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.
