A big-titted ballerina

The tape was the worst part.

Natalia stood in the wings with her back to the fly rail, peeling the wide strip of athletic tape off her ribs inch by inch; the sweat made it sting. She'd been binding her chest since she was sixteen, back when Madame Fournier had looked at her in the fitting room and sighed through her nose — a long, disappointed hhhhnnn — then said, "The bust is a problem. Odette must look like a feather, not a fruit bowl."

Six years later, now 22 years of age, the tape was still the first thing she did in the morning and the last thing she took off at night.

Tonight, though, she hadn't taken it off at all. Irena had gone down in Act Two with a torn Achilles, a shriek that echoed off the rafters; now the stage manager was in front of her with a clipboard, a face like a funeral: "You're on. You know the part. You know you know the part."

She knew the part. She'd known it for three years, in the dark, at the back of the studio, dancing it in her socks while Irena got the notes.

...

Act Three. The black swan.

The dressers pinned the bodice at the seams, fast, unsympathetic — the fitter laced it tight, tighter than tight — until Natalia's breasts were pressed up over the boned edge, every breath coming with a small involuntary ah on the exhale. Feathers, sequins, the hard black line of her sternum. The audience would see it. Everyone would see it.

The orchestra tuned. She breathed out once — "hhh" — the tape creaked.

She danced like something with a knife in it.

Thirty-two fouettés came at the end; she took them from the centre, not the corner, because she was angry; anger spins clean. The house came up off its seats. Somewhere in the dark a man was standing before the rest of them, in a box; she registered the shape of him, nothing more.

Afterwards: the stage door, the cold, the smokers, and the flowers from strangers who'd never once spoken to her before tonight.

And then a low, amused voice at her elbow: "You taped yourself down for the third act."

Older than her by fifteen years. Built like someone who'd rowed once. Dark coat, no flowers, a silver pin with the company crest on his lapel.

"James," he said, hand out. "I chair the board. I also watch every rehearsal from the lighting box, which I'm told is creepy."

"It's creepy," Natalia said.

"I know. Come have a drink; let me tell you what was wrong with it."

...

They were the last two in the bar. He drank something brown and expensive; she nursed a gin and tonic she barely touched. He told her the port de bras in the variation was too early, killing the suspense; she argued with him, and he let her. By the second drink, she'd stopped pulling her shoulders back to hide herself because he'd looked at her chest exactly once, for exactly one second, then gone back to her face.

"The costume's wrong for you," he said. "Not because of your body. Because they cut it for Irena; Irena dances like a paper crane. You dance like the weather. You need room to breathe in it."

"Madame Fournier says the bust is a problem."

"Madame Fournier is a hundred and four and still dresses like it's 1962." He set the glass down. "You're an animal; they've put you in a cage of boning. That's the whole problem. You're apologising for the wrong things."

She felt it land low and hot. "Show me, then."

He looked at her a beat too long. "Now?"

"The studio's empty. The night guard knows me."

...

The studio smelled of rosin and a cold radiator. One bank of lights, half of them dead. Natalia dropped her bag and stood at the bar, watching him in the mirror; he hung his coat on the radiator pipe like a man who lived there.

"The tape," he said. "Off. All of it. I want to see what we're actually working with."

She turned her back and peeled. It took a while—the last strip came away with a sound like a bandage off a wound—her breasts settled, heavy, free; behind her she heard him let out a slow, quiet breath, almost a hum, "mmmh".

"Now the bodice."

"I'm not in costume."

"Then imagine it. Arms. First."

She lifted them; the whole front of her opened; in the mirror she saw what he saw: a woman with her arms overhead, her chest rising, the leotard strap cutting a soft line across the underside of one breast. Not a feather. Not a crane.

"Better," he said, lower than before. "Now the variation. From the top. And don't be pretty about it."

She danced it. He circled her, calling out, "Hips." "Lower." "Suspense, suspense, hold it—" On the third pass, coming out of the turn, he caught her waist to stop her drift; she didn't step back.

Chest to chest. Breathing hard, both of them. His hand spread over her ribs, thumb under the curve of her breast; he dragged it up, once, deliberately; she made a sound she'd never made in a studio before — a high, surprised, breaking "ohh".

"Tell me to stop," he said.

"Don't you dare."

...

