Trust Ch. 08a

He placed my fingertip on my slot and showed me how to apply the gel around and inside my private. I felt a brief twinge of shame at the realisation that so much of what I thought I knew about my body and about sex was just head knowledge (so to speak) from magazines and that I was relying on him so much for the practical application. But now I was excited about being on the brink of womanhood for real and I was aching to get him inside me.

"If it does start to hurt and you want to stop, that's fine," he smiled gently, stroking my hair against my cheek reassuringly.

I startled him with the sudden urgency with which I gripped his wrist and looked him right in the eyes.

"Whatever happens, promise me you won't stop, even if I cry," I insisted. "If it's going to hurt I want the pain as well as the pleasure. I want the whole experience. The pleasure's worth nothing without the pain."

"OK, I understand," he replied gently. "But we're going to do it in a way that let's you control how much you can take."

He thought for a moment before getting up and starting to roll up the rug to expose the wood floor. Although he never would have admitted it, I think he secretly relished being in the role of the older man guiding and choreographing a young ballerina in her sexual initiation.

"Put your pointes back on," he said.

I could hear the blood rushing through my body in my excitement at the thought of what he was planning for me as I removed my white plimsolls and ankle socks; feeling only slightly disappointed that I wouldn't be wearing them for my first time after all, bent over my dance bag to retrieve my pale pink satin ballet shoes, sat on the floor to place my feet inside them and nervously tied the ribbons around my ankles. It seemed an age before I got the knots right and the 'pig's ears' properly tucked away behind the ribbons tightly encircling my ankles. When I had finished I stretched out my legs with my feet together, arched my feet and I slowly stroked the whole length of my legs and feet to enjoy the sensation. I had never been naked in my ballet shoes before and I felt incredibly sexy and turned on. I stood up and balanced on each foot in turn as I pointed and flexed the other foot, with the hardened tip of my ballet shoe resting on the floor.

He finished rolling away the carpet, stood up and grinned at me.

"Now it's time for your debut," he smiled. Then in best ballet master fashion he clapped his hands and barked out "cinquième position, en pointe."

My years of ballet training immediately kicked in and I instinctively leapt up onto the points of my ballet shoes, with one foot tightly tucked in behind the other, and lifted my arms in a graceful arch above my head, with my outstretched fingers just touching at the very tips.

"Et maintenant, bourée," he instructed me, indicating with his hands that I was to come and stand right before him. With a rapid series of tiny tippy-tappy-toe steps across the wooden floor on the points of my ballet shoes I approached him. I was incredibly aware of my naked body. My legs and feet and arms and hands felt amazingly extended and elongated. My bottom felt as if it was projecting way out behind me and my breasts seemed to be ballooning outwards in front of me, pushing my swollen nipples far out towards where he stood waiting for me, and as I advanced towards him I felt like a virgin on her way to her sacrifice to a pagan god of erotic desire, which in a sense was exactly what I was.

I came right up to him where he stood with his legs together and his arms folded in front of him and lowered myself down onto the soles of my ballet shoes, my turned out feet remaining tightly tucked together in tandem in the opposite parallel of fifth position. I kept my arms up above my head. My breasts rose and fell with my deep breaths of physical effort and sexual excitement as I looked directly into his eyes.

"Deuxième position, en pointe," he commanded me. Instinctively again I balanced on my back foot, raised my front foot slightly and, with my pointed toes just brushing the floor, slid my foot out to the side until I stood with my legs apart, my feet turned out at 180 degrees. Then I arched my feet and pushed up onto the points of my ballet shoes again. As I did so he raised his hands, took hold of my arms and drew them around his neck. My arms were even slenderer then, before I finished filling out in my later teens. My arms and hands and fingers looked so graceful and femininely fragile and delicate against the strong and burly masculine build of his neck and shoulders as I clung to him.

He reached behind my head and pulled out the pins from my ballerina bun so my hair fell in a golden curtain on my shoulders and down my back, and I shivered with delight as I felt my hair brush against my bare skin. Then he placed his hands on my hips and brought his body, in all his magnificent rampant-ness, up to the trembling, delicate, virgin femininity that was mine. I could feel the very tip of his erection just touching my entrance. My heart was pounding and my whole body was electric to his touch. I knew exactly what would happen next.

