Applause

She walks up the steps to the red-brick townhouse as though she's already dancing. Her limbs make smooth, graceful arcs up each concrete stair, as though somewhere between the anticipation and anxiety she has found a perfect bubble of physical poise. Only another dancer would notice the tightness of her movements, the intensity hiding behind the seemingly easy motion.

At the top of the steps, the door hangs open like an invitation. It is only an invitation, she tells herself. There is never any force here, never any coercion. She is always free to do exactly whatever she wants to do. Every night, she has the choice to leave...or more accurately, every night, she has the temptation to return. She has managed to resist temptation for three nights now, the longest she's ever been able to refrain from returning since she first came here a month ago, but her reserves of willpower have finally given out. She marvels at how quickly her will has broken. Then she steps inside.

The curtains are drawn, as always. The lights are out, save for a few pools of illumination to guide her. She doesn't need them anymore. She stops in the foyer, though, doffing her coat and hanging it on a hook. She lets her long, dark hair down, running her fingers through it to remove any tangles. She unbuttons most of the buttons on her blouse-she leaves a few in place, for show, but it will look better later if she only pretends to undo them while she dances. It's easier to make the movement look effortless if you're only pretending.

She slips off her shoes and walks through the foyer, down the hall to the music room. The house is dark and silent, but she knows he will be waiting. The first night, it was different. He was waiting for her at the door, every inch the gentleman. He'd promised her then that she would never have to do anything she didn't want to do. She has already learned that there is a great difference between telling the truth and keeping a promise.

She steps into the music room. Half the room is lit brightly by narrowly-focused lights, the other half is filled with shadows. He sits as he always does, on the very edge of the shadowed space, just far enough back that she cannot see his face. She has started to forget what he looks like.

She walks over to the far corner of the room. There is a record player there, with a vinyl album already waiting on the turntable. She reaches for it, and for a moment her hand trembles with nervous anticipation so badly that she cannot seat the stylus into the grooves of the record. Then she steadies herself and starts the music.

It's an old, slow jazz album with a swaying saxophone beat. She begins to sway in tune with it, letting her hips slowly carry her back towards her audience. Each time she shifts her hips, she gives a little more momentum to her right hip than her left, so that the music guides her around in a slow, lazy twirl as she walks. She wants to give him a good view of her whole body. She knows that will please him.

A month ago, her dances were very different. She came into this room that first time hoping to dazzle him with her gifts-that was why he'd invited her, wasn't it? He'd complimented her on her potential the day he'd visited the class, taken her aside and asked if there was a time when she was free to dance privately for him. Nothing untoward, nothing improper, just a chance to display her skills in a less chaotic setting to a man who had the ear of some of the most influential choreographers on Broadway. It was everything she'd ever hoped for.

He sits in the chair with his pants undone, gently cradling his balls as he watches her buttocks swing back and forth like a pendulum. He is already erect.

He doesn't say a word as she comes closer. He only watches as her hands trail down her shirt once, then twice as she bumps and grinds to the rhythm. She's so well-trained now, she thinks to herself in quiet amazement. She knows exactly what he wants, and all she wants to do is give it to him. She feels her panties getting wet as she dances.

She moves her hips in lazy circles as she parts the top of her blouse. The imaginary buttons come apart under her fingers, each time revealing a slightly larger expanse of skin beneath them. There was a time when he would have applauded each one, but his hands are too busy with his cock now. She knows he will not clap for her until the end of the recital. She can't wait.

The blouse hangs wide open now, showing him her breasts just barely concealed within a gauzy underwire bra. Her nipples are so hard they're aching, but she lets the motion of her body conceal them for just a bit longer. She grinds left, and the blouse reveals a bit of flesh before she leans forward and the cloth slides back over her tits. Her eyes are on his cock as she dances, and she smiles to see it twitch a little every time her body displays itself to him. She never sees his face anymore; in a sense, his cock is her audience now.

Then she shrugs her shoulders back, thrusting her tits out and slipping the blouse down to her upper arms in one smooth motion. She gyrates her upper body in time to the music, letting her breasts move in their own syncopated time. She feels the way their heft counters the pull of her body-during the day, she practically ties them down to prevent exactly that, but this is a different kind of dance. They don't teach it at Juilliard.

As she rolls her body, she lets her blouse slide down her arms a few inches with each measure. Within moments, she holds its collar in her hands. She uses it as an improvised veil, drawing it over her body and teasing him with glimpses of her skin while her fingers quietly and subtly work at the catch of her bra. When she finally casts the shirt aside, the bra goes with it and her bare breasts are exposed to his gaze. She almost expects applause at that, but he holds back. He knows that the promise is enough to keep her ensnared now.