He kissed her like he'd been choreographing it for a month. Back against the barre, cold wood at her spine, his coat off her shoulders, on the floor. His mouth down her throat — a wet, open-mouthed drag, a groan rolling out of his chest, "nnngh" — her collarbone; then he caught the leotard strap in his teeth and pulled it aside; when his mouth closed over her nipple, she arched so hard the barre groaned in its brackets.

"God," he said against her skin, muffled, delighted. "Hhh — you've been hiding these under tape."

"They bounce—" she gasped as he pulled harder, tongue flat, rough. " Ah — ahh —"

"Good. That's the whole point of them."

He worked the leotard down over her hips and let it drop. Then his hands were on the backs of her thighs; he was going down — not fast, not all at once — sinking to his knees with his eyes on hers the whole way, so she had to watch him descend.

His mouth landed first on the inside of her thigh, high, well above the knee; he dragged his tongue up in one long stroke that stopped an inch short of her, then came back down again. She twitched.

"Ohh —"

He hummed against the skin. "Mmmh," did he say again? Then again, higher. Then on the other leg, starting over at the knee, she wanted to kick him so slowly.

"James —"

"Hm?"

"Closer."

"Say it properly."

She looked down at him, at his mouth hovering just under the crease of her thigh. "Please. Please put your mouth on me."

He smiled, then he did — but not where she wanted. He started at the outer lips, mouthing the soft edge of her, nudging with his nose, breathing hot against her, and pulling back every time she pushed her hips forward. Long flat laps up one side. A slow drag down the other. A closed-mouth kiss right on the seam, no pressure, just the hot press of his lips and the ghost of his tongue.

"Ahh—ohh—James, God—"

He opened her with two thumbs and looked; she felt it like a touch; the sound that came out of her then was barely human, a thin high "hhhnnnh". Then his tongue finally — finally — came down flat over her clit in one slow, deliberate, dragging stroke.

Her whole body jolted. "AH —"

He pulled off immediately. "There?"

"Yes—yes, don't stop—"

He didn't go back to it. He worked around it instead — up one side, down the other, dipping low to push his tongue just barely inside her, then out again, lapping, humming, "mmmh — hnn — mmmh" — while his nose ground against her clit with every stroke, her hips chasing him in circles.

"Please—oh—ohh, please—"

He gave her three flat hard licks, then took his mouth away entirely; she actually wailed, "aaah!"

"Breathe," he said, mouth wet against her thigh.

"Fuck – don't – don't tease me –"

"Then hold still."

She tried. She couldn't. When his mouth came back, closed around her clit, sucked — not a flick, a real pull, steady, hard — she came up off her heels, gripped the barre overhead with both hands, and shouted.

"OHH—oh God—ohh—ohh—"

He held the suction, worked his tongue against her in short, fast, grinding strokes, and groaned into it, "nnngh" — the groan was what tipped her over the edge. She felt it gather somewhere under her ribs, tight and rising, her legs shaking, one foot pointed so hard her arch cramped, then it broke wide open.

"AAAH—ahh—AHH—"

It rolled through her in long crashing waves, one on top of another; he didn't let up — stayed on her through all of it, tongue relentless, mouth sealed, until she was sobbing with it, yanking at the barre, knees gone completely. The mirror showed her whole body bowed backwards like a strung bow, breasts swinging, throat open, absolutely wrecked.

When she finally sagged, he eased off slowly, kissing her softer and softer until she hissed; then he sat back on his heels, mouth shining, chest heaving, and looked up at her like she'd given him something.

"God," she managed.

"Told you," he said hoarsely. "You apologise for the wrong things."

...

"Turn around," he said, standing. His voice had gone to gravel. "Hands on the barre. Face the mirror. I want you to watch yourself."

She got up on shaking legs; she made sure he saw the shake. Made sure he saw her take her time about it — the slow unfold, the roll of her shoulders, the way she stepped past him close enough that her nipple dragged across his shirtfront. He swallowed.

"You're still dressed," she said.

"I'm aware."

"Shame." She put her palms flat on the barre and looked at him in the mirror, chin down, eyes up. "Take it out, then. Let me see what all that posture's been hiding."

He unzipped.

She heard it; her whole body clenched — then she watched in the mirror as he took himself out, her mouth going dry. Thick. Thick in a way that made her thighs shift, ruddy and heavy in his fist, too heavy to stand up straight, and a thick rope of vein running the whole length of the underside like a seam in a ballet slipper. Another crooked branch of it on the side, blue and fat. The head was wide, blunt, shining, and already wet. When he stroked it once to settle his grip, it jerked against his palm; a bead of it gathered and slid.

