Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
My song is muffled by his lips, and this is not the kind of sex I ever imagined myself having. It’s unholy, and it’s righteous. Corrupt but blessed. Shamefully lewd and sinfully sweet. And now, I don’t believe in heaven or hell. There is only purgatory.
He thrusts up inside me, stabbing me with his cock while he steers my ass with his hands. His sounds bleed into me, and I inhale them like crack. I could get off on getting him off. But Nikolai wants to push me to my breaking point, and then even further still. He makes me come. Once. Twice. And a third for good measure.
He marks me with his teeth, grunting indecipherable exclamations in between. Our last fuck was quick and dirty, but today, it lasts forever. Every part of me hurts, and I think that’s what he likes best.
Maybe, I like it too.
“One more time for me,” he insists. “Come on my cock one more time.”
“I don’t have anything left.”
I’m exhausted, collapsing on top of him while he fucks me from below. He worships my skin with his hands and his mouth and begs me to come just one more time. I’m overly sensitive. Wrung out. My breasts are tender, and I’m raw from his large dick.
But inevitably, Nikolai always gets what he wants. The orgasm is as weak as I feel, but I come for him. Right before he stuffs himself as deep as I can take him and purges a long, torturous release of his own.
My spell in captivity has forced me to find new uses for my time. Before, my days were spent in the studio, persecuting my body and perfecting my routines. My calendar revolved around the company’s schedule, and the occasional social event my father forced me to attend.
But when I look at the calendar today, I’m surprised to find that entire months have gone by, and I struggle to remember the exact date I arrived. The blank square on the wall does little to help me process my feelings. Though Gianni already hinted at it, I’m certain my name has been removed from the company as if I never existed. The ballet waits for no man or woman. Each of those positions is coveted. Prized.
And once, it was by me too.
But my practice has dwindled to little more than an hour a day. I’m not as strong as I used to be. It would be easy to blame Nikolai for my lack of motivation, but the truth is that he’s become a welcome distraction from the truth I have yet to face.
The chime on the alarm signals the therapist’s arrival, and within moments, Sarah is in my room. She says something when she walks in, but my eyes are still on the calendar, and my thoughts are too loud to focus on her.
“Tanaka?”
I count off the days until the end of the month, wondering how many hours of dance I can squeeze in. There must be a way to get back on track. I count and add and plan, but it’s all for nothing. Eventually, my finger falls away from the orderly squares. The squares that used to rule my life.
“You look upset,” Sarah observes. “What’s on your mind?”
I don’t move from my seat at the desk, opting to face away from her. She doesn’t deserve to know my every thought, but maybe it’s time I finally say it aloud.
“I don’t think I ever want to dance again.”
There is a moment of silence, and it feels like a death. Grief has swallowed me whole, and in a time of mourning, silence is only appropriate. Maybe that’s why Sarah isn’t so bad. I talk to her, not because I should, but because she knows when to ask questions and she knows when to stay quiet.
Every week, she comes back here. She invests her time in me. She tells me she believes in me and tries to keep me healthy. We discuss body image and dancing and whatever else comes out of my mouth. But I’m under no illusion it’s because she cares. Nikolai pays her to fix me.
As if she could.
“During our past few visits, I was under the impression that your practice was improving quite steadily,” she says.
“I was lying.”
Another bout of silence follows my admission, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from crying. I feel like a child again. This loss is as great to me as my own mother. I’m fragile and I’m broken, but I always have been. Maybe I’m okay with that, though, even if Sarah isn’t.
“You started ballet at a very young age,” she remarks. “I know that studies have shown it’s not uncommon for dancers to suffer severe injuries under your circumstances.”
“I don’t care what the studies say,” I tell her. “It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do, and now I can’t.”