Her hands wander over the expanse of her breasts, tracing the flesh with graceful motions as she sways her hips from side to side. She chose a loose skirt, and now the movement of her body is causing it to slide down a little bit at a time. An inch here, an inch there, each time revealing a little bit more of what the fabric hides. She feels a thrill of pleasure watching him watch her, knowing that he's torn in a pleasant indecision over which part of her to look at first.

The skirt finally slides past the swell of her hips and falls off altogether, making the decision easier. Her panties are dark with moisture, and she knows his eyes are drawn to them. She reaches down, gently caressing the silken fabric, and feels a surge of heat between her legs. She never thought that dancing like this could get her so hot, but he trained her to enjoy it. She inhales tightly in arousal at the memory. He clapped so hard for her that night...

She turns the sway into a pivot, turning to face away from him and pushing out her ass to give him a good, long look. She leans low, her hair brushing against the ground to emphasize the curve and swell of her buttocks. Her left hand holds her steady, her right hand is already inside her panties fingering her pussy. She won't be able to cum, not yet, but she loves the way her arousal drives the dance. It feels so much more primal when she's horny.

She wonders, each time, if this will be the time he asks her to do more than dance for him. She would do it. All her resistance is gone now, melted away under a tide of praise and pleasure. The last thirty nights have bound her to his will far more powerfully than any torture ever could. She would do anything to please him, now. But he is satisfied to watch her dance.

She straightens back up now, putting her hands on her ass and grabbing the hem of her panties. She drops her hips in time to the music, each time just bobbing down a little before coming back up, each time rolling her panties down her thighs a little more before pulling them back into position. She rolls her head back in time to the music, as though the rhythm itself is orgasmic for her. It very nearly is-the scent of her sex fills the room now.

Finally, her panties pass the point of no return, and she rolls them all the way down to her ankles and steps out of them. She turns back to face him, now wearing nothing but her stockings and garters. Her pussy is exposed, dripping, shining with her juices and she loves every second of it. Her hands explore her snatch as she lets the music carry her down to her knees in front of him, her breasts heaving in time to the music, the arousal carrying her now to the climax of her performance.

She can hear his breath quickening, and his hand is practically a blur on his cock. She wants to see him cum so badly now. He made her want that, but knowing that her desires are his desires doesn't make them any less strong. She rolls her hips against her hand, turning finger-fucking into an erotic dance performed entirely on her knees. Her body is glistening with sweat under the spotlights. Her nipples feel like they're being drawn by magnets. She feels goosebumps on her skin despite the warmth of the room.

She aches to cum. Her fingers play with her pussy relentlessly, dancing their own tiny dance of arousal with her clit as their partner. She hears herself moan along with the music, wailing in key with the saxophone as her body tries helplessly to bridge the gap between pleasure and orgasm and never quite making it. She's helpless to resist the mindless, throbbing need coursing through her body and of course she is. She's always helpless when she's like this, and she's always like this when she dances for him, and she always dances for him because the pull of the pleasure draws her back to this room, back to her knees, back to beg him wordlessly to-

He lets out a tiny gasp as his balls tighten and his cock spurts all over his hands, his hips jerking up for a moment in the chair as he gushes out his thick, pearly liquid. A few drops spatter onto her leg, and she wipes them up with a finger and gulps them down greedily. She quivers with pleasure at the taste, but it's not enough. She knows what she needs to do.

She leans forward as he offers his hands, licking every drop of his semen off of them. Her fingers work furiously in her pussy as she cleans him off, and she catches herself making tiny mewls of pleasure at the salty taste. After a moment he reaches down and slowly rolls his hand up the length of his cock, squeezing out a last few droplets and offering them to her. She accepts them gratefully. She looks up at him, her eyes a soundless plea for what comes next.

"Bravo, my dear," he says quietly, his hands coming together in genteel applause. And she cums. She feels the orgasm resounding through her whole body with each clap of his hands, far more powerful than anything her fingers or his cock or a whole case of vibrators could possibly give her. She cums and cums and cums and cums, her body shaking with pleasure as each climax comes almost too close to the last to properly register until her mind reels and her thoughts melt away into white noise and all her grace and poise melt away to leave her curled up on the floor in the fetal position, unable to cope with the sheer relentless ecstasy.

She doesn't know how he does it. She doesn't care. She only knows that she can never resist this. From the moment he first clapped for her performance and she felt those resounding waves of orgasmic bliss, she was his. She lives for his applause now. The temptation to return to him again and again, to feel the power of his praise, it's overwhelming. She realizes in this moment that even though she may never have to do anything she doesn't want to do for him, he knows how to make her want anything he offers.

She hears him saying, "I would like you to return and dance for me tomorrow," and even though it is phrased as an invitation, they both know the truth.

THE END