"Oh," she said, all mock-solemn, her voice gone thin. "The board's been holding out on me."

"Watch," he said.

He fitted the head to her and pressed. Just pressed, no more; the stretch of it made her breath stop in her throat — a slow, blunt spreading that kept going, going, her body opening around him in a way that felt less like being entered than like being split; she heard herself make a low, wounded, rising sound, "hhhhaaah —"

"Breathe out," he said.

"It's—ahh—it's a lot—"

"Then take it slow."

He did. He took it slow. An inch at a time; she felt every single one of them: the hard, hot drag of him through the slick, the veins scraping a line up her front wall, and the way her body clenched, then, helplessly, gave. Her fingers curled on the barre. Her heels came up off the floor.

"Ohh," she groaned. "Ohh—God—ohh—" not teasing now, nothing clever left in her.

"Half," he said, thickly. "That's half."

"Don't tell me that —"

He pushed. Another long, slow inch; she felt him reach the place where she stopped expecting him, felt it keep coming; the pressure moved inward — deep, deep, past the point where anything had ever reached; her belly went tight, strange with it; her whole body bowed.

"HHHah—" She looked down. Her stomach was flat, hard-drawn, all tendon, hollow — she saw it: a faint swell low down, a shallow inward curve pushed out from the inside. "Oh my God —" She slapped her palm flat over it, pressing, felt him there, and felt the thick shape of him through the wall of her own body; something in her head went white.

"Feel that?" His voice was wrecked.

"Yes —" She was staring at her own hand. " Yes — ohh — I can feel you in my stomach —" She lifted her eyes to the mirror, her reflection a stranger: mouth open, breasts pressed to the wood, hand splayed low on her belly. "Is it — am I —"

"Look at you," he grunted. "You're bulging."

"Ohh —" It came out of her like a sob.

He drew back — the drag the other way was just as slow, just as obscene, her body clinging, complaining — pushed home again in one long, heavy, unbroken stroke; this time it was the whole thing, bottomed out, hips flush against her; she shouted at the ceiling.

"AAH—ahh—oh my God—ohh—"

He held there, breathing hard through his nose, "hnnh — hnnh" — giving her time, giving her body time to decide — she could feel him twitching inside her, deep, thudding, the veins, the pulse of him; it was so much that her eyes watered.

"Move," she gasped. "Move—ohh—please move—"

He pulled back and gave her the first real thrust.

...

It lifted her onto her toes and punched a sound straight out of her lungs — "hah!" — not a word, just air. Slow. Deep. Every stroke bottomed out, filling her to that impossible place; he made her look at herself the whole time: her open mouth, her swinging breasts, her fingers going white on the barre, and the hand she still had splayed on her own belly, feeling him work.

She gave him everything. She'd been quiet her whole life in studios — had learned to breathe in the corners of rooms — now she opened her throat and let it come out of her, loud, unashamed, because the room was empty, the mirror was right there, and he had asked for it.

"Ohh—ohh—ohh—" rising each time his hips slapped home; underneath it the wet clap, the squeak of her own palms on the wood.

"Louder," he grunted. "Hnnh—come on—"

"AH—ohh, God—" She dropped her head, then remembered the mirror, snapped it back up, and caught his face behind her: jaw tight, eyes black, watching her watch herself. "That's it," she gasped. "Look at me. Look at what you're — ahh — look at what you're doing to me —"

He made a rough sound, half a laugh, half a groan, "hnngh", then drove in harder.

So she turned the screw.

"Slower," she said. "Slower — mmh — make it last, big man. You're the one who said the suspense was too early." She arched her back, tipped her hips, took him to the hilt, and squeezed. "Ohh—that's right—feel that—"

He groaned like she'd hit him. "Nnngh—God—"

"Say it. Say what it's like."

"You're—hnnh—tight as a fist—"

"Mm. And?" She pushed back into him on the next stroke, hard; he lost his rhythm for a second and had to catch himself.

"And you dance on it," he said hoarsely. "You've been — hnn — holding out on the whole company."

"I save it." She was panting now, grinning at him in the mirror, her thighs slick, her voice gone thin, stupid with pleasure. "Ahh—I save it for men who know what to do with a fruit bowl—"

He laughed, actually laughed, then stopped being polite.

