Encounter at the Ballet

We aren't supposed to feel this sort of desire for each other, you know that. Lust is one of the deadly sins, isn't it? But lust, desire, that's exactly what I feel for you. My bones ache for you in shades of flushing red and darkest blue. And if I were to die from the pleasure of drowning in you, if my happily partaken sin did turn out to be deadly, who would mourn it? Not I, not my white bones in the grave or my heart, full still of you, that lives on. Death and pleasure, perhaps they are closer relatives than we suppose.

I told you I would be here tonight; I've always loved the ballet. Graceful, gravity-and-death-defying: great lovers die and are reborn from the ashes of their passion on that stage. Beauty and madness form equal parts of love, lust and art, as they do in real life, acceptable on this platform but shrouded in secrecy in reality.

I half hoped you wouldn't be there. But you were. You couldn't stay away, you told me. Couldn't you? I wondered. Do you mean your lust led you here (and tell the truth, you didn't put up much of a fight did you?) or do you mean only your death could have prevented your presence tonight? I wonder. But no matter, your breath is on my neck now, and I don't care.

In the interval you made no move to pull me away, no, you waited until the ladies and gentlemen that we are were told to be seated once more, then you gripped my arm, too tight, burning me, and pulled me into the women's bathroom. Once inside, you don't touch me, you very deliberately don't touch me, you know the effect your energy, your body heat, has on me; you simply walk forward, slowly, forcing me to back up until I'm pressed against the large mirror, cold glass a cruel antidote to your hot breath.

I can't fight, and I wouldn't want to. I unzip my dress of my own accord. It falls to the floor. I'm wearing a black lace lace-up bodice, thigh-high hold-up stockings complete with Cuban heel. You bend, kneel before me. Your long fingers trace a path up the backs of my legs, along the seam of my stockings, your mouth searing a secondary path upwards along the inside of my thigh as my legs open for you.

Your mouth arrives at my wet sex and my fingers dig into your shoulders, wanting to guide you forwards, but you don't move. Your breath is like a fire that moves inside of me, consuming me in waves of pleasure and torturous anticipation. You stand up, leaving my breathing ragged, my heart beat erratic, my sex burning for you.

You turn me around, your fingers finding the laces of my bodice. At first you pull the laces out of their holes slowly, so slowly, but I push back into you, grinding myself into you, the crack of my ass finding your length, desperately needing you inside me, and then you're ripping my constraints away. It drops to the floor, and my modesty with it, and you whirl me around and push me back so roughly the glass almost breaks. Your hands are on my hips, your mouth on my neck.

You kiss me so violently all the breath is stolen out of me. I kiss back, hungry, needing everything. You growl, low in your throat, and your reply splits my lip, my blood spilling willing over your mouth, which quests downwards, the graze of teeth bringing my desire to a sharp point. I gasp, push my head back in ecstasy.

Your hungry mouth finds my nipple and the pressure of your lips, the sting of your teeth, is too much. I'm wetter than I have ever been. Your mouth trails a descent over my belly but I push you back. You need to feel what I'm feeling, you need to be naked and vulnerable, and I will make you feel it. I need all of you, I will have you.

I tear off your perfect, just-so dress shirt, and when your chest is bared I'm not satisfied, not even close. Despite the raw perfection of your bare skin and bones, your muscles that surely have been sculpted by an ancient Greek, given by Hercules, or Eros perhaps, despite this, it's not enough. Perhaps you know it as much as I, for it is your hands that remove everything else, not mine. You look like a god.

I want you to possess me. I lift one of my legs to hook it over your hip, cast out my line and reel you in. Your member rubs up against my sex as we both move our hips and push relentlessly against each other. You are hard against my straining softness and I rub against you again and again, circling my hips, moaning and crying out in pleasure. I come over you.

You begin to moan as your sex thickens with blood, and I continue to thrust my hips against yours. You bite at my neck, the friction pushing you into madness as I moan your name. You pull back and thrust into me. My sex widens and wets to accept you, and the penetration is a moment of crazed deliciousness, as I scream and drape myself over your shoulder, pull my skin over your bones. You pull back and thrust, pull back and thrust, harder and faster, and with each thrust into my depths I wrap my long thighs around you and pull you in with all my strength. Your moans meet mine in a verbal surrender to passion as I cry, "Take me," and your fingernails sink into my buttocks, the pain mingling exquisitely with pleasure.

As you come inside me, a last desperate moan escapes my lips and you pull back, trembling. I kneel before you, taking your manhood gently in my hands, and begin to lick it, tracing a line under your sex with my rough tongue, pulling in long strokes. You moan, gripping the back of my neck with your long, strong fingers, as I take you into my mouth, relishing you. You guide me down, and I take you deep into my throat, feeling my own sex grow wet again, and as I pull back I suck, and swallow your come in delight, like a ravenous man at a feast. As you groan and beg me to stop, I again begin licking you, this time just lightly flicking my tongue across your head and I roll your balls in my fingers, occasionally taking half of you into my mouth, never fully. Your moans are like a man in pain, or driven mad, and now you tell me not to stop, and begin moving your hips back and forward, your hands clasping my head, thrusting deeper and deeper into my mouth and throat, fucking my mouth. Just as you cry out and come, I pull back, letting your load spill over my face and neck, licking what's left off your member, and stand up, your come all over me.

"Lick it off," I command you, and you pull me to you, so tight I can hardly breathe, and you lick all your come off me, your tongue running rough and hungry over my lips, my cheeks, the hollow of my throat. Then you throw me to the floor, wrench my legs apart and dive into my sopping wet sex like a starving man. Your skilled tongue easily parts my folds, and your tongue enters me, licking me out even as I come into your mouth over and over, writhing on the floor, moaning and screaming, able in my ecstasy-addled state to scream only one word: yes.

Your tongue bends upwards, like a hunter who knows their mark, and you touch something inside me that makes me explode. I scream, wordlessly, and buck my hips up into your face as my come flows as freely as yours, filling your mouth in endless waves. You pull back and kiss me, your mouth full of me, and I cling to you and drink deeply of my own come.

On the cold hard floor, you move on top of me, pressing down on me with your weight, your solidness, and it makes me nearly delirious with desire. Strange, that having so much of you already should do nothing to slake my appetite. You raise your hips and plunge into me, again and again, slamming your hips into mine, slamming me into the cold concrete, but the pain only makes me want it more. As you thrust into me, I push upwards, our hips colliding so violently I am sure we will break through each other's skin and become one, and not be tortured by this ache anymore. The ache explodes into ecstasy as you thrust into me one last time, and I scream your name as you moan in pain, collapsing onto me, shivering, your eyes not seeing, and mine half closed, rolled back towards the ceiling.

Ten minutes later, it is as if this never happened. We are both standing, dressed, elegant, looking just the same as when we first entered this room, if a little more rosy-cheeked. I look at you, preparing to leave, but then you pull me slowly to you, pulling my dress up to my hips, sliding your fingers inside the lace top of my stocking, stroking my thigh.

"I want you," you say, your eyes burning with a fire I both want and am afraid of.

"You just had me," I say, stepping closer, the fire already spreading through me.

You pull me closer, so we are chest to chest, and I can feel you pressed into my hips.

"It's not enough," you whisper.

It's never enough.