by Sacchi Green
“You just sink right into submission, don’t you? What a good girl you are.”
Oh. Oh my. Those words weren’t feathers on her skin, they were shimmers inside her chest, all gorgeous and new and bursting and it was so much, felt so big. She opened her eyes, turning her head to see Ma’am’s face, to be sure she hadn’t dreamed those words. Roz was smiling, as she kept her hand in exactly that spot on the back of Liliana’s neck, pulsing into her.
“Yes, you heard me right. You are a good brave girl to reach for this, to let yourself have it, to let yourself shine.”
That was so much to hold. Liliana tried, but it built in her chest and had nowhere to go. It just got bigger and bigger till she couldn’t breathe from it and then it flowed out of her eyes, and she could finally breathe again.
“Okay, girl. I have a job for you.”
Liliana smiled. A job specifically for her. It was amazing how lucky that made her feel.
“Sit up for me now.”
Liliana extricated herself from Roz, and sat, waiting. She breathed it in, the waiting to hear how she could be useful. This moment was good all on its own, full of anticipation and purpose and clarity.
“You know Femme Brunch is tomorrow. I need you to iron my dress, and pick out the right accessories for it.”
Oh my. Liliana’s hands started fluttering and a smile burst onto her face. Yes, she wanted to do this. To do it right.
“Oh you like that, do you girl?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I will be wearing the black dress that’s hanging by the mirror over there. There’s a tabletop ironing board in that corner, that you can put on the coffee table so you can sit while you iron my dress.”
The dress flowed like water in her hands, all soft and dark. She brought that over first, before fetching the ironing board and the iron. She worked carefully, at first conscious of Roz’s gaze on her as she did the task. But soon she sunk into it deep, getting every bit of the dress methodically, her lip between her teeth. Until she was done. Then she smiled, because it had felt good to let herself drop into hyperfocus like that. It felt a lot like Roz’s hand on her neck, actually. She reached up, and stroked her hand against the back of her neck, raising her eyes to look at Roz’s face.
“Let me see.”
Roz took the dress, looked it over. Nodded once in approval.
“Good. Now I need you to select a corset to go over it. There are three in my suitcase.”
The first was teal, with silver butterflies on it. The second was burgundy with black lace. The last was black velvet. Liliana immediately rejected the teal one, though she was sad to do so because it matched Ma’am’s nails. But it wouldn’t work with a black dress underneath. The burgundy might. She chewed her lip, thinking about Roz, and the things she’d seen her wear before. No, the burgundy wasn’t right either. It would cut the dress in the wrong place. She put the others away and carried the black corset over to Roz.
“This one, Ma’am.”
“Yes, that will do nicely. Now I need you to pick out something to cover my arms that works with both of these. There are a few long-sleeved options in the suitcase.”
Liliana sorted through them. The royal blue was too casual. The white would bunch up, she thought. Black again. Damn that would look hot, all that black lace on her bare arms. She got a smile from Roz when she brought it over.
“Pick out some jewelry from the box on the table.”
She sat at the table. It had been enough walking for a bit, her knee said she needed to sit. She pulled together the picture in her mind of the corset, the dress, the lace shirt. Silver closures on the corset meant she should choose the silver ring with a royal-blue flower. Yes, that, and this bracelet would be perfect. No necklace, she thought. Let Ma’am’s cleavage be the star and soak up the spotlight. Yes, these were right, probably. Maybe the ring was too much? She didn’t think so, but . . . well she would see what Roz said.
She brought them over, and waited as Roz looked, and thought, and seemed to take forever contemplating her choices, before she smiled. Oh her smile was everything.
“Good job, girl. You did well.”
Liliana felt warmth spread over her whole body. She had done it. She had completed her first service task, and done it well. She had pleased Ma’am.
“Okay, girl, lay those out on the chair and come sit next to me. I need you to massage my hands and wrists.”
Liliana could think of nothing she would rather do.
