Very Wicked Beginnings

So I thought about Ballet Girl.

I cranked up my radio and got in the shower. Before the water was even warm, I spread my legs and wrapped a hand around my cock, picturing her again, dancing, only this time I was the only one in the room with her. In my head, I stood behind her and watched her perform. My fantasy got hotter as she swayed and twirled like a beautiful goddess sent from the heavens to entertain me, looking ethereal and too damn perfect for this messed up world. I imagined her turning and seeing me and smiling so big I nearly lost my breath. Because she knew me. In this fantasy world, we’d been dating for a while now, spending time together, going out to dinner, laughing and talking, making out. She was in love with me and wanted me like she’d never wanted anyone or anything in her entire life. She couldn’t breathe without me. She wanted to make my life better. And I felt the same. I’d never been in love before, but maybe this time, with her—

Whoa.

Yeah, that kind of thinking made me stop my back and forth, but then I kicked it in again, stroking myself faster and harder. She was too good to not dream about. I got raunchier in my head, imagining me pulling her into my arms and kissing her, our mouths wide open, tongues licking, teeth biting. Then, I got down on my knees and unlaced her sexy ballet shoes. I worked my way up and slipped my hands underneath her skirt and eased it and her panties down her long legs. She spread her legs and begged me to lick her core, and I did, tasting her for the first time. I moaned into her, my tongue finding every secret crevice, devouring her. She came, her hands fisted in my hair, her cries echoing out into the empty dance studio.

She wanted me to fuck her, her hands urging me up off the ground, to finish what we’d started. I had to give her what she wanted. Because I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted any girl.

With furious need, I rose up and bent her over the pole that ran the length of the studio wall and took her from behind, my hands on her breasts, holding her hot skin against me. Of course, initially, I pictured her breasts as huge, but then I scaled them back, wanting to imagine her as she really was. And then suddenly I didn’t want her from behind. I wanted to see her face and gaze into her eyes, even though I didn’t really know what she looked like. And that frustrated me. Because this fantasy felt different, in a good way, and she seemed special—shit, this is crazy, I thought.

But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. I gritted my teeth, tossing my head back into the spray of water, picturing me taking her, sinking into her softness, making her all mine. She took my pounding, crying out my name and clenching around me as she came hard. Again.

A guttural groan came deep from within me.

Fuck yeah … pumping, pumping.

And then I got dizzy in the best kind of way, feeling tingles and goose bumps as the heat built and rose until bam! My orgasm slammed into me, and I came for what seemed like forever, my legs giving out as I sank down to the floor of the marble tiled shower on my knees. My entire body quivered, shaking with the aftershocks. With unsteady hands, I pushed wet hair off my face.

Fuck, me.

I wanted that girl in the window.

But not enough to find her.

“Two things about me:

I dance and I dance.”

–Dovey

“ARMS UP, DOVEY,” Mr. Keller, my instructor, called to me as I focused on my partner, Jacques, and the contemporary piece called Song of the Earth we were doing. He and I had the lead role for our annual school production, and it was a prime spot, one that would shine on my application to a ballet company next year. I needed to ace this part because I didn’t have a back-up plan. Ballet was it for me.

I put my arms in the air, rounding them out in fifth position. He nodded his approval.

I continued, executing the abstract movements, some of which were more demanding than classical ballet, requiring deep pliés and distorted yet elegant lines. Climactic and passionate, I let myself fly as I danced the last scene, envisioning myself as the character that loses the love of her life.

Then something weird happened.

Right in the middle of my grand jeté tingles skipped up my spine and spread over my body. I landed and let out a shiver. It felt like someone was watching me, and I didn’t mean the teacher or Jacques or one of the other dancers. The sensation was more intense, darker, making me self-conscious as I finished up my routine.

As soon as my part was done, I went off to a corner to grab a drink of water, passing by the big window that faced the west and looked out over the football practice field.

I stopped in my tracks.

A big football player was facing me on the twenty yard line, dressed in tight white football pants and a navy blue jersey. He was tall, probably a few inches over six feet, and his shoulders were impossibly broad. No clue who he was with the helmet on, but his practice jersey said number 89, yet even that meant nothing to me. I knew nada about the game or the players on the team. Well, I knew some of the players’ reputations. Most were uber-rich and super popular. I mean, this was Texas where football players—especially those with looks and money— were treated like gods.

I cocked my head. Why would he stare into the dance window, and why—slam! He got pummeled hard by another player. I flinched and gasped, wondering if I should run out there and check on him, but then the coach loped across the field. He took the player’s helmet off, but from my angle I still couldn’t make out the fallen player’s face. After a few minutes, he stumbled to his feet with the aid of a couple of players, and they walked him off the field and back to the sidelines.