He hauled her hips back into him and set a hard, flat, driving pace; the barre knocked against the wall in rhythm. His grunts came out of him short and mean now — "hnnh — hnnh — hnnh" — she went to pieces on them, "oh — oh — ohh" — climbing, cracking, "James — James — ahh" —

"Say my name like that again."

"James —" Her forehead hit the mirror. "Ohh God, James, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"

"Not going to." He leant over her, teeth at the back of her shoulder, biting down — not hard, enough — the sound she made was not a word at all, a long, tearing "hhhaaah" that echoed off the empty studio.

He grunted against her skin. "Hnngh—there it is—"

"Close—" she sobbed. "Oh—oh—James, I'm going to—"

"Do it. Let me feel it. Now —"

She came a second time with her forehead grinding against the mirror, her reflection smearing, a long wrecked wail, "AAAaahh—"; the convulsion went through her in clenches that clamped down hard, rhythmic, and dragged an astonished curse out of him—"fuck—hhh—"

He held on through it, teeth gritted, hips stuttering, "nngh — nngh —", right on the edge, right there — then, hoarse, close as a whisper at her ear, almost an apology:

"Are you protected?"

"Doesn't —" she got out. "Doesn't matter — ahh — doesn't matter anymore —" and then, wrecked, "Fill me. Please. Fill me —"

Something in him came apart.

She felt his balls draw up tight against her, snug, hard as two stones, and then they started to pulse — the first heavy throb of them against her, the whole sac jumping — and he slammed home, stayed there, buried to the root, grinding, shaking, hands hard enough on her hips to leave prints.

Then it came.

Hot. Warmer than she was ready for, thick, flooding her in long pulsing ropes, one shoved after another, each one landing deep — not the shallow place, the deep one, the one he'd opened up — and she felt every separate throb of it, the way his cock jumped with each spurt, the way her body took it, drank it, and the warm spread of it climbing low under her navel. Her womb, that deep, soft secret place of hers, felt it arrive: pulse after pulse of it pumping into her young womb, steady, heavy, and unhurried, and it kept coming, and he kept groaning into her shoulder, "nngh — NNNGH — hnngh", the last of it wrung out of him with a long shudder.

She put her hand back flat over that little swell where he was and felt the pulse through her own wall — one, two, three, four — and something behind her ribs came loose.

"Ohh—" It was almost a sob. " Ohh my God — ohh — yes — ohh, that's it — give it to me — all of it — mmh —"

He sagged over her back. His forehead found the space between her shoulder blades. His breath came in hot, broken heaves against her spine — "hhh — hhh" — she reached back, blind, got a fistful of his shirt, and held him there while he came down, still twitching, still spilling the last of it.

Neither of them could stand. She felt his knees give before his hands did.

"Floor," she said. "Now. Before I fall."

...

Afterwards, they lay on the floor on his coat. He traced the red tape marks across her ribs, one by one, with the pad of his thumb; every time she breathed out, there was still a soft ragged edge in it, "hhh". She could feel it still inside her, warm and heavy, and when she shifted her hips, it moved, and she made a small, pleased, ruined sound at the ceiling.

"You asked me if I was protected," she said.

"I did."

"I'm not, by the way."

He was quiet for a moment. "You said it didn't matter."

"It doesn't." She turned her head and looked at him. "Not anymore."

She got her mouth to his ear and murmured, hoarse as a smoker, "You grunt."

"I do."

"Loud."

"You're one to talk." He kissed the corner of her jaw. "The night guard's going to think someone's being murdered up here."

"Let him come up and check." She stretched, luxurious and entirely shameless; her breasts slid against his forearm. "I'll give him a full report. Hnnngh," she added, in a fair imitation of him.

"Bitch," he said fondly.

"Mmh." She looked at him properly and let the smugness drain out of her face. "Tomorrow," she said, "you're calling the costume shop."

He blinked. "You heard that?"

"I hear everything. New bodice. Cut for me."

"You'll get run out of the board for it."

"Let them." He kissed the last mark, just under her breast; she sighed — a long, loose, entirely satisfied "mmmh" — and let her head fall back against the floor.

“And tomorrow…” she started.

“Yes?”

“You will make me a mommy. Just to be sure.”

Dance like weather, he'd said. The rest of it's just corsetry.

The tape lay in a tangle by the radiator. She decided she was never going to use it again.

To be continued.