina should. Let’s see if you look that way too.” And before she could protest—not that she would have anyway—she was pushed unceremoniously forward between his legs. He pushed her just fast enough for her to gasp, just slow enough that she could easily get her arms out in front of her and catch her weight.
It was a ridiculous position, all things considered—her hands flat on the floor, head hanging down, ass still secure in his lap. Thank God she was flexible enough to be comfortable like this. But then she felt his fingers run glancingly up her cunt to her ass and she realized this position wasn’t ridiculous at all. It was decidedly and definitely humiliating—which made it perfect. Leaning all the way forward like this meant that her ass and pussy were open for Cal’s viewing, and view them he did.
“Oh, your pussy looks so sweet too,” he said. “Pink like your slippers.”
“Oh,” she breathed as he took his thumbs and spread her folds. It was so fucking degrading, the air so cool on flesh that was usually hidden and protected.
“Don’t squirm, sweetheart. You’re letting me do whatever I want, remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” she managed from down by the floor.
A sharp smack on her ass. “Damn straight, you do.” Then the thumbs returned, spreading her even more. “Like a pretty pink butterfly,” Cal said with something between gruff wonder and lust. “I can’t wait to fuck it.”
“You’re…you’re going to fuck me?”
“Of course I am. I get to do anything I want with you. I’ve caught a little butterfly—I’ve caught you—and I’m not letting you go until I’m finished.”
She shuddered at his words, at the wrongness, at the sharp feelings of desire they stirred up in her.
“That’s right, sweetheart. You don’t have a choice, not if you want me to behave. You be good for me, I’ll be good for you, got it?
And then a thumb moved up higher, kneading gently at the little rosebud between her cheeks. “This is such a very pretty pink too,” he murmured. “How good for me are you going to be tonight?”
She’d never done…that…never been with someone she trusted enough to do that, and yet the idea of doing it for the first time with a man like Cal was exciting on an order of magnitude she’d never felt before. She decided to be brave in their game too.
“I’ll do anything you want,” she said, and she didn’t even have to work to make her voice pleading. “Just please don’t tell my dad.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Cal grunted. A finger pushed back into her pussy, and he chucked darkly. “I knew you were a dirty one.” And with strength she knew he had but was still shocking to feel, he wrapped his hands around her hips and raised her easily to his mouth.
“Oh God,” she moaned. His tongue was so strong, his lips so firm. His sucks and licks so greedy. And then he left her cunt to trace wet circles around her anus, and her entire body shivered in filthy delight.
So wrong.
So, so wrong.
“You’re going to let me inside you now,” he demanded, and when she panted out an answering, “Yes,” she thought that he’d take her right then and there in the chair. But he didn’t. With an easy movement, he stood and slung her over his shoulder and carried her out of the public playroom.
“Where are we going?” she asked, lifting her head so she could try to get her bearings. They were in the hallway of private playrooms, dark wood doors leading off into private dens of sex.
“To the place where I’m going to fuck you,” Cal said without inflection, producing a key from his pocket and unlocking a door.
“Are you a member here?” she asked.
“Not exactly. But I do enough work for them that it wasn’t hard for me to get a room tonight.” He opened the door, kicked it shut with his foot, and then dropped her unceremoniously on the massive king bed that dominated the room.
She stared at him from her new position on the bed, watching him stalk around the room, hitting lights, searching through drawers. “Are you looking for…” She didn’t know if the word would insult him, but she said it anyway “…toys?”
He laughed at that, a low, dark laugh that curled her toes. “I don’t need toys to play, sweetheart. I’m not a little boy.”
No, he was not.
“I’m looking for condoms,” he clarified, sliding open a drawer and finding a well organized stash. He selected one with two careful fingers and then turned to face her with that hard expression that turned her on so much. “Spread your legs so I can see you while I get ready.”
She bit her lip and obeyed, daring to offer, “You don’t have to, you know. Wear a condom.”
His eyes had been on her cunt before that, but now they slid up to her face, and his handsome face looked almost…sad?
“Time out,” he said. “Time out from the game.” And then he sat on the bed next to her and pulled her hand into his giant one. The touch nearly made her tremble from its sheer gentleness; she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her hand, except while dancing. She had the strange urge to press her face against his knuckles, to curve and coil around his hand and snuggle her face against it for weeks. And she had the even stranger feeling that he would allow her, that he would stroke her head until she fell asleep, that he would cover her with blankets and then wrap his large body around hers to keep her safe and warm the whole night through.
His other hand reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and his fingers lingered there. “Are you on birth control?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly. “No, but my period hardly ever comes. I’m sure I can’t get pregnant.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “That’s not good enough. You have an entire career in ballet ahead of you. I’m guessing a pregnancy now would ruin that.”
She felt a childish need to defend herself, but he pressed a finger to her lips, his face growing stern again. “I’m not risking it, Tamsin. You are worth so much more than that. Game back on.”
You are worth so much more than that.
