by Kenya Wright
That’ll never happen again.
Kissing the spot under her ear, I tried to enjoy this moment for a little while. In this world, there would always be something or someone coming after us. And we would win. We would always be victorious. Because we couldn’t be stopped. Because our souls had overcome anguish. Because we hadn’t had the childhood of others, we’d grown up rough and covered in blood.
But most of all, we would win because there was no other option.
I whispered, knowing she couldn’t hear me. “You’re mine forever, mysh.”
And I would fight to keep her until I took my last breath.
I’d spent so many years just drifting through life, dominating people, bullying countries and terrorists. Death and dismay. Rebelling against the system. Rebelling against life. Money and power pumped blood in my heart. And when I got them both, I’d found that I still felt empty.
No. I didn’t know I was empty until Emily. Before her, I’d thought I was full. No.
I sat up the rest of the night, holding her and enjoying the silence. I felt a strange sense of peace as I watched her sleep. She’d passed out after last night, and I didn’t wake her back up.
Sasha, Darryl, and even Luka were dead.
For now, there was nothing to fear or worry about.
Emily woke up an hour later and rolled over to face me. She lay her head on my chest.
I kissed her forehead. “Any nightmares?”
“I’m starting to not have them with you.”
It might’ve been because she hadn’t been killing in the way she had in a while, but I didn’t say it. I could tell she didn’t enjoy her Tinder Killer past, and I tried not to bring it up as much.
“What do you want to eat?” she whispered. “We never had dinner last night. Hey, I can cook for you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You are.”
“No, you’re the only one I want to eat so early in the morning.”
“Stop it.” She giggled, and Emily didn’t do that much.
“I don’t want you to cook. I have a chef for that. I need something else.” I reached down and rubbed my cock through my boxer briefs, trying to relieve the ache.
“You are insane, Kaz. Do you ever want a break?”
“Not from your pussy.”
“Hmmm.” She licked her lips.
“Don’t hmmm me.” I climbed down between her legs, not wasting any more of the morning.
“I think I’ll enjoy waking up with you every morning.”
“Yes, mysh.” I pushed her thighs far apart and put my mouth on her sweet pussy.
The dream disappeared. The world crumbled around me. No longer did I care about the sun or the moon, the sky or the many buildings I owned that rose in it. Gone were our enemies.
And even more important, there was the possibility of a future between Emily and me. One that could include children and even more.
“Mysh.” I sucked her clit into my mouth.
“Kaz.” She grabbed my head, gripping my hair.
So sweet and juicy. I couldn’t help but move down and go further, spreading her ass cheeks apart and licking the rosy ringed center. She trembled under me.
“Mine.” I returned to her pussy, lapping more at her folds.
Her juices covered my face.
Her scent saturated every inch of my skin.
And I could think of no better way to die.
Dirty Dancing
*Bonus Story*
Misha and Ava’s Story
A short story based on Kazimir’s cousin, Misha, and Ava, the black Prima Ballerina that he is obsessed with.
Dirty Dancing
Kenya Wright
Prologue
Ava
In my dream, invisible hands moved over my body. Touch was a never-ending wave of pleasure. I drifted in and out of sleep, not sure if I was dreaming or if I was drowsily awake and being caressed by a phantom man that stood above me.
I moaned.
“Oh, Ava.” The voice smoothed over my most sensitive places. “I want you so bad.”
There was need in that voice, a desire that could burn me away and unlock the closed parts of my heart. My pulse quickened.
“Take me,” I whispered, whether in the dream or as I slowly woke up.
“Ava.”
Moaning, I opened my eyes and sat up in bed, trying to catch my breath. No one was there. I turned to the right. My window was open. My curtains swung back and forth in the chilly breeze.
I thought I closed the window. Didn’t I?
After O’s murder, I’d been making sure windows were closed and doors were locked.
I got ready to get up from the bed and close the window but stopped. A pillow was trapped between my thighs. Biting my lip, I slipped my hands down to my thighs. My dream had aroused me so much, my panties were soaked. My hard nipples pushed against the thin shirt I’d worn to sleep.
Fuck. It felt so real.
My body hummed, even though I hadn’t found release. Forgetting about the window, I pushed the pillow aside and lay back down.
“Ava.”
The voice reminded me of someone. Or maybe I simply craved the resemblance, hoping to find a connection and somehow sew both into my reality.
“Ava.”
Misha’s face appeared in my mind. Caressing my pussy, I trembled underneath my fingertips.
“Misha,” I moaned, curling my toes and riding the wave of need taking me.
One
Ava
Several hours later, I stood, waiting for the performance to begin. Stage fright hit me. My heart hammered. Terror ripped through my veins. Panic buzzed in my muscles. Horror haunted my soul.
But I maintained my composure as all the other dancers stood in silence. Some were probably counting the movements they would do in their head. Others were probably close to vomiting all over those gorgeous tutus. But a good bit of them would be hoping I failed.
Eisenia handed me a towel and spoke in Russian. “Here.”