"Et maintenant, plié," he instructed me. This was it. I took a deep breath and began to bend my legs while I supported my weight on his shoulders and he steadied me with his hold on my hips. In this way I slowly began to lower myself onto his huge shaft. I gasped as I felt his head begin to push my lips apart and nestle within them. I stopped for a second and then tried coming down a little further until his whole head was inside me. Straight away I realised that he was going to be a very tight fit. Even with the lubricating gel, the friction from the rub of his firmness against my membranes was uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But the thrill of feeling his first entrance into me buoyed me up and spurred me on.

I pliéd up a little to give myself some relief and then came down onto him again, a little more this time. Now I was beginning to feel the whole circumference of his shaft opening me up and rubbing against my entrance. My young and immature pudenda could barely stretch enough to take his width and my inexperienced teenage glands were totally unequal to the task of lubricating me adequately for such a huge first-time demand. I regretted having not thought of trying to insert anything bigger than my finger inside myself during my early attempts at self-pleasure, to prepare my body at least a little for what it now had to face. I had to admit that I had been the female equivalent of all mouth and no trousers, able to think and talk a good game but having hardly any notion of actually playing one, until now. But now I had no time or thought to spare for regrets.

In spite of the growing pain between my legs each time I rose and fell on him I was determined to get his whole length inside me. I drove myself down onto him, further and further down each time, again and again. My whole body trembled with mounting sexual tension, increasing pain and ever greater effort to keep my quivering legs and feet en pointe in my ballet shoes. Wearing ballet shoes with bare feet when I'm naked looks and feels gorgeously sexy when I'm lying on a bed or stretched out on the floor, but actually dancing in them on point without tights on is bloody uncomfortable I can tell you. Tears streamed down my face and a rivulet of blood began to run down my leg. I felt the trickle of it on the inside of my thigh and I felt fantastic because I knew then for certain that I wasn't a virgin any more.

At long last I forced myself all the way down onto him and I felt my entrance nestle tight against his groin and my lips tightly encircle the base of his shaft. Making a deep belly grunt of passion with every gasping breath as I felt my orgasm approach I clung tightly to his neck, buried my tear stained face in his shoulder and gritting my teeth against the pain, made a succession of rapid up and down pelvic grinding thrusts along the whole length of his shaft.

Then, like a dam suddenly collapsing under the pressure of pent up waters pushing against it, my orgasm burst out from my womanhood and flooded my entire being. I flung back my head and opened my mouth to release the long low moan of pleasure that was about to burst my lungs if I didn't release it. But he immediately clamped his hand tightly over my mouth and whispered anxiously at me,

"Ssh! Quiet! There are people in the flats around."

For a moment I made little muffled moans of ecstasy through the tight grip of his hand against my lips. In the midst of my orgasm I felt incredibly turned on by the experience of being restrained and dominated and it instantly imprinted itself vividly on my youthful and burgeoning sexual imagination.

Up until now he had kept still as I had ground myself on him. Now, keeping his hand on my mouth, he began to thrust me, pushing hard to overcome the resistance of my tight clench on him buried deep inside me. The effect of the gel had completely disappeared and with every thrust I made a muffled groan of pain through his hand as saw-like waves cut through my very core. After several thrusts he came and, unable to hold my legs in position any more, I clung to him tightly and lifted my legs to wrap them around him. Weak at the knees in his orgasm, he had just enough strength to shuffle over to the sofa and collapse onto it with me on top of him.

We kissed passionately open mouthed and I covered his face in my tears of pain and delight while I squeezed his waning erection as hard as I could for as long as I could before his spontaneous withdrawal from the close confinement of my sore and throbbing womanhood made me squeal with a short shock of stabbing discomfort..

"I thought you were going to raise the roof just then," he smiled, gently brushing the tears from my eyes. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah, fantastic," I managed to beam at him through my tears.

