Emma
The studio is cool and bright and still smells faintly of paint and varnish.
As soon as I step inside, I feel like I can breathe, and I wonder when that feeling disappeared.
When did ballet become such a drain? When did it stop being about strength and beauty and start being about pain and depletion?
I move slowly, deliberately, letting my body set the pace instead of forcing it to obey.
My ankle is wrapped, supported, listened to for once. I start with the exercises my physio drilled into me at our last session. Small, careful movements meant to rebuild trust instead of endurance.
It feels strange not to push through the discomfort. To listen to every twinge of pain, every ache. It’s stranger still to stop when my body asks me to.
I roll through my foot, controlled and precise, the way I was taught, but softer now.
Less punishing. My muscles remember what to do even if my mind is focused on protecting my ankle.
I move through a light sequence, nothing showy, nothing that demands strain.
Just movement for the sake of being in my body again.
It feels good. Grounded. Beautiful in its simplicity.
I’m halfway through a stretch when the awareness blooms in my lower abdomen.
My skin tightens along my arms, breath shifting without permission. I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. I know the weight of him the way I know the sound of my own heartbeat.
Avros.
He stands in the doorway to the studio, watching me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt. Just observes with that same quiet intensity that I used to believe lived only in my imagination.
Except now I know he’s real.
I straighten slowly, letting the stretch go, and our eyes meet in the mirror before I face him properly. The look he gives me sends a shiver straight through my center. Controlled hunger.
He’s holding himself back.
The thought settles hot and heavy in my belly.
“Your ankle is improving,” he says finally, voice low.
“I’m listening to it now,” I reply. “The rest helps.”
His mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. “You still move with such perfect, quiet strength, sovershenna.”
“Thank you,” I reply, leaning against the barre. “What does that mean, ‘sovershenna?’”
He steps into the studio, slowly walking towards me as his eyes rake down my body stirring up memories of this morning and last night.
The silence stretches between us, thick and charged. I’m suddenly aware of everything. The way my leotard clings faintly with sweat, the bare skin of my arms, the steady thrum of my pulse. The studio feels smaller with him in it.
He steps close enough that I feel the heat of him, the gravity, the electric spark that zaps between us.
“It means “perfect.” Because that’s what you are.” His voice is lower, gravelly in tone and my skin goes to goosebumps in response.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, eyes dropping briefly to my ankle.
“A little,” I admit, voice breathy with an arousal I wasn’t expecting. “But it’s considerably more manageable.”
“Good,” he says. Then, after a pause, “Turn and lift your leg onto the barre.”
I do as he asks, bending into the stretch as he watches me in the mirror.
His jaw tightens, just slightly. His hands remain at his sides, fingers flexing once like he’s grounding himself. The restraint in that small movement is almost unbearable to watch.
The space between us hums, alive with desperate need and brittle control. My heart is racing now, breath shallow, my body buzzing with anticipation that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
He exhales slowly, like he’s counting. “Emma,” he says, desire threaded through my name.
“Yes,” I reply. I don’t know what I’m answering, but I know that I don’t want him to stop looking at me like this.
I lift my hands above my head, feeling the stretch in my torso, not taking my eyes from his in our reflection.
Judging by the way he tries to control his breathing, I think I know what he needs to hear.
I bend forward slightly, leaning towards the mirror. The thin wisp of my wrap skirt lifts up as I do.
“Are you still sore?” he asks, his dark eyes dropping to the space between my thighs, covered only by my pale pink leotard.
“No,” I say, my own eyes dipping to his obvious bulge. “Let me see it.”
He knows what I mean. With a low groan he undoes his belt and opens his trousers, pulling his thick length from the confines of his boxers.
“Let me watch you play with it.”
He strokes himself and I watch closely in the mirror, memorizing exactly what he does and how he responds.
The way he squeezes the base makes his eyes hood and a small pant come from his open mouth.
The way he rolls his palm over the head every so often, spreading the small beads of moisture around makes him shiver a little.
I feel when it happens, my own arousal flooding the gusset of my leotard, and his reaction tells me he notices it too.
“Fuck, Emma,” he grunts, increasing the pace of his strokes. “Watching me makes you wet.” His closes his eyes tight for a second, stops moving his hand and instead holds his cock firmly at the base while he takes a few deep breaths.
Before he opens his eyes, I reach between my legs and pull the soaked fabric aside, then watch as he opens his eyes and finds my bare pussy waiting for him.
“Please fuck me, Avros.”
He is inside me instantly, stretching and filling me in one smooth thrust. I clench my teeth at the residual pain from losing my virginity last night. It’s gone in seconds, replaced by the hum of desperate need.
His hand strokes down my thigh along the barre, the other hooks my waist and squeezes, keeping me still.
“Sovershenna,” he grunts, jaw clenched, eyes barely focused. “Look how well you take me.” He leans back a little, pulling me with him, and I can just see the reflection of his cock sliding in and out of me, glistening with my juices. “Fuck, I dreamed of this every night.”
He moves his hand from my waist and snakes it around and down, cupping my mound and pressing his fingers against my center, finding that sensitive nub. Keeping his pace steady, he waits for the pleasure to build in me.
I lean forward more, stretching my arms out either side of the bar, the forward bend allowing him to reach even deeper inside me.
“Emma,” his voice is a plea now. Cracking around the edges of restraint. I’m matching him now, meeting every one of his thrusts with a roll of my hips, grinding against his hand, chasing my release.
The orgasm comes out of nowhere, blasting through me at the speed of light and then dragging out like stardust behind a comet. It’s hot and sparkly and mind melting as I scream and shudder and come apart on his cock.
“Come in me Avros,” I manage to beg at some point in the middle of it all.
His cock throbs, jerking inside me hard enough to make me yelp. He throws back his head, still cupping my mound with one hand and dragging the other to my hip to hold me in place as he empties himself inside me.
His eyes are screwed shut, his teeth are clenched, and each thrust is marked by a deep, rumbling, groan. His thighs tremble, his knees buckle, and he collapses out of me and sinks to the floor, cock still twitching and weeping onto the floor between us.
“I’ve never come as hard as that in my life,” he says, a final shudder passing through him as he looks up at my pussy. “Don’t move,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and snapping a photo.
“Hey!” I object.
“Please, sovershenna, I never want to forget this.”
I nod, but I don’t lower my leg or straighten up, not yet, because I never want to forget this either.