The day doesn’t start without a stretch.
The day doesn’t end without a stretch.
And everything in between needs to be perfect.
I’m sure there are ballerinas out there who aren’t perfectionists, but none of them are at The Balanchine School. And maybe this wasn’t my first option, but sure as hell it’s a lot of people’s.
I am still sitting in bed, wearing my pyjamas, when I start stretching. I do my neck, shoulders and hands before I even open my eyes.
A deep breath.
Another one.
The list for the day.
07:30 Breakfast
08:00 Locker room
08:30 Warm up
09:00 – 10:40 Ms. Vaudeville’s Class
10:50 – 12:00 Variation
12:00 – 13:00 Lunch break
14:00 Warm up
14:30 – 15:30 Modern Dance
15:50 – 17:30 Ms. DeLaupier’s class
I’d have 10 minutes in the morning to call my mom.
I’d have 20 minutes in the afternoon to do some strengthening exercises.
I’d use my lunch break to get a 40 minutes pilates session.
Every single second of my day was counted for and if I had a free second, it meant my scheduling skills failed me. Next week I’d have to do better.
07:30 – Breakfast is an avocado toast with a poached egg and spinach.
I don’t drink coffee.
I drink water.
The dorms at Balanchine are on the upper levels, so I need to go down four floors to the locker and class rooms. I know exactly how much time that takes me. I’ve timed it. I don’t take the elevator, I take the stairs and I know I’ll be at my locker room at exactly…
07:59:46 – Locker room.
My locker is pristine. I keep it clean. I keep it organised.
I choose the clean clothes I’ll use for the day, and make a mental note that I need to do some urgent laundry.
My basic black leotard which is the color uniform for my class.
Pink tights.
Pink wrap skirt.
Black leg warmers.
I get dressed, that takes me three minutes.
I make a high pony tail and turn it into a high bun. That takes me four minutes.
A list make up takes another five.
Now I just need to get my shoes and I still have a good 10 minutes before I need to start my warm ups. *Clockwork*.
If I can schedule everything to perfection, then everything *will be* perfection.
Nothing gets out of my control.
I get my slipper shoes and my pointe shoes and I’m…
*What the hell?*
My pointe shoes are filled with… *something*.
I sank my fingers in them to pick them up and my they come out sticky with some white suspicious looking *goo*. It feels fresh, like some weird organic glue dissolved in spit or…
*Oh no. No-no-no-no-no*.
Is this *cum*? I’ve heard tales of this happening to some of the other girls, I thought it was just rumours but… I stare at my fingers and *something* is happening to me. It’s like the sensation of a man’s cum on my fingers is hypnotising me. Something about this violation that makes me feel… *turned on?*
No!
I should feel like screaming.
Like men are disgusting!
Right?
Because that’s the only thing that would make sense.
So why am I staring at a man’s sperm on my fingers and squeezing my thighs?
Why am I feeling his texture and wondering what that would feel like to have *inside* me? Or to have it rubbed all over my…
“Sophie? Hurry!” Olivia runs into the locker with a half made bun and a look of desperation.
“What?” *I am early*. There is NO hurry when you are early!
“Ms Vaudeville decided to lead the warm up today, we are already late”
No. No-no-no… what kind of madness is this?
Did I cross through a looking glass or something?
I grab my slippers and pointe and run.
Ms Vaudeville is one of the most respected ballerinas in history. But a sticker for scheduling, she is not. This last minute changing of plans is precisely what made me decide to always be extra early. And now she does this?
I grab a chair to help me with my stretching exercises and Ms Vaudeville (already leading the class with tips and corrections) eyes me and Olivia for being late.
She is gonna have to eye another five girls at least, cause half the class is still missing.
But I don’t care about other girls, I care about Sophie. I care about me.
I touch my neck to push it sideways and… *I didn’t wash my hands*.
I was so shocked over my pointe shoes being desacrated and the forbidden thoughts that followed that I never thought about everything else.
