Anything He wants

BEING HIS GYMNAST

The bright white lights above me cast an eerie shaft of illumination across the stage.

I feel swept up in the magic of the theater, the drama of the great

scarlet curtains drawn back with golden tassels.

The glossy but well-worn wooden planks of the stage creak ever so softly beneath me with every soft step.

Every mottled whorl of the wood is a new texture on the sensitive bottoms of my feet, barely softened by my flexible acro shoes that feel more like socks.

The ceilings overhead are vaulted to such a lofty height that it’s more of a sky than a ceiling. I can hardly make out the scarlet and gold damask design, like I’m trying to see the surface of the sun. There’s a luxurious, opulent art deco design to the theater which lends a vintage touch, and the expert mood lighting makes for an ethereal ambience.

The audience is broken up into three levels, including VIP seats that flank the vast walls.

The seats seem to stretch out endlessly in each direction from the stage, but the whole audience is cast in dark shadow.

I blink out into the darkness, my eyes partly blinded by the white glow from above. It’s chilly in the theater, and if I were an audience member I would need a cozy coat to stay comfortable. But here on the stage, the lights keep me warm, even hot.

Teeny beads of sweat gather at my temples as I peer out into the vast blankness of the crowd.

My heart is thumping so hard in my chest that it aches a little, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins makes me feel more alive than ever before.

I have goosebumps covering my arms and legs, but I’m lit with a glow from above and within.

The lights shimmer across my heavily-sequined ensemble. It’s a formfitted silvery crop top and matching tight athletic shorts paired with a ton of body glitter.

The outfit is over-the-top, as most of my costumes are, but it does a good job of showing off my petite, curvy body.

I can almost feel the eyes of the crowd honing in on my perky, round breasts, my taut ass, my long, elegant legs. They love to see my long lashes flutter and my full lips pout as I emote onstage and play perfectly whatever role I’m cast.

My long, dark curls are bound in a high ponytail, the locks sweeping around my shoulders. I tilt my sweet, cherubic face up to the light and close my eyes. I suck in a low, slow breath and find my center.

I sense the rows of interested eyes staring at me, waiting for my first move. People are always eager to see me succeed– or fail.

But I rarely fail. I’m a professional, I’m a devotee, I was made for this stage. The endorphins are flowing, my body is tingling from head to toe with anticipation and barely-restrained energy.

My feet are itching to dance across the stage.

My body is ready to bend and sway and enchant the crowd with my grace. I am laser-focused on the task at hand. I am intensely aware of every little cough, sigh, or murmur from the crowd in the initial silence.

I listen for the telltale swell of the music that cues me into motion like a magic spell enchanting my body. When the hail of violins and cellos harkens me out, I raise my arms above my head slowly in preparation.

Passion and peace arise in equal measures inside of me as I begin to move across the stage. My feet make quick work of the space, running, tiptoeing, leaping, and twirling in perfect rhythm with the dramatic music.

I arch my back and twist myself around. I curl in tight like a rosebud and arch outward like I’m blooming under a loving sun.

All the while, I feel the delicious thrill of being watched. I am more than an entertainer, I am a spectacle to be desired. Eyes locked on the swerve of my body, the shape of my movements, the passion in my every nimble step.

I know it’s more than art that keeps their gaze drawn to me. Admiration borders close to lust, and lust dances right along the line of obsession.

I’ve had countless admirers over the years, even though I’m only nineteen. Men see the way I move my body and they can’t help but wonder what else I can do. If I can arch my back and do a split onstage, they can only fathom what my body is capable of in the bedroom.

I am the silent star of many a wild fantasy that will never come true, and even though it can be intimidating to know that, I can’t deny how it makes me feel. I love being wanted.

I love being coveted.

Even the one-way nature of the dance turns me on. No matter how deeply I entice my audience, no matter how advanced their fantasies around me become, it will never come to fruition.

They lust after me endlessly and there’s nothing I can do to stop them-not that I want to. I draw energy from their lust. I use it to fuel every backbend and leaping twist.

But sometimes… I do wish I could reach out across the vast expanse between the stage and the crowd and make contact.

As I land a particularly twisty backflip, I glance out into the audience. To my surprise, there’s a pillar of light streaked through the darkness now, illuminating one seat in the very center of the theater. I can make out the shape of a tall, broad-shouldered man sitting there in an elegant suit.

He has dark hair, streaked with a dignified peal of silver and swept back from his handsome face. He has a strong jaw and high cheekbones, and eyes that could entrance me right back. He emanates strength.

He radiates charisma. I find myself desperate to know everything about him.

I’m drawn to him like a moth to a dancing flame, even though I’m the one dancing.

In fact, I feel as though I’m just dancing for him. This mysterious, handsome stranger with the hypnotic eyes might as well be the only person in the audience. I turn all of my focus to my mystery admirer. I feel his eyes on my breasts, my waist, my taut little ass.