"I'm sorry I did that to your mouth. I had to shut you up -- too much noise not good," he explained apologetically.

"It's OK, I liked it actually," I smiled. He seemed not to take the hint, which disappointed me a little.

"Good, that's all right then. Anyway, we need to sort you out and get away from here as quick as possible and set up an alibi for you in case you need one," he said matter of factly, in a very masculine fashion that left me feeling a little deflated.

Although he was anxious to get on, he could see that I needed a few minutes to recover from my experience. He brought me a warm flannel to refresh my face and wipe the blood from my leg and a cool compress soaked with a few drops of witch hazel to soothe my sore and swollen private. He also brought me a small glass of clear amber liquid which tasted like fire but at least took my mind off the fire pulsating between my legs. So it was I had my first taste of scotch along with my first taste of sex. He poured himself a drink and I drew my legs up so he could sit beside me on the sofa. Now that I felt calmer after all my excitement, I was able to appreciate his body more. I rested my feet on his legs and he gently stroked them through my ballet shoes and massaged the tension out of my aching calves, which felt wonderful.

"Isn't it amazing how you and I are so different and so alike at the same time," I remarked enthusiastically. "I've got one of these and you've got one of those and a pair of those," I continued, pointing to our respective private parts; "and I've got these and you've only got those," I giggled as I cupped my breasts in my hands and then placed my index finger tips on his nipples. "But we've both got arms and legs and hands and feet and fingers and toes and eyes and ears and a nose and mouth and...and...lots of other things the same." The whisky had slightly gone to my head.

"Ah, but yours are put together much nicer than mine, Pretty Tits," he smiled, kissing my knee.

"Maybe," I giggled, "but I'm glad that yours are put together the way they are." I stroked the soft hair of his chest affectionately.

"Vive la difference," he grinned and we toasted the difference with another sip of scotch.

We got dressed and I very gingerly eased on my g-string over my private. I winced with pain and he suggested keeping the compress on under my g-string, which helped a bit. I put on my bra and my pink Pineapple Dance Studio tee shirt that I had changed out of for our ballet practice and I finished my dressing with my sweatshirt, shorts and my bare legs in my white plimsolls and ankle socks.

We walked to a nearby café which was owned by a friend of his who was more than happy to vouch that we'd gone there after leaving the dance studio. He even gave us a receipt left by an earlier customer, which showed that we'd been enjoying coffee and cake at the time when we'd been enjoying each other. After that, as it was a Saturday and I didn't have to be back in school until the evening, we drove out to a country pub for a meal and had a walk afterwards before he drove me back to school in plenty of time....

"So what happened after that?" I asked Emma.

"We had sex every Saturday morning after our ballet practice for the rest of the term. Gary never found out that Paul was doing me in their flat and I managed to keep my secret, which was amazing when you think how difficult it is to keep any secret in an all-girls school. One or two of the smarter girls might have suspected that something was up (me) so to speak," she giggled cheekily at this point, "but I was never challenged about it. Maybe they were all at it as well, except for snooty stuck-up Lorna MacAllister. She suddenly looked surprised. "Isn't that funny? I've just remembered her name after all these years."

"Anyway." she continued. "He graduated that summer and told me he was off to London to seek his fame and fortune. I remember after the last time we had sex together he held me close, looked into my eyes and said, 'You're a Top Girl, Emma, the best of the best. One day, I might just regret letting you go,' but I never found out if he ever did. That was the first and only time in all the times we were alone together that he called me by my name and not some sexy nickname about my body. Looking back, I wish he'd done that more often." There was a faraway, wistful in her eye for a moment. "He was perfect for my first sexual partner. He wasn't in love with me any more than I was with him. It would have been bad for me at that stage of my life if he had been. But we were fond of each other and he always took good care of me.

"He could have been a fantastic ballet dancer but he was more into modern dance styles so he got into the music business. He's toured and done music videos with Michael and Justin and Madonna and Kylie and lots of other big stars. Now he does choreography. He still emails me and sends me tickets for concerts he's in every now and then."