I had a man’s sperm still on my fingers. Well… now also on my neck, shoulder and part of my hair close to the nape.
I try to rub my hand on my skirt, to clean it somehow, but my skin feels hard where it dried. I don’t know if that’s even possible or just a psychological effect.
*There was cum on my body*. And a lot more in the pointe shoes waiting by the side of the class for me to finish the barre.
I am so offended!
Disgusted really!
I am outraged!
I am… *having trouble breathing*.
I am suddenly very aware of every centimetre of skin touched by his cum. Burning and tickling. I try to focus but all I can think of are those seconds in the locker room when I had it still fresh in my hand.
*What if I had touched myself with that?*
*Sophie!* Stop! Let’s pretend that thought never occurred me. Yes. Never.
Ms Vaudeville finished the warm ups early and sends us to the barre and I… I have been doing by *pliés* and *pas de bourres* since I was four, yet today they seem like the hardest things in life.
Someone went hard in the locker room.
He was so horny he couldn’t get back to his own room.
He cleaned his pleasure off his nakedness with the first thing he could find.
*I wish I could have seen it*.
My body keeps squeezing my thighs without my permission. It’s ruining my posture, but it’s impossible to fight it.
*God, please, this needs to stop.*
“*Sophie!”* Ms Vaudeville says with a thick French accent that, in this case, means she is pronouncing my name perfectly “What is wrong with you today!”
I apologize but I’m still thinking about him jerking off for me to watch.
I touch the barre and now I’m thinking about his sperm in the barre.
I move my hands and now I’m thinking about his sperm in my movement.
Ms Vaudeville calls my attention a second time before we are told to put the pointes on.
I stare at the damn shoes waiting for me as if they were a killer hiding in the shadows.
“*Allez-y! Sans tarder!”* She claps and I get startled.
I put them on.
My beautiful pointe shoes. They are still hard and thick which is perfect, specially compared to my previous ones that were starting to give. I sink my feet in and it’s still there.
*He* is still there.
Like a little invading puddle.
It soaks my toes and I’m pretty sure it won’t dry any time soon. I’ll have to strip it clean after the class. There goes my ten minute call with my mom.
Ms Vaudeville is speaking but to say I am having a hard time is an understatement.
Ballet is about perfection of details.
Your shoulders need to be down, your elbows need to be up, your fingers need to be angled, your posture needs to be upright. You need to be aware of every little part of your body, and that’s before we even get to worrying about balance and movements.
And when it comes to your feet, everything is dialled up to a million.
You either learn how to add a new bodypart to your sense of self or you are done. I mean it: Your shoes become part of your feet. You have to feel the floor through them while using it’s structure to keep your feet safe. And all of that while also being constantly aware of where they are and *how* they are. Make one tiny mistake and your nails will dig into the floor, and your body weight will feel like it’s crushing your nails. And that’s the best case scenario cause if you turn them even a bit, then you are standing on your knuckles and that’s gonna hurt like you’re being interrogated by a dictatorship with no regards for human rights.
I have been a ballerina since I was four.
Nearly two decades of ballet.
My shoes *are* part of my feet.
So when I say feeling cum in them is like feeling cum *inside* my body, I mean exactly what I say.
A little puddle in right foot.
Tickling me.
Taunting me.
*Turning me on*.
I have a hard time moving my legs, specially since every other movement around here involves spreading them apart. It’s like my body expects something every time my thighs make a little way.
I think the sperm in my foot is warming me up.
That’s impossible though. Right? It can’t be. I’m imagining it.
But I swear to God, it feels like it’s boiling. To the point where it hurts, and I am a woman used to feeling pain in my feet, so when I say it’s disturbing, that’s quite something.
Ms Vaudeville spends the entire class calling me out for this or that, and I would mind but the muscles in my vagina keep contracting like there is some invisible force tugging on them, and it is… *delicious*.
