I donned my black ballet leotard and fidgeted in my chair.
He stood behind me, planted his calloused hands on my bare shoulders, and spoke. He spoke slowly and calmly, with an air of power and authority that I secretly craved, telling me what a naughty girl I’ve been, his strong hands slowly wrapped themselves around my exposed neck, and tightened.
“How does this feel, my little dancer?”
A shallow gasp escaped my lips, a flush of red coloured my cheeks as my lungs began to beg for air. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror, his face, cleanly shaven, a subtle smirk surfaced momentarily before it was swiftly smothered.
Does he know that I am secretly enjoying this? Could he possibly know?
I bit down on my lower lip as a thick blush washed over my cheeks, embarrassed and terrified at the same time. I could the fleeting thoughts escaping my head as a dull headache began to manifest itself – the brain screamed for oxygen and the lung simply couldn’t provide any.