"So what about this 'other story' you mentioned," I smiled. "I'm honestly not jealous, just curious, that's all."

"Oh that story," she giggled. "I got into really bad debt while I was at Dance College and I needed to pay it back quickly. Anyway, one night I got chatting to this guy at a party. He told me he was a finance director of some big company or other and he certainly looked like it. Everything about him said serious money. We got really drunk and while I was telling him about being a ballet dancer and training to be a ballet teacher he suddenly said he'd pay any amount of money to do a ballerina. So I, being completely off my head, said I'd do it with him for £500 and he said OK.

"When I'd sobered up and realised what I'd done I thought about calling it off and then thought 'what the hell, why not?' I needed the money and the opportunity had fallen in my lap, just like that. It wasn't like I'd deliberately gone out and pimped myself to him for it.

"He drove me in his flashy Mercedes two-seater to this really posh country house hotel in Berkshire and we did the whole booking in at a hotel thing. He put us down as Mr and Mrs Fonteyn, which I thought was a nice touch. He'd booked one of the bridal suites and it was just fantastic, full of elegant antique furniture and old master paintings and stuff like that, and this fantastic four-poster bed that Queen Victoria had slept in. I changed into my classical pink tutu with a tiny frilly skirt and did my hair and makeup in the ensuite while he got himself ready in the bedroom. I wore my pink ballet shoes with white cotton knee socks because he had a thing about girls in knee socks and he didn't want to mess about with pulling down my tights to get into me.

"I made my grand entrance and danced around the bed en pointe for him, which was dangerous to do on carpet but I managed not to hurt myself. Then he stripped off my tutu -- I wasn't wearing anything underneath -- got me down on the bed, did the business and then tied me up and gagged me and started filming me struggling to escape and mumphing in my gag. I suppose I was taking a big risk by letting a man I'd only met twice do that to me, but I reckoned I was reasonably safe because lots of people had seen us checking in and going up to our room; he'd already done me once so had probably had enough of that for one evening, and he knew I'd told my flatmate I'd be back by the morning. So the worst he could have done was leave me like that to explain to the chambermaid or whoever found me the next morning why I was alone in the room, lying on the bed tied up and gagged and naked except for pink ballet shoes and white knee socks.

"Anyway, he let me go after a few minutes and gave me my five hundred pounds, all in brand new twenty pound notes in a very posh looking envelope embossed with a gold crest of some kind -- everything about him was really classy. He also gave me a fifty pound tip for being the best girl he'd ever had and said I could have a great career if I wanted it, which was flattering in a way and something to think about, but then he probably said that to all the other girls too. So I thought 'once bitten, twice shy' and my brilliant career as a call girl started and finished there and then. We drove back to London and he dropped me off at my flat, gave me a magnum of champagne which he'd kept in the boot of the car for me, kissed me one last time before driving off and that was the last I ever saw of him.

"A few months later I found out he'd gone to prison for stealing three million pounds from the company he worked for and spending it on -- according to the news report -- 'fast cars, expensive hotels, exotic holidays and high class prostitutes'. So I guess I'd been in pretty good company.

"So that's my story." She lifted herself and leaned over to kiss me. "Now it's your turn," she smiled.

"I'll do my best to make mine as exciting as yours," I responded with a kiss on the tip of her nose....

I didn't lose my virginity until I had gone up to Cambridge. I didn't remain sexless all through school for any good or moral reason; I would have jumped at the chance anytime for a quick grope and poke. No, the reason was simply because I was terrified of what my parents would do to me if they'd found out I'd being doing something I shouldn't have been; keeping them from finding out that I masturbated while wearing Bryony's underwear was hard enough. The other reason was that I was determined that when I first had sex with a girl we would both be wearing white plimsolls. So I kept my head down (so to speak) and behaved myself until Bryony and I broke with our parents and we both left home for good.

I was doing economics and business studies at Cambridge. It was the early days of the World Wide Web and the internet was just starting to become a useful tool for business research, so a couple of weeks after starting my course I booked a session at the University Library with the Subject Specialist for Business Studies to see what was available and how to use it, and that's how I met Claire.