It was stupid how much those words bit into her, got into her bloodstream and endocrine system and kicked hormones and hopes into high gear.
He released her hand with a squeeze and stood again, hiking his T-shirt up his back and pulling it off with the perfunctory grace of a long-term bachelor. Like he was used to undressing fast and easy, without thinking of how he’d look to anyone watching. It was fascinating to Tamsin; everything about how she moved was about how she would look doing it. Every step, every turn, every sweep of the hand…it was all for the audience, for the junction of music and soul and the Other.
But Cal—he just moved. Just got from Point A to Point B with a directness that had its own kind of beauty. And once his shirt was off, Tamsin found it hard to think about movement or aesthetics or anything else, because his body was magnificent. Incredible. Not just the hard, flat stomach or the broad chest or those mouthwatering lines that disappeared under his belt, but the hair and the scars and the history of it. He wore his experience and age on his skin, and it made Tamsin feel so soft and unspoiled and young. The contrast left her panting, wanting, craving.
Then he started working open his belt with one hand and she knew what craving really was. Craving was flipping over on her hands and knees to crawl to the edge of the bed for a better look. Craving was that tight, hot feeling in her cunt, that sharp puckering of her needy nipples, that sudden feeling of vacancy low in her core.
“I thought I told you to spread your legs,” he said, noticing her rapt expression. “You want to make me happy or not?”
Oh, right. Yes. Shit.
She scrambled to be on her back once more, and he grunted again, this time in approval. He opened his pants and stepped out of them with the same efficiency as earlier, revealing a pair of black boxer briefs. And even before he pulled them off, she could see the head of his cock peeping over the waistline, looking swollen and angry.
She actually exhaled in shock when he pulled the briefs off, which earned her another pleased grunt. She couldn’t help her reaction, though: Cal was big. Cal was very big. It only made sense given the size of the rest of him, but it still intimidated her to see the real length and girth of him, to see how it bobbed and swung under its own weight.
“You’re big,” she whispered.
Cal gave her a look. “And you’re small.”
For the first time since they started playing this game, Tamsin felt real hesitation. She wasn’t a virgin and she wasn’t a stranger to men, but Cal was something more. It wasn’t just the thick cock now getting sheathed in shiny latex with a few practiced strokes; it was the thick cock plus him. Plus Cal and all his hardness and his experience.
Plus the game.
Make him happy.
Instinct sent her scooting up to the top of the bed as he approached, that shiny, blood-dark erection nodding between them as he walked to the bed. “Nervous?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Good.”
He crawled onto the bed, crawled like a huge cat slinking closer to its prey, and grabbed her ribbon-wrapped ankles, yanking her farther down so he could cover her entire body with his own. Chest to leotard-covered chest, thigh to thigh, her silk slippers against the dark hair of his shins. He felt huge on top of her like this, not just long but wide and heavy, and she could feel the coiled strength in every fiber of him as he held the bulk of his weight on his arms.
She expected him to thrust into her, to spread her legs and push inside, but he didn’t. He did something even more shocking.
He kissed her.
With his cock hard and pressing against her thigh, he brushed his lips over hers, starting at the corners of her mouth and working towards the middle. And when she parted her lips in surprise, he took advantage, sweeping his tongue in to taste hers, licking inside her mouth with abandon. His kisses swarmed her senses, a dazzling array of light and fluttering mixed with hard and possessive, and finally he reached a hand under her neck to tilt her head just right, and then his mouth slanted fully over hers, firm and demanding.
The erection against her felt hot and needy, grinding against her skin as Cal took his time with her mouth. He kissed her like it was his first kiss in years, like he hadn’t had a woman underneath him in far too long, and he was determined to brutally savor every single second of this.
And indeed, when he pulled back to blink those dark green eyes at her, there was nothing but determination in his face. Nothing but more hunger around the kiss-swollen lines of his mouth.
“Am I making you happy so far?” she asked, daring to reach up and touch his jaw. The stubble scratched at her fingers, a scratch she felt everywhere, rasping through her fingertips and reverberating down her spine.
He stared at her, and his voice was surprisingly gentle when he said, “Yes, Tamsin. You’re making me very happy.”
The game wavered for a moment as they stared at each other, and Cal caught her hand on his cheek, bringing her fingers to his mouth to kiss. She gazed up at him as his lips caressed every knuckle, every flat and pad of her fingers. She didn’t know how he could flip those switches inside himself, from degrading her to treasuring her, but she never wanted him to stop. It fascinated her, awakened something thrilling and alive. All her life she’d been treated like a china doll, a replica of her dead mother, a vehicle for her father’s own wasted dreams. But Cal didn’t look at her and see a ghost or a doll. He saw her.
Even as she had these thoughts, he seemed to come around to himself again, giving a hard shove against her thigh with his dick. “You say ‘stop’ if you want me to stop,” he instructed her. And then he pinned both of her wrists above her head, put a knee between her thighs, and thrust inside.