YIN AND YANG
Mags Hayward
With graceful elegance she carves a path across the stage, twirling through the slithers of light that perforate the gloom. She flirts with the beams, lingering in their brilliance long enough to tease. Her face, fleetingly captured in the glare, offers a snapshot of demure beauty. Dark lashes flutter over steel-blue eyes, there’s a whisper of a smile, then she’s gone . . . spiraling away, chased by shadows that swirl in kaleidoscope patterns with her, the jewel at the center.
Everyone’s spellbound. Fellow students crane their necks, mesmerized by her fluidity of movement. Engrossed, they scarcely breathe as she dances without music, her only accompaniment the soft tapping of pointe shoes and the metronome rhythm of collectively pounding hearts.
Natalie. A more alluring creature never lived and I can’t stop looking at her. Her lithe limbs, wrapped in a flesh-toned body stocking, appear naked, exposed. Her perky breasts jiggle as she twists and turns and, from where I’m sitting, I can see every detail of her exquisite body. All of it. As she lifts her leg in a high arabesque, I gaze longingly at the puffy outline of her labia and the indent where the thin Lycra fabric stretches across her sex.
A fluttering of twinges stirs my loins and I recall the many times that svelte body has lain in my bed, thighs spread, slender fingers beckoning. I quiver at the memory of soft moans rumbling in her throat when the tip of my tongue tastes the honey beading at the mouth of her soaking slit.
I watch her twist, turn, floating toward center stage where she performs a slow, controlled, double pirouette.
Oh Natalie.
I break free of my trance. I can’t afford to daydream. I have a job to do. I’m the lighting designer for Natalie’s dance and the light must be honed to complement her sensuous performance.
“It’s all about the movement, keep it simple.”
Her whispered instructions still scorch my ear and, focusing, I subtly raise the levels, adding texture to the hazy void she dances within.
All about the movement? No, it’s all about her. Her flawless execution of contemporary ballet surpasses anything I’ve seen and, for a second-year degree student, her choreography excels. Everyone is floored by her and rightly so. But to me, she’s so much more than a gifted dancer. She’s my world.
We’re opposites, Natalie and I: light and shadow, yin and yang. While she’s outgoing and confident, a natural performer, I lurk backstage away from the spotlight. Yet, together, we’re a formidable pair: dancer and technician joining forces to produce the perfect, polished performance.
We enhance each other. And so it is at home. It’s said opposites attract, and our relationship supports that theory. On the surface, we have nothing in common, yet we fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Fate threw us together, or so I think. We’re meant to be. I knew that from the first hello; I was drawn to her and she, to me.
Nonetheless, two years on, I still pinch myself each time she snuggles in my arms. Why has fortune favored me? I was never a lucky child, and relationships before Natalie slipped through my fingers like the beams of light I now direct. I never dreamed I’d be this happy or feel so complete.
From onstage, Natalie seeks me out. Finding me, she flashes a smile that leaves me breathless. She’s so beautiful, dazzling, and all I can think about is her—touching her, kissing her, breathing in her scent. . . . My concentration wavers again and, in my reverie, I fail to notice any more of her dance.
Applause echoes around the studio and Nat
alie curtsies to her audience.
Oh, hell.
A cold sweat dampens my brow at the realization that I’ve messed up.
“Hold it there, Nat, don’t move,” I call out.
Turning to my lighting desk, I quickly plot a fade-out. The light dims slowly, swallowing my lover until she disappears from view. Hurriedly tapping more keys, I activate a calls state and light floods the stage. But it’s overly bright, my efforts too little, too late. The magic’s spoiled.
“Okay people, that’s the last dance,” hollers the petite, grayhaired dance mistress from her pew beside me. “Good work everyone, you’re free to go. Warm-up onstage at six. Prompt.” A wrinkled hand pats my shoulder. “Let’s run through Natalie’s piece again. I want something special.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I got distracted.”
“Didn’t we all? Oh, speak of the devil,” she says, looking beyond me.
“Coffee or tea?”
Natalie’s beside me, her soft, silky voice purring in my ear. Sweat glistens like diamonds on her olive skin and a whiff of lavender along with the bitter tang of sweat tickles my nostrils. Both scents arouse. They bring to mind late-night lovemaking among clammy, twisted sheets.
