Power Play at the Ballet (For Sir)

“I’ve been thinking, maybe we should go see a show? Opera maybe… or is the ballet in town?”

She smiled, “The opera is featuring Don Giovanni from the Mozart cycle, but the ballet is in town… Swan Lake.”

“Tough choice,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Though I was always a fan of Swan Lake…”

Joy bubbled up inside of her at his words.

“Swan Lake is my favorite, dear… so unless you really want to see Don Gio…”

He shook his head.

“Swan Lake it is, we’ll catch the opera some other time.”

“Oh, get tickets soon, won’t you dear? They’ll go fast.”

“I’ll pick them up tomorrow during lunch,” he smiled and took another swig of his drink.


His boss’s private box at the ballet. Neat, secluded, tucked away, above the rest, curtains pulled so that the five other boxes had no view of them, nor did the patrons below them; only the dancers, who would certainly be too busy to give a high glance upward, would be able to see them. She fiddled with her program in her lap and squirmed in the high-backed, velvet embroidered chair. Behind her, deep in the box, behind yet another curtain, he finished giving their intermission refreshment orders to the attendant, and quietly closed the door. The show hadn’t started yet and there was a not so quiet hum dancing sinuously throughout the guests, rising up to the lofty few occupying their boxes. Up here, the roar was merely an echo, but she could hear the whispers of the theatrical nobility, mere feet away on each side, socializing, mingling, no doubt wondering why the box of their friend, another patron saint of the arts (his boss) did not open his privacy curtains and engage them.

He slipped through the curtain and took his seat next to her, scanning over the program and intermission schedule; two tonight, as was sometimes done for Swan Lake, a short one directly following the first act, and the full intermission after the second act, where refreshments would be brought to them. She had already read the program back to front and once again just to be sure she didn’t miss anything. The boxes could hold as many as six, and when they entered the attendants had flown in first, moving extra chairs out of their way and parking them behind the partition that separated them from the only exit to the box, drawn the privacy curtains for them and helped to seat her. Being pampered, being spoiled always embarrassed her, and she so she let herself be seated with a blush, asked for a glass of water, and allowed him to handle the refreshment arrangements.

She watched his profile now as he read, brow furrowed in concentration. She never knew when she asked him to get tickets that his boss would so generously offer his private box up for their use, but he was well-liked around the office and worked hard and she was glad to see him being appreciated, reaping the not always so little perks of being favored by one’s superior. A knock at the door drew his attention and he glanced at her before moving back through the curtain. She heard the low whisper of voices, a slight clinking of glass before he reappeared, holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a deep wine glass full of iced water in the other. She smiled and gladly took her drink, happy more for something to do with her hands than for the refreshing beverage.

When he took his seat, he neatly swirled his forefinger in his glass and clucking his tongue to get her attention, he offered it up to her. She blushed and leaned in slowly, parting her lips to accept the digit into the warm depths of her mouth. She closed her eyes at the taste of the deep, rich drink and sighed. She lapped at his skin once with her tongue before he removed his finger, just as slowly as she had taken it. When she opened her eyes, she met his gaze; dark, intense, full of a heat that she recognized instantly. He raised a brow, as if wondering at her sudden inability to look away, as she so often did when confronted by his expressive eyes, the set line of his jaw, the look that crossed his face. He raised a hand to cup her face for just a moment, fingers reaching back to caress the line of neck beneath her jaw, thumb brushing over the apple of her cheek. Her breath caught in her throat.

The lights overhead pulsed on and off several times, she could hear the chamber music outside of the main theatre, signalling that the guests should find their seats, that the ballet would soon begin. His hand turned her face toward the stage before it slipped away. Just before they were plunged into darkness, she felt him move his chair closer to hers, so close that she could feel the heat of him through his suit and her evening gown, could feel it as though their naked skin was about to touch. They sat for moments in the darkness and her heart raced, both from the deep down, primordial fear of the dark, and from her aversion to instinct, her less than practical arousal at the all-encompassing dark. Dark felt thick and sensual to her, sliding around her, encasing her, caressing her in its folds; she could feel goosebumps begin to rise over her skin. His thumb found the nape of her neck just as the grand drape parted and the lights rose, breaking through the manufactured night.