*Putain*, I wanna run my hands through my hair and undo my bun while I grind myself against the barre.
I should be taking some care of my body.
I treat it with immense respect on all things, but never on this.
I remember this one night last year, I dreamed I was dancing and the *danseur* with me would grab my body and lay me on the Marley floor so violently that I would slide on it for a bit, before he clawed my thighs and made love to me. But I couldn’t finish, no matter what he did. There was only ever build up. Never satisfaction.
That was my body telling me (begging me) to do something.
I masturbated that morning before even stretching.
And right now my body was telling me I needed that, but it felt wrong.
This man violated me. He violated my things, he violated my body. I should be disgusted, not turned on. I should report him, not masturbate to the very idea of him.
I have ten minutes before my variation class and it’s clear I am not calling my mother.
I run to the locker to try to clean my shoes.
I lock myself in a stall ready to grab a ton of toilet paper, but instead I…
It’s like I’m hypnotised by the large square box on the shoes, holding on to his sperm like it’s a gift.
I dip my fingers in.
There’s considerably less of it now. But there is still some.
I spread him on my fingers feeling my shallow breathing getting harder and deeper.
*Don’t do it, Soph.*
*No.*
*Don’t*.
I take my cum soaked finger between my legs and I touch myself.
I don’t mean much by it! It doesn’t even count as masturbation!
I’m just… you know… trying to see what happens.
And what happens is I get a little wet.
So I touch myself more.
My body wants it so bad that instead of my fingers flicking me, it’s my hips that are riding my hand.
Me head falls back.
*Sophie, no. This is wrong*.
It is. But it feels so fucking good. And so *so* close.
I need to get this leotard out of the way to…
My alarm rings.
Ten minutes are up.
I have Variation now and I’ll be damned I didn’t even have a drink of water.
My lips are dry and my head is foggy when I run to class.
I try to focus.
But if it was hard before when I had cum on my fingers and feet, now that I have them soaring right over my inner thighs and my… well.. *my pussy* it turns out to be even harder.
Robert Louis Stevenson was on to something cause a Mr Hyde does live inside every one’s Dr. Jekyll. And I have to spend the next hour listening to my dark side trying to convince me that rubbing myself a little bit is not such a bad idea.
My lunch is an apple and kiwi juice with an egg white omelet, fifteen minutes and I am rushing for pilates.
Some quiet relaxing time at the studio by myself.
I get all the supplies I need. The little roll to help me stretch, the ball and I’m good.
That’s all I need.
And to know who the man is.
Has to be someone in the school.
Maybe one of the dancers? One of the teachers? Someone on staff?
What does he look like? How does he grab his dick when he is pleasing himself?
Did he cum on my shoe by accident? Or was it intentional? Was he fucking his own hand or was he fucking my shoe straight away? Did he shove his cock in there? Did he shove his cock *inside my body?*
I should be using the little roll to stretch but, it seems, I am riding it instead.
I didn’t even notice I was doing this, but here I am. Grinding my pussy against it. The leotard is thick but my nipples are so hard you can see them pointing.
I trade the roll for the ball but it’s not long until I’m grinding that too. Or the mat or the bar or anything in range. Every exercise starts normal and innocent, but it quickly turns hard and sweaty before I can stop myself.
*The roll is the best one and I keep going back to it.*
I am so on edge I can feel it coming. Like the morning after that delicious dream. One more rub. *Two*.
This is *so* wrong, Soph! Please don’t do this to yourself.
*How am I gonna look myself in the mirror*.
I stop.
I am so close my eyes tear up and my body shakes like it hates me and wants me dead.
But I stop.
I breath like a sick woman trying not to throw up.
Classes that afternoon are hell.
I’m so horny even walking feels like foreplay. *Just walking*. My pussy lips move in a certain way and my clit thinks it’s being caressed. What the hell even is this?
*This is insanity.*
My whole body hurts. *Bad*.