Bending low, she kisses me, parting her lips, and I taste the minty wetness of her mouth.
“Coffee,” I murmur when she breaks away. “But I’m not quite done.”
“Oh? Don’t you want to spend time with me?”
Silly question. “I need to work on your performance piece. It’s not finished.”
“Didn’t you make me look fabulous?”
She flutters her false lashes, heavy stage makeup creasing at the corners of her eyes. Reaching out, I brush an errant ringlet away from her face.
“I haven’t done you justice. Couldn’t concentrate.”
“Why?” Her lips curve into a half smile and she caresses my cheek with the back of her hand. “I’ll see you in the coffee bar when you’re done.”
She kisses my forehead and backs away.
I shudder, breath catching in my throat. With the ghost of that earlier kiss still burning on my lips, I resume my work. I summon concentration; I need to crack on. My part in Natalie’s performance has to be flawless and this is my only chance to get it right, to make her shine the way she deserves. Time’s precious—tonight is opening night.
I work quickly, adjusting the timings, tweaking the color. Another dancer takes to the stage, marking Natalie’s movements, but I see her—her body, her face, her smile. I visualise her so clearly and, with that image floating before my eyes, I paint the stage around her. Satisfied, I save my work and turn to the dance mistress. Her nod of approval says I’m free to go.
Great!
Clicking on the working light, I hastily tidy away my notes before charging down the seating bank, steel-toed Doc Martens clanking. I still have preshow tasks to complete, but they can wait. I need to see Natalie. I want to hold her, kiss her, and reassure her before she takes to the stage in front of a sell-out audience. She may be confident, but she’s not superhuman—preshow jitters will shake her as much as me.
I sprint toward the cafe in the theater’s lobby, where Natalie’s waiting. Showered and changed, she’ll smell of lavender shower gel and look like an angel. My angel.
The cafe’s packed but I soon spot Natalie. Face scrubbed of makeup, she’s wearing a baggy purple sweatshirt, black leggings, and the knee-high leather boots I bought for her birthday. She’s stunningly beautiful. With her dark brows, long lashes, and hair still twisted into an intricate bun, she has the look of a young Audrey Hepburn, even in casual clothing. It’s her poise, her mannerisms, and that enchanting smile.
Noticing me, she holds two Styrofoam cups aloft and gestures toward the exit.
“Upstairs,” she mouths.
Good idea. There’s a bar on the second floor that won’t be open to the public for another hour. It’s probably locked but I have a key. Skirting around the cafe, I head for the stairs while Natalie squeezes through the melee, her slender frame slotting through impossibly narrow gaps. She smiles and comments as she passes friends. Cheeks are kissed and shoulders touched in flirtatious gestures.
I don’t mind. When she reaches me, I’ll be greeted with a warm hug and a kiss full-on the lips. Only I get that. Oops . . . I hop over a bag dumped haphazardly in my path, its contents spilling from the open top. I smile; dancers can be so untidy. My dancer is.
And here she comes.
My smile widens as we close the gap between us.
“Hey there, gorgeous.”
Natalie slides her arms around my waist, her cheek brushing mine before her lips press down on my mouth. She lets the kiss linger before nuzzling my neck.
“How are you holding up?” she whispers. “Did you fix the lighting?”
“Yes, and I’m fine.” I kiss the top of her head, tasting hairspray. “You?”
“Good. I’m good.”
“Honestly?”
She looks up. “I’m a little nervous. But that’s a good thing. No point dancing if it doesn’t excite.” She shrugs. “Did I do okay?”
“Oh yes.” I cup her face in my hands. “You stole the show.”
“I doubt that.” Natalie laughs. “But thank you. Upstairs?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh . . . your coffee.” She hands me one of the Styrofoam cups. “Almost forgot. Almost spilled it on you, too,” she adds, grinning. “Come on.”
Her delicate hand slips into mine, the warmth of her grip promising more kisses and cuddling, perhaps a little petting. Lewd images invade my brain, visions of intimate acts performed on the soft, leather sofas in the closed bar. I wish . . .