She shivered as he traced the outline of the small locking mechanism attached to her collar. She did not often wear a lock but he understood her propensity for embarrassment and panic at said embarrassment, and rather than give her the chance to feel shame at privately removing her beloved collar, he preempted her and locked her into it for the performance. Her hand rose past the beautiful bodice of her strapless evening gown and she slipped a finger into the O-ring of her collar, giving it a light tug, even as his hand moved against the back of it deftly. She didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would; her dress, a tight, silken thing, ending in a beautiful foam of rich tulle, banded together with a brilliant sash, looking like the night-time ocean itself in its various hues of dark, rich blue and black, matched her collar perfectly. She wore the colors of bruise quite well, and she had delighted already in being complimented on her lovely ‘choker’ by a well-meaning older woman who had looked at her as if she might pet her.

She let her hand drop back into her lap as he continued his gentle exploration of her neck, her throat, her pale, bare shoulders. He fingered the stones in her ears with tiny circular motions. He let his hand get caught up in her hair that he insisted she wear down for the evening. It was a curly mass of auburn; wild and voluminous, and it made her look every bit the Lioness she was. His fingertips danced down her bare arms until he could grasp her hand and draw it to his mouth. His lips and teeth grazed lightly over her folded knuckles and she exhaled a sharp breath. He replaced her hand and sinuously moved back up her arm, danced against her collar bones and let his fingers move down to brush against the tender skin of her breasts, dipping beneath the delicate and silky fabric to cup one in his palm. She licked her lips but kept her eyes glued to the stage, watching the Prince’s birthday party as she listened to the rise and fall of the music, seeming to move in time with her heartbeat. His thumb gently tweaked her nipple to hardness and her lips parted in a soundless gasp. With a shaky hand, she placed her water-glass on the side table the attendants had set up. She stole a sideways glance of him; his eyes were locked onto the stage, deeply enveloped in the show, even as he tormented her with his slow, soft touches.

As the grand curtain closed for the first, small intermission, he removed his hand from her bodice and clapped with the crowd. She did the same, and blinked rapidly a few times as the house lights came up. She could see the patrons in the orchestra seats and beyond, some turning to speak to their neighbors, others hurriedly excusing themselves to use the restroom or perhaps to grab a drink before Act two. The hustle and bustle of the theatre always fascinated her, so many people, well-dressed, making polite conversation, indulging in the arts.

“Pooh,” he whispered quietly.

She turned to face him and saw he held his tumbler in his hand, empty. She rose and took the glass, bustling about in all her tulle to refresh his drink.

As she poured, she heard him come through the partition behind her, and turned, only to be caught in his grasp. She placed the bottle on the table and he grabbed her wrists, raising and pinning her arms above her head with one hand. A little cry of surprise escaped her lips and he caught her chin and brought a single finger to her mouth, with a brow raised, silencing her. Suddenly the sound of fellow patrons in neighboring boxes seemed louder than before; every inch of her was aware of the people surrounding them.

His hand slid down to her throat without leaving her skin and he used his thumb to gently press against her esophagus, above the collar, just once, making her miss a breath, before he circled back to her nape and guided her head to the side with his hand. He dipped his head down and bit and sucked at her neck around the band, teasing his tongue beneath it. Her mouth opened and the softest sigh escaped her lips. Her blood was thundering in her ears when he pulled her earlobe into his mouth and whispered: “did you wear what I asked you to wear, Pooh?”

Her wrists squirmed in his grasp and his fingers tightened; the hint of teeth against the sensitive skin of her lobe made her cry out once more.

“Did you wear it, girl?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tell me what you wore.”

“I wore my toy for you, Sir.”

“And where is that delightful toy?” he growled.

“In my ass,” she whispered, a tremble in her tone.

“Good girl… so very good.”

His hand slid down her torso and beneath layers and layers of fabric to rest against the heat of her inner thigh. He brushed his fingers against her silken panties before shoving them aside and dipping his fingers in between her folds.

“You’re wet, baby.”

“Yes, Sir.”

His fingers stroked her insides in tight, circular motions.

“You’re more than wet, you’re soaked… I can feel your juices dripping down the back of my hand,” he muttered.

She could do nothing but blush and try to stifle a moan as he tormented her, his eyes locked on hers, watching the way her face contorted with each tiny movement of his fingers.