My breasts hurt. Every muscle in my body aches, like it has experienced nothing but tension all day.
I need to rest.
I need to breath.
I need *to be fucked*. Hard and strong by someone who means it.
Sex can be so weird.
You can not have for the longest time. But when your body decides what it wants, you can’t deny it forever. The more you deny, the more that “want” turns into “need”.
My day is finished, but I am far from it.
I am so horny even my despair turns me on.
I shower and my hands linger everywhere.
My tits, my pussy, the neck and shoulders that were once also attacked by the unknown sperm. The tip of my finger finds the tip of my clit and a bolt of lightning crashes through my body. How is it possible to want to be fucked by someone you don’t even know?
I want him to kick down the doors to the shower, tell me he was the one who came all over me, show me his cock and ask me if I want more. Cause I want more, I really do.
God, I never sucked a man before, but I’d do that right now.
I’d even put the fucking pointe shoes and leotard back on if he wanted me to. I’d break into the studio and ask him to fuck me against the barre.
But no one comes.
No one kicks down the door.
And every time I am really close, either guilt stops me or outside noises do.
I get dressed and stare at my leotard for a second. *It looks like a crime scene*. There is so much natural lube everywhere, it makes me blush. Just having it in my hand is making me light headed again.
I shove it back in my locker in a hurry, feeling my cheeks burn.
Is it possible to die from sexual dissatisfaction?
Sleeping doesn’t help.
Waking up doesn’t help.
Stretching doesn’t help.
But what *really* doesn’t help is getting to the locker room that morning and finding my used leotard and tights… *inside out*. You know the one I spent all day yesterday getting wet with pussy juice? It’s turned inside out like someone… wanted to smell it. Or lick it.
*Fuck*.
My entire body respond to that sight. *I like it*.
*My pussy likes it*.
My pussy *loves* it that someone is violating my things like that. I’ve never been this aroused by anything, ever. Not reading erotica, not masturbating, not daydreaming about hot guys who were just my type. Nothing.
Nothing ever hooked me as hard as finding my shoes filled with cum yesterday and…
One of my clean tights is all messed up. Not properly folded like I left it.
And right there *inside* the tights there is a fresh load of cum. It’s still fucking warm. This man was cumming in my clothes like a minute ago.
My thighs contract so hard I think I might cum just by standing there.
*I like it*.
I like my clothes being tainted like that.
*Fuck, I really like it*.
“Soph!” Olivia calls me and I know Ms Vaudeville probably went crazy with the schedule again.
I stare at the tights. Not the folded ones I still have in there, but the *messy* one. I won’t even pretend to have a modest excuse… I don’t. I grab them tights put them on as they are, cum and all.
My eyes immediately close shut. Immediately*.* The *very second* I feel his load up on my pussy.
I wish this had already happened to me before. I never had much interest for sex but now I’m thinking what I was lacking was the right scenario. One that would fit my needs like this does.
The warm up feels like foreplay. The barre makes me feel like a stripper. I have sex in my every thought and desire in my every move. I’m biting my lip so hard it messes with my balance.
Ballerinas are suppose to look light as feathers, not intense as a dog in heat.
The cum in my shoe was a violation. But this warm sticky thing in my tights is something else.
I feel him there, caressing my pussy lips as I dance, like I am being fingered as I try to go about my day.
This is impossible.
It’s unbearable.
I need to finger myself until I cum. That’s it. I’m done.
I have ten minutes. I finger myself over the tights and leotard, rubbing my palm really hard, feeling his load being squeezed inside me. I rub harder, I rub faster. Trying to breath through shallow little moans as my whole body craves release.
Ten minutes are up.
No release.
Every second of every break, I try to run and hide so I can get this done. My body is screaming, yelling, begging and crying. But I can never get away. A teacher need me, a friend wants to talk, my mom is asking why I never called yesterday…
I am denied and denied and denied. And it has turned me into a pin cushion. Every move, every noise, every though… pins me straight in the vagina, making me squirm and cry.