Natalie walks a step ahead of me, pert ass waggling inside her tight leggings. My gaze is drawn to those jostling cheeks and I notice the lack of panty line. Naughty girl. No knickers. Her breasts aren’t restrained either. They tremble teasingly within her sweatshirt, begging to be fondled and sucked.
I float up the staircase, following Natalie’s snaking wiggle as if hypnotized. I love her ass; I adore her figure and the sassy way she moves. At home, she complains about being too thin and calls herself an “ungainly stick-insect.” True, she is slender, but with all the exercise she does, it’s hardly surprising. But ungainly? Certainly not. Everything about her is elegant. My little “stick-insect” is perfect and, ooh, she’s sexy.
Reaching the first-floor bar, Natalie tries the door. It isn’t locked but the lights are off and the metal shutters are secured across the serving area.
“Shall we?” she asks.
Cautious, I peep inside. Deserted. The evening sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating every corner of the room in brilliant golden tones and casting shadows across the empty sofas and chairs. Any movement would be apparent.
“This way.”
Natalie leads me to the far end of the room where unexpected intruders won’t disturb us. There, she takes my coffee cup and deposits it with hers on a low table.
“Just you and me,” she says, burrowing against me.
Yes . . . you and me.
I love these stolen moments. I live for them. Snippets of time alone with Natalie, slotted between the chaos of rehearsals, performances, endless deadlines—for both of us. Quiet moments where time draws a breath.
Sighing, Natalie flops onto a sofa and pats the cushion beside her. When I sit, she encircles me in her arms and we melt into each other, becoming one as we kiss, slow and deep, lips parted. I taste her, feel her, I am as one with her. Moaning softly, she pulls away. She smiles, a crooked, impish smile, then yanks her sweatshirt over her head, revealing a skimpy vest beneath.
“Nat,” I glance around nervously, “what’re you doing?”
“Relax, no one can see us.” Her nipples poke at the thin material. Stroking them, pinching them, she teases me. “Do you want these? Do they turn you on?”
Turn me on? My sex burns with a throbbing, needy yearning but
I’m not as brave as Natalie. Intimacy outside the bedroom bothers me. I hesitate, but she gazes at me with doe eyes and I can’t resist her. I never can. Sighing helplessly, I ease her vest aside and gently draw a nipple into my mouth.
Oh yes . . .
The uneven texture, the salty taste, sends my pulse racing. I switch to the other breast, not wanting to neglect it.
Craving more, I raise Natalie’s arms, hook the vest over her head, and gently guide her backward onto the padded leather. Her dark nipples stand proud, inviting me to touch them. With trembling fingertips, I lightly circle the hardened bumps. Slowly, I spiral outward, gently massaging her areolae and the fleshy mounds they crown.
Touching her is exciting, arousing, and I gasp when a delicious twinge tickles my pussy. Lifting my hands from her flesh, I take a moment to gaze upon my gorgeous partner.
“Um . . . don’t stop.”
Natalie’s eyelids flutter and a strand of hair escapes from her bun, springing into a kiss curl above the center of her forehead.
“Do that again, and take this off.” She tugs at my sweater. “I want some boob, too.”
Now, there’s an offer I can’t refuse.
My nipples ache at the mere thought of Natalie’s hands upon my breasts or her tongue swirling over my aroused buds. I scan the room, peering into every corner, but all is quiet. I remove my sweater and T-shirt. The bra I’m wearing is practical, not pretty, but it cups my large breasts in a way that enhances my cleavage.
“That’s more like it,” Natalie says, smirking. “Hello, beauties.”
She finds my breasts irresistible and, sure enough, her gaze zooms in on my wobbling flesh. A flush blooms across my skin, fueled by desire and the longing to be fondled . . . but I’m not bold enough to remove the bra.
What if we’re disturbed?
Still covered, I turn my attention to Natalie. She’s got me fired up and my pussy pulsates under her lustful looks and wandering hands. No longer content to fondle gently, I dive on her, lavishing her with kisses from her breasts to her neck—hard, passionate kisses that leave her flesh goose-bumped and trembling.