“What is this for?”
“Maybe you can rub some of the black off.” She laughed and walked out of my dressing room. “Good luck tonight.”
“Bitch.”
Only a few believed I should be performing the principal role in La Bayadère. I held their confidence close to me. No family sat in the audience. My grandmother could never afford to come see me or visit in Russia. I sent her videos of my performances and money when I could.
I’ll do fine. I’ll do fine.
No matter how many times I performed, stage fright came. Tonight, my anxiety had multiplied with my best friend’s recent death and gaining her role after being her understudy the whole season.
La Bayadère meant The Temple Dancer. Universally hailed, the story included some of the most celebrated pieces in all classical ballet. It was a challenging masterpiece staged in four acts. French choreographer, Marius Petipa came up with the movements which rode the music of Ludwig Minkus. And it was overwhelming in its scale; the “Shades” scene alone required thirty-two dancers, three virtuoso females, and two male soloist dancers. There was a Festival of Fire scene, where people worshiped in a temple along a large cast of characters—maidens, fakirs, dervishes. In act two, a lavish wedding scene included twelve couples dancing with fans, twelve twirling with parrots, as well as Indians and temple maidens.
La Bayadere took place in the Royal India of long ago. From the beginning, the audience would learn that Nikiya, a lovely temple dancer, was in love with a warrior named Solor. Unfortunately, Solor was engaged to their king's daughter. Even worse, during the betrothal, Nikiya would be forced to dance for the new couple.
And the King’s daughter was a bitch. She sent a basket of flowers to Nikiya. A deadly snake slithered within the flowers and bit Nikiya. Our temple dancer died.
Meanwhile, Solor must still marry the king’s daughter. But at the wedding, Solor envisioned Ni
kiya’s ghost. When it was time to speak his vows, he said them to the vision of Nikiya. It made everyone so sad, it infuriated the gods. They destroyed the palace, killing everyone. Solor and Nikiya came together in spirit among a starlit mountain.
In death and eternal love, they were reunited.
Where’s my Solor?
I swallowed and peeked through the curtain.
Misha sat in his balcony. My stomach twisted. I hadn’t decided if I liked Misha watching me dance or not. His thick Russian accent was rich and baritone. His voice went perfectly with the rock-hard body that I was sure he had under those impeccable suits. His very tone was a harmony to a tender duet. And every word he spoke—no matter how simple—seemed to drip with poetry. Some nights I thought about it, feeling like a silly girl with an unfounded crush. And on those nights, I lay alone in my bed and relished in his words.
Two people sat next to Misha. They’d been with him earlier today in the penthouse. I’d forgotten the man’s name, although I remembered he was from Harlem. I stared at the other person and my fingers shook.
Valentina.
My body trembled as I closed the curtain.
I won’t even think about it. There’s nothing I can do about O.
Valentina had dated my best friend, Olesya. I’d called her O.
When I first arrived in Moscow, O was the only person who talked to me. We’d spent a lot of time together. She was talented and smart, but so damaged. As a kid, she’d been through hell and back—parents killed in front of her and molested by her adopted father. Her adopted mother committed suicide a year ago, and O descended onto a dark path.
She fell in love too hard for Valentina and began stalking her. It made me sick to see O travel in that twisted direction, and no matter how I tried to stop her, she continued. It wasn’t odd for me to find torn and ripped of pictures of Valentina throughout the house. Later that night, she would tape the pieces back together again.
I stressed over O a lot.
And something about Valentina put me on edge. The men around her looked like they didn’t have a problem with killing people.
When Valentina broke up with her, O shifted to insanity. Out of nowhere, she moved us into a penthouse and introduced me to this new Russian man in her life named Kazimir. I met him and had to admit that he was a gorgeous specimen. But there was that look about him. Death lingered in his eyes. And then later O confessed that Kazimir was Valentina’s brother.
That was when I knew things would spiral. And no matter how much I tried, she wouldn’t stop.
Why couldn’t you just leave those people alone, O? Now, you’re…dead.
Because of O’s death, I would stay away from Misha. I’d met him after a performance that Valentina had come to. He’d arrived with her. That was a sign to stay far away.
He’s nice, but he’s too dangerous.
The orchestra played, pulling me out of my sadness.
The curtain rose. I transformed into Nikiya. The idea of new love seeped into my flesh. In my heart, blood pumped, whispering the name, Solor. So surreal, I lost a sense of reality. The stage left. The audience disappeared. The orchestra vanished too.
Solor, where are you? I love you.
I danced.
I swept across a Royal Indian temple floor, ready for my destiny of flowers hiding venomous snakes, star-lit mountains, and furious gods.
Death and eternal love.
Two
Misha
God, Ava. I want you.
I leaned forward in my balcony seat, wishing there were closer places to the stage. I yearned to touch Ava. Caress that shimmering skin.
Completely owning the role of Nikiya, Ava leapt into the air and the audience went stiff, freezing, not breathing, until she landed. Adrenaline coursed through me. I ran my fingers through my hair.