I am on a straight trajectory to the end of my day when I can finally take care of this, but it feels like even Time itself is fucking me. Violently violating me. Thrusting it’s cock of denial in me one more time. And another. And another. I just need to survive one more hour. One more conversation. One more class. One more exercise. One more song.
When it’s finally over, I run to the shower partially afraid I will cum the second I take my clothes off. *I don’t want it to happen so fast.* Not after the two days I had… I want to enjoy this.
I don’t take off my clothes. For reasons I am not fully prepared to admit, I like the tainted clothes. They are part of sex for me now. I need them. They are like the fingers I wish were touching me.
*His fingers*.
I picture him, my mysterious man, with an unknown name and an unknown face, letting himself in the locker room, checking around to make sure everything is empty. He opens *my* locker. It’s not an accident, it can’t be. It’s intentional. He wants *me*. He wants to cum all over my clothes again. He is looking around trying to decide on what, when he sees the leotard. Maybe he smells it. Maybe he can smell a woman’s desire in it. He turns it inside out, slowly, feeling himself go rock hard. He pulls his cock out and shoves the leotard on his nose. Then the tights. He pulls his tongue out and pretends it’s his cock when he lick my dance tights all the way through the inner legs to the pussy, getting this indirect taste of my body. I can picture him wanking it. Beating it so hard in the empty locker room a innocent bystander would hear nothing but his shallow breathing and the sounds of his skin on skin.
I wish I was an innocent bystander to that.
Though “innocent” here is probably a lie all around.
If I was there he wouldn’t need to cum in tights, he could have the real thing. And if he wanted the real thing covered by the tights, I’d be fine with that too.
As long as I could get some of that hard piece of men in me.
As long as I could get any release.
If my clit could speak, it would be begging right now.
I don’t even rub it anymore. I can’t call this “rub”. I *attack* it, it’s what I do.
Like I’m mugging it and robbing it of everything it possesses.
Harder. Stronger.
And that’s the thing about ballerinas: we strive for perfection. And you can’t have it, unless you are constantly aware of you own body at all times. The position of your shoulders, the height of your elbows, the roll of your feet, the stance of your knees, the standard of your posture. I know every single each of my body and am constantly aware of it.
My pussy is no different.
I *feel* it in a way I’m not sure most non-dancing women even can.
Every movement, every turn.
Harder. Stronger.
Almost. Almost.
Biting my lip. Rolling my eyes.
Right there. I can feel it.
And then it breaks. Filling me with two days worth of release. Making my muscles shake and falter like no hard training ever could. The pain turning into sweet vindication, traveling through my body with wave after wave of an orgasm so powerful I need to lean against the wall so I don’t fall down.
I need a shower now.
I need to learn how to breath again.
But before any of that, an idea occurs. I get my clean panties that I was planning to wear *after* the shower and I clean myself with it. I use it like a cloth to make myself perfectly clean. After my shower instead of putting it on, I put it inside a white envelope in my locker, right on top of all things. And just outside it, I write “*For you. Keep it.”*
It would be a lie to say I didn’t finger myself again in bed. And then again in the morning. Before I stretched. Before I even opened my eyes.
I have a free morning today that must be used to do a much needed laundry.
But first I go down to the lockers.
I find the white envelope still there, but the panties are gone. *He took them*.
Outside the white envelope, I can still see my message telling him to take. And write under my elegant handwriting, I can see his manly one that reads “*Thanks. See you around”*.
That gives me chills.
*See you around*.
Yeah.
I guess so.
———
A special thank you to u/voila- as this was a commission! (I have their permission to tag them in this thank you note! <3) Great working with you again and I hope everyone enjoys it!! <3
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/11efdd0/noncon_dubcon_clothes_fetish_i_f20_am_a_ballerina
This
Is
Exquisite