He’s drinking me in like a tall glass of cool water. I lick my lips and run my hands down my body– slowly. I make sure to luxuriate over every curve and swell of my petite frame. I feel the sharp edges of sequins under my fingertips and the heat growing between my thighs.

A glistening drop of sweat rolls down my back as I arch forward. I stretch my arms to the floor and lift off, balancing myself on my two hands with my legs in the air.

Using every stitch of self-discipline in my muscles, I gracefully drop my legs forward in a slow flip. I reach up and easily pull my hair loose from its tie as I stand up straight.

I toss my hair so that it shakes out full and wavy to frame my pretty face. I sway my hips and sweep my arms around myself. My hands caress my breasts.

I feel their fullness in my palms, roll my perky nipples between my fingers until I feel the tingle deep inside me. Every touch is like a gentle jolt to my pussy. It’s not long before I’m slick and soaking through the tight crotch of my sequined dance shorts.

Every time I look into the crowd, my admirer seems a little bit closer. He’s in the third row, then the second, then the front. His eyes never leave me. There’s no one else around.

I can’t even see any other faces. Nothing stands out to me but him. Something about him tells me he is important. He’s a man with a lot of connections.

He could take me and turn me into a magnificent starlet. A dazzling queen of the stage. He has the power to control the theater like a puppeteer, to place the moving pieces as he sees fit. He could turn this Midwest wannabe into a bonafide international dance and gymnastics icon.

I just have to seduce him first. As I slip one sleeve of my silvery crop top off my shoulder, he stands up.

He starts walking up the steps to the stage. My heart is pounding, but I keep going. I take another step, slip off the other shoulder.

He stands before me now, tall and strong and dignified. His face is both handsome and unclear, like my eyes won’t let me memorize his features completely.

I yearn to please him.

I long for his sweet approval. I cross my arms, grab the bottom hem of my top, and peel it up over my head. My breasts spill out and my nipples stiffen up in the cool air. I fondle my full tits as I step closer to him, licking my lips.

“Can you stick the landing?” he asks in a deep, resounding voice.

I feel the vibrations through the floor. I nod. “Of course. I can do anything you want.”

“Arch that back for me. Let me see how flexible you are,” he commands.

He reaches out with one muscular arm and I rest my back against him while I bend backwards. His other hand drapes across my bare chest. His palm lays flat against my thumping heart while he inspects me with his intense gaze.

I’m trembling and dripping with desire for him. I am so tightly wound, so in need of release, and I know he could give it to me. I have to prove myself worthy, and he will give me the whole world. His hand is moving down my chest, down my smooth, flat stomach to my slick, aching mound.

I sigh and push up into him in a wordless plea for more. He’s folding over me, his lips nearly an inch from my bare skin.

Just then, the world goes shaky. The ground beneath our feet rumbles like the shifting of tectonic plates.

The mystery admirer disappears and I am alone on the stage for a moment before my eyes flutter open wide.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“Please fasten your seatbelts. We are experiencing light turbulence,” chimes a cordial female voice over the airplane intercom.

I hastily click my seatbelt and grip the armrests on either side of me. I look around at the crowded airplane cabin. I grab the little bottle of water in my cup holder and take a swig.

I stare out the window at the heavenly puffs and swirls of white clouds through the deep blue sky.

I sigh as I tilt my head back against the seat. It’s only a short flight of a few hours from my hometown in Ohio to the big, sparkling, surreal city of New York.

But I’ve been frantically practicing, planning, and panicking about this big move for the past few weeks since I found out it was a sure thing. By now, I’m already exhausted enough to fall asleep thirty minutes into the flight.

I check my watch. My heart skips a beat when I see the time. There’s only about forty-five minutes left in the air before we land in the Big Apple. I must have slept like the dead. Well, except for the content of my dreams, which was very much alive.

In fact, I almost feel as though the emotions and sensations in that fantasy world are more real than this plane right now.

The connection I felt with that handsome, older stranger in the crowd seems too visceral to be make believe.

If he’s a figment of my imagination, I need to start spending way more time in my own head. Even if he isn’t real, the effects he had on my body are definitely real.

I’m still tingly all over and slick between my thighs. I keep my legs tightly closed with my travel blanket over my lap.

My eyes dart around nervously for signs of anyone looking at me funny. My dream was so engrossing, I hope I didn’t moan or sigh in my sleep.

It’s silly, but I always have this weird worry that people can read my mind– especially when I think dirty thoughts. The truth is that I’m just an innocent nineteen-year-old virgin who hardly knows enough about sex to fantasize in the first place.

I’ve spent pretty much my whole life devoted to my craft. Long hours practicing backbends on the balance beam or memorizing choreography for the stage.

Quite frankly, I haven’t had time to mess around. I wish I could meet a guy like the sexy older man from my dream, someone who could teach me what I’ve been missing all this time. Until then, I have to keep my little desires to myself.

I look around and see, with relief, that nobody’s paying attention to me. It’s pretty loud in the cabin anyway.

It’s a busy afternoon flight, filled with jetsetters, businesspeople, moms with whining children, even a group of young men who look like a sports team of some kind.