The house lights flickering saved her. He removed his hand from her cunt and she sighed in relief. He kept his steely grasp around her wrists and presented his free hand in front of her face. She groaned in agony and embarrassment, seeing how slick his fingers were. He didn’t say a word, merely pressed his fingers to her lips. She opened her mouth obediently and cleaned his fingers off; she was delighted to see the hungry look in his eyes as he led her back to their seats. As they sat, she watched him palm something from his pocket and couldn’t help but fidget in her seat.

“Be still, it’s starting,” he whispered as the house lights went dark and the curtain opened once more.

The music rose and she watched the scene in awe, leaning forward a bit in her seat to catch a better look at the dancers. She marveled at the art they could make with their bodies; the way the Swan Queen’s legs bent just so, giving her the appearance of a bird, the way she moved her arms like real wings, gliding majestically across the stage, the meeting, the chase, the intrigue. Just as she began to really lose herself in the ballet, he stirred next to her, and she nearly jumped out of her seat as he fiddled with the remote to her toy.

On its lowest setting, the vibration was low and slow, leaving a dull but deep ache within her body. Enough to make her squirm and wiggle in her seat, but not enough to push her to edge, not for some time anyway. She felt thankful for the slow stimulation, knowing that he would make it worse. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his thumb move gently over the button to cycle through the various settings. When he caught her looking, he pressed it and she gasped softly, inaudible to anyone but him. The vibration moved quicker, harder, thrumming inside of her, against her sensitive skin. This setting was more intense and she eased forward to perch on the edge of the seat; it put more pressure against her ass and the vibrator, but took the pressure off of her pussy.

He clucked his tongue audibly when he saw her move, her attempt to alleviate the pressure and the need, and pressed the button again. The back of her hand rose to her mouth and she stifled a moan against it. Reliable number three, easily her favorite setting for her little toy. Normally when cycling, he would skip past number three, leaving it for last, for the coup de grâce to end her torment. But not tonight. She eased back in her seat, hoping that it would serve as a mark of apology for trying to squirm away from the pleasure offered; an example of her subservience and her acceptance of the situation.

No such luck.

He slipped the remote into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and used his fingertips to turn her face back to the show. She did as directed, but couldn’t help but feel his eyes on her, his private show, the whole time. She squirmed in her seat, rocking her hips back and forth and from side to side, not to enhance the sensations but to try to ease them. The ergonomic design of the toy was such that it caused a delightful pressure against the back wall of her cunt, letting the toy work both of her holes at once with its deeply felt vibrations. Number three had the added benefit of ramping up from a low setting all the way to the highest setting and dropping off to repeat the process. Every four seconds she felt as though she was right on the edge of an orgasm, only to be brought down again.

He moved from his seat to kneel in front of her and her eyes flicked from the ballet to him.

“Ah, ah,” he whispered. “Eyes on the dance, you’ve got to tell me what’s happening.”

His hands slid in under her dress and peeled the layers of tulle aside until she could feel the cool air against the front of her wet panties. His fingers stroked against her and she leaned against the back of her chair, pressing her hips forward, laying more pressure on the toy to give him more access to her. He pushed the cloth aside and slipped his fingers inside of her once more, pressing against the back wall of her entrance, feeling the thickness of the toy filling her ass.

She gasped and he lightly slapped her inner thigh with his free hand, a stern look on his face.

“Tell me what’s happening, baby,” he muttered.

“Rothbart is gone… Benno has come to shoot the maidens,” she whispered, voice edging on a moan.

He removed his fingers and replaced them with his lips, using his tongue to part her folds and she covered her mouth with her hand, biting her skin to keep quiet.

“Keep going,” he breathed against her.

“The prince stops them… he has to… has to gain Odette’s trust…”

He dipped his tongue inside of her sex, lathing it around her hole before exploring deeper, lapping at her inner walls, drinking in her arousal.

“Oh… god,” she cried softly, tears springing to her eyes, her hips pressed up, thighs spread as wide as she could in her dress. “He has to… make her know… let her know that he’s in love with her… they have to fall in love.”

He replaced his tongue with his fingers, gently pumping in and out of her, his lips locked in against her engorged clit, sucking at her, stroking her softly. Her thighs trembled around him, hips beginning to buck. Her voice broke into a groan and her fingers locked in against his nape.

“Dawn is breaking… the spell is calling the maidens back to swan form…oh… please, Sir, please let me come for you… please…” she groaned.

He broke from her, removing lips and fingers.