It was an invasion, a forcing, but God, no invasion had ever felt this good. Like he was trying to wedge his body inside her, like all of him was pushing against the most delicate parts of her flesh, and everything in that moment, from the rough hair on his thighs to his weight on her chest to his huge hands trapping her wrists above her head, served to remind her how powerful he was, how big, how male.
It hurt, in the best way, the kind of stretch and push that she could feel everywhere—her inner thighs, her chest, the arches of her feet. With a grunt, he shoved in deeper, making her cry out and bow up against him.
“Yeah,” he said, “like that.” And he thrust again and again, hard and ungentle, his eyes searching her face for signs of pain or hesitation. He wouldn’t see anything of the sort, Tamsin knew that for a fact, because she felt nothing of the sort. If she felt pain, it was only the kind that made her crave more. If she felt hesitation, it was only that she worried this would be over too fast, that Cal would empty himself and walk away and that would be the last time she ever felt so alive.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she breathed up at him. “You can make me do anything.”
“I know,” he said with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I know I can.” He let go of her wrists and slid a hand under one of her thighs to raise it up to his hip, opening her up to deeper thrusts. His other hand he curled behind her neck, holding her head in place so he could brutalize her with more kisses, deep ones this time. He was pressing her into the mattress, a wall of hot muscle and firm flesh, and she used her newly freed hands to explore all of his body that she could reach. The furred expanse of his chest, the hard muscle of his back. The strong lines of his neck and shoulders.
“Wanna feel you come,” he grunted, breaking away from her mouth. “How do I make you come?”
She felt strangely touched that he asked—none of the young men she’d been with had ever asked that. She was never fucking a boy her age again if this was what it was like to fuck an older man.
“My nipples,” she said. “If you could suck—”
Before she’d finished, Cal had them both up and moving, and then she found herself in his lap, being impaled on his massive cock. Her head went back as she let out a long moan—this position pushed and stretched new places, and almost immediately she could feel the new tension curling around her womb, tugging at her lungs and spine.
Cal divested her of her leotard with the same perfunctory movements as he’d used to undress himself. And then before she could even adjust to being fully seated on him or to her new nakedness, his head was bent and a hot, wet mouth was closing over one aching nipple. He sucked and Tamsin arched to push her breast into his face. He bit and her toes curled. He moved to the other one, sucking and licking, his hands now on her back to hold her close to his face while he worked.
His stubble burned and scratched at her small breasts as she began moving her hips over him, struggling to breathe properly through the sensations crowding her nervous system. His thick length buried inside her, her clit against the hard muscle of his groin. The suction of his mouth and the chafe of his stubble. Each rock of her hips brought her closer and closer, but it was the demanding tugs of his mouth on her nipples that sent her over the edge. With a choked whimper, she came, the orgasm seeming too big to come from just inside her body. It felt like it came from everywhere, like the planets and the stars had realigned themselves just to ignite this thing.
“Fuck,” Cal muttered, raising his face so he could watch hers as she fell apart. “Fucking hell, princess.”
She was still shuddering with delight, still contracting around him. “Cal,” she whispered, but that was it, that was all she had.
He waited until she was finished, holding her close and letting her work herself on his cock however she needed to make it through her climax. And then when her body finally, finally stilled, he murmured, “You come like you dance.”
“How is that?” she said, burying her face in the strong curve of his neck.
“Like magic.”
And then she was on her back again, him moving over her like a beast, rutting into her so hard and fast that a second orgasm stirred itself from the ashes of the first, biting into her with claws and teeth until she released with an agonized moan of ecstasy.
“Your dad gets angry about your shoes?” Cal asked breathlessly. Sweat was gathering in the furrows of his ridged belly, along his collarbone, sparkling on his neck. It enchanted Tamsin to see it, see the evidence of how all that muscle and sinew had gone to work to fuck her.
She nodded wordlessly, still trembling from her climax. Cal gave her a rare kind of grin—almost a smirk, almost playful—and then was pulling out of her. She sighed unhappily at the loss, but the sight that greeted her next froze any emotion but pleasure as he knelt on the bed by her feet and yanked off the condom in a rough, urgent move. And then he was jacking himself off, with hard vicious breaths pulling all the muscles of his stomach and rib into sharp detail and his ass taut with the effort as he fucked his hand.
“Tamsin,” he said. Just that, like it was the only word he could remember, and then thick ropes of cum jetted out of his erection, spattering white filth all over her pointe shoes. White cum on pink silk. His entire body strained and tense, he milked himself empty, leaving her soiled and marked.
They both were still for a moment, their breathing the only sound in the room.
This was it, Tamsin thought with a crushing sense of horror. The moment it was all over and she had to go back to her music box life, spinning endlessly in front of cold, judging eyes.
But then Cal got off the bed, went to the drawer and rolled another condom onto his still hard-dick. He didn’t bother to wipe down her feet and she didn’t want him too. She wanted those shoes ruined beyond all hope.
“More?” she asked, reaching towards him.
“More,” he agreed gruffly, and she spread her legs with a smile.