She’ll be mine one day.
Ava’s skin flushed and glimmered in the haunting light. I couldn’t help wondering if that was how she would look after sex. I’d loved ballet all my life, but no ballerina had ever touched my very soul like Ava did.
It was a crime that she’d only been made principal after Olesya’s death. If anything, I should’ve sent Valentina flowers for doing it. I’d wanted to push the matter with the company and force them to make her principal, but Ava probably wouldn’t have liked that.
I knew that about her. In New York, Ava had worked hard for her scholarship to a well-renowned ballet school in Moscow. There, she’d suffered racism and discrimination, yet remained dedicated and pushed through it. The last thing she would’ve wanted me to do was force the ballet company to hand her a role. Ava would’ve wanted to earn it.
Moments later, Valentina left the balcony. Maxwell followed.
And I didn’t give one fuck.
Ava danced on stage. Nothing else was important. No matter too deep or interesting could take my gaze from her. She owned me without even knowing it.
Dear God.
When the first act ended, she stood with her long legs extended and balanced on the tips of her toes, showing impeccable strength and restraint. The lights dimmed. Only her silhouette remained within the temple’s fire.
I gripped my cock as it hardened.
Ava.
People in the audience gasped.
Do you all see the next Prima Ballerina?
Ava would be the only thing anyone would talk about for the rest of the week. People had already been excited for La Bayadère. The ballet was beautiful and very theatrical. Lively dances in the most varied ways. Even the music composed by Minkus had been well-regarded for its sweeping melodies and flawless coordination with the character of the scenes and dances.
But the theater was packed tonight for the drama. Olesya had held the principal role. When news came of her murder, people gossiped about what the company would do. Her best friend, Ava, was announced to take her place.
A black ballerina.
News traveled, shocking some and inspiring others. Progress had come to the ballet world. If Ava proved herself, she would be the first Black Prima Ballerina for Russia, and the second one in the international community. In 2015, Misty Copeland had become the first.
Few ballerinas of any ethnicity reached the highest levels of ballet. Once I met Ava and spotted her talent, I often wondered how many other black dancers might’ve succeeded if not for segregated dance schools, outright racism, and exclusion.
In other words, Ava was the type of woman that made me think of deeper things beyond her pussy. With other women, I wanted to fuck them and then leave. With Ava, I yearned to change the world and have her right next to me. Her dancing had helped her escape poverty.
This night will change everything for you.
La Bayadère continued and Ava lured the audience into heartbreak and sadness. Her body was a musical instrument. When she twirled, I heard a different melody. When she spun, I almost whispered her body’s song.
The moment she died from the snakes in the flowers, I fisted my hands, ready to fucking kill the king’s daughter. I had to scan the audience and focus on something else to calm myself. All over, people sat with their mouths agape and eyes widened. A few women shed tears, dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs.
I curved my lips into a smile, happy that they saw what I did a year ago.
She’s a star.
Valentina had dragged me here to see her girlfriend, Olesya perform. Instead, my gaze had remained on Ava the entire night. Being the only African American on the stage, it wasn’t hard to spot Ava. And though she’d had small parts in that ballet, when she came on the stage, she held everyone’s attention.
By then, she’d had a little fan club. I’d learned as much from googling her the next night.
I went further with my research, going onto the dark web, finding out things that I shouldn’t. Her blood type and medical records. Anyone in her family’s criminal history. I’d even glanced social security numbers and the exact location of where she lived, what she liked to
do, and where she would be most moments of the day.
Ava became my obsession.
Valentina and Maxwell appeared right at the end of ballet, smelling of sex. Pleased expressions covered their faces. I couldn’t help but grin.
Finally, someone will deal with Valentina. And Maxwell will be a good help in getting her to come through with the paternity test.
I didn’t know if Valentina’s daughter was mine or not, but I welcomed the possibility. I would be nice to Valentina. In some ways, she’d always been a sister to me. If that was my child, I’d be an active participant in her life. If that wasn’t, I would still be there for her.
Not much would change. My father’s death taught me that. We needed each other. And in many ways, we were family. I would look out for Valentina and her daughter regardless.
I turned back to the stage.
And I will look after you too, Ava.
The audience stood, cheering and clapping. I’d ordered fifty bouquets of red roses to be walked to the stage at her finale.
There, Ava stood, surrounded by roses. Shock hit her face. A tear fell from her eyes. She rushed with wiping it away and turned to her right. The male dancer that had played Solor hurried to her, stopped, and clapped for her too. She widened her eyes and held his hand instead. They bowed together.
The audience roared.
More of the dancers came out, having to give Ava distance to not step over all the roses.
I smiled.
I’d wanted her to be the center of attention. She deserved it.
I’m proud of you.
Sweat gleamed across Ava’s skin. Someone gave her a clean towel. Ava smiled at it and handed it to a frowning ballerina on her other side. The ballerina slung it on the floor. I’d caught the little drama, but I doubted anyone else did, as the crowd applauded.