“No,” he whispered. He gave her his fingers for her to clean again; she did so obediently and he leaned into kiss her once, deeply, using his mouth to part her lips, to taste the warm recesses of her, to let her taste her own arousal on his tongue, before breaking away. His hand slipped into his front pocket and turned off the toy just as the lights rose on the closed curtain to begin the last and longest intermission.

“Smooth out your skirt, Pooh, the refreshment service will be along in just a moment.”

She righted herself and sat straight-backed in the chair, thankful for a little relief from the toy and from him. Desperate to have an orgasm though.

There came a knock at the door and he got up to let the service in. They brought a rolling tray filled with small sandwiches, fresh water for her, and a cheese and chocolate plate. She watched them set it up as she herself topped off his glass of scotch that he had sipped from. They opened the privacy curtains on either side of the box on their way out, as it was customary to socialize in the midst of the intermission, and she took in the sight of the dozen people surrounding them, separated only by a few feet to each side of the box, enough room to be able to speak at a still acceptable volume. They were greeted and exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before he brought the tray around to the front of them. She reached for a small sandwich and he tapped the back of her hand. When her eyes met his, they held a wicked gleam, his mouth curved in small smirk and she felt her whole body flush.

He picked up the sandwich she’d been angling for and held it up to her mouth. She folded her hands in her lap and sighed, only loud enough that he could hear. She knew that her cheeks were a deep, deep scarlet, and she felt as if all eyes were on her. She leaned forward and took a modest bite of the sandwich and his smirk grew wider. She ate from his fingers until the sandwich was gone, blushing the whole time. She stopped halfway to reaching for her water-glass and looked up at him, his eyes had followed her movement.

“Sir… may I have a drink of water, please?”

“Good girl… very good.”

He grabbed the glass and held it out to her. She placed her lips against it and he tilted it just enough for her to get a drink. Her eyes moved past him to the box at his back and she saw the way the couples watched them while pretending to speak. One woman did not even try for the pretense, merely sat and gaped at them while the rest of her party ate and chatted. She wished to crawl inside of herself, but couldn’t bear to make a scene and ask him to stop. The smallest, most submissive part of her, buried deep inside of her, was thrilled, aroused, satisfied… in a way that she never imagined she could need or want. It frightened her… but only in the best of ways.

She sat in silence while he ate a few sandwiches. She asked for another and he gladly fed it to her slowly. When she was done he watered her again without her reaching for the glass. They sampled the cheese plate; he cut small slivers for each of them and fed both of them in turn, slipping the tiny slices in between her lips, asking for her commentary on the taste and texture, if she wanted more. When the refreshments were gone, save for the chocolate he reached out to stroke her cheek.

“Would you like a truffle?” he asked.

“Yes, darlink, please.”

He unwrapped the delicate piece of dark chocolate, held out his hand and placed the bon-bon in his palm. She had expected to take it from his fingertips, as he had fed her the sandwiches and the cheeses, not to eat it from his hand like a pet. A look into his eyes told her that she had expected incorrectly. She slid up to the edge of her seat, perched like a cat on a windowsill. She swore, in her heart of hearts, that she could feel their audience take a collective breath. She leaned forward and down, and used her tongue and lips to scoop the truffle into her mouth. She savored the rich, decadent taste, and when she met his eyes again, he was smiling honestly.

She took no more sweets, but leaned in against him while he ate his, eyes straight forward, out into the main theatre. She refused to look at the gawkers or to engage them. Her heart pounded in her chest while she thought about what she had done. He had never done as much in public and though it humiliated her it did thrill her too.

He offered her another sip from her glass which she gratefully took, before he got up to replace the tray on its rolling cart and move it outside of the box. She heard the click of a lock as he shut the door behind him and her breath caught in her throat. The lights began to pulse, drawing the patrons back to their seats, to finish their refreshments and prepare for the last half of the show. He closed the privacy curtains once more, making pleasant with their neighbors as he did so.

“Stand up,” he murmured.

She did.

He knelt in front of her once more, his hands reaching in under the dress, he grabbed at the cloth at her hips and pulled her panties down to her ankles, where she stepped out of them. When he stood he carefully placed them in her clutch and snapped it closed without another word. He took his seat and patted hers; she sat down as the curtain opened once more.

Over the rise of the music she heard the unmistakable sound of his belt being undone, but resisted the urge to look. Moments later, the sound of a zipper rolling down its track  caught her by surprise. She could hear him fidgeting in his seat, moving and adjusting himself. He slipped his chair closer to the front wall of the box and finally, he placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Come sit on daddy’s lap, baby,” he whispered.

She spared a glance at him. His hand was gripping his thick, hard cock, loosely stroking it up and down. She watched his fingers move and could feel her sex tighten and flex at the thought of him inside of her.

She stood gingerly and lifted her skirts, pulling them to the side, baring her thighs. She eased back onto his lap slowly. He slid down in his seat to help her, his hands on her hips to guide her down. She moaned a little loudly the moment he inched inside of her, and rather than slowly torture herself, she slid down the rest of his length quickly. He leaned his face in against her back and groaned against the fabric there; she could feel his hot breath through it.

“Lean forward, grip the bar… plant your feet if you can,” he spoke softly, a fine tremble edged through his voice, a crack in his exterior. He was as excited as she was and it satisfied her in a deep and familiar way to hear him so eager, so pleased.

She leaned forward, gasping at the shift of him inside of her; he felt deeper at this angle, nearly putting them in her favorite position, and she gripped the bar on the front wall roughly, her knuckles white with the effort. If she moved her legs forward, thighs nearly coming together on top of his, she could just stand on the balls of her feet, but it was firm footing, nonetheless. His hands dug into her hips sharply as she tentatively rocked onto her toes and back down again. It gave her just enough leverage that she could slide halfway up his length and back down again, using her powerful calves to balance her.

He leaned forward slightly, pressing his palms forward too, letting his fingers meet over her pelvic bone, pinkies pressing against her pubic mound.

“When you need to come… you do it,” he groaned. “You have my permission.”

She mewled softly at that and began to rock on her feet, moving up and down his cock as she went. Her hips moved with abandon, rough, quick. She danced and thrust in small, tight circles when he was all the way inside of her. She slammed back down against him hard enough to bruise her cervix and it made her pant. Her eyes were on the ballet, the music filled her, strummed her, played her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she impaled herself against him. His hands didn’t stop moving against her, scouring, covering, gripping, slapping, scratching at every inch he could touch and some he couldn’t. She felt his hands grow damp when they trekked up her inner thighs, and she was inside of her head for just a moment, worrying that she would ruin his deep black dress slacks, worrying that all of the ballet attendees would notice, would know what she had done. What a slut she was.

The feel of him bouncing her on his lap struck down her thoughts. She gripped the bar tighter as he forced his hips against hers, bruising her, she knew. Her whole body ached with an unknowable heat, an impenetrable fire. She could feel her climax rising fast in her, pushing her to the edge quickly. She blinked back tears as she grit her teeth, silencing herself to mewling and whimpering.

The lights dimmed for the scene change between the third and fourth act; they did not close the curtain. The moment they were pitched into darkness, his powerful arms ripped her body from his. She yelped and clamped a hand over her mouth. She was upright and he was dragging her into the depths of the box. Before she knew what was happening, she was against the wall once more, legs scrambling and climbing around his waist as he pressed in against her body and forced himself back inside of her over and over again. She arched away from the wall, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark as she clutched at him; her hands were everywhere, reaching down his back, drowning in his hair, grasping at his face. His teeth sank into her breast and she pressed her lips into his hair, drowning out the sounds of her cries. When she came, she bucked against him like a wild woman, digging her nails deep into his shoulders. Her grasping, flexing cunt held him deep within her body, where he came moments later, mouth still locked onto her breast, she could hear an animal cry in the back of his throat.

When he pulled out of her still trembling body, easing her down to the ground, she could feel the evidence of their sex dripping down her inner thighs and it made her shudder. He helped her back to her seat, slowly, as the music rose. Onstage, she watched the prince apologize to his scorned love; in the box, her own heart pounded still. She leaned against him and he wrapped her in the circle of his arms. She wept when the lovers flung themselves into the lake, and sobbed again when they were reunited in the end.

He cooed to her softly and wiped her tears, using his fingertips to clean of her face. When it was over they gave a standing ovation with the rest of the crowd. He helped to straighten her hair and her dress before they left the box. She ignored the stares, one hand clasped in his, the other at her throat, a finger toying with her collar, barely concealing the fresh bruise, the teeth marks on the swell of her breast.

8 responses to “Power Play at the Ballet (For Sir)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s