happy valentines day

The cold air in the unheated theatre touched her nipples, left them standing proud. She wasn't tall, her head only just reaching the top of the hoop as she sat in its turning circle, but her legs - it was her legs that fascinated him. Dressed in nothing but fishnet stockings and that scrap of lace - what was it? he thought. Was it a body stocking? Was it a two piece? It seemed to lie so perfectly on her olive skin, laced together with her long black ribbons, the bow falling behind her as she leaned back.

He could watch her for hours.

She twisted, and stretched out her legs, then dropped. Without warning, she let herself fall back, one leg catching on the hoop, one stretched up. She reached with her arm, turning and turning around and around.

Lost in the world of her acrobatics, a small smile spread over her face. Later, the little theatre would be full of people staring up at her, shouting things, calling her - but now, there was no sound to fade away behind her music. Just her, and the hoop.

She took both hands from the side and dropped again, but this time she turned at her waist and came back up. The hoop spun, almost without her moving it; they'd been together so long, she and the hoop - like a solid steel lover. It was there for her every time, catching her every fall, there to support her, to display her. It held her.

She pulled up, this time stretching both legs out, splayed. Maybe, on some level, she knew he'd be there. Maybe she had chosen her costume, knowing how her nipples caught at the thin lace, how the scrap of fabric barely concealed how wet she was for him. Maybe she knew he was watching her, as she slowed the spin and dropped back, hanging from the hoop, again. 

He stepped closer. Each time she spun around, slower and slower, she saw his frame in the doorway. The closer he came, the slower she spun, and she let her tongue run lazily over her lips, wetting them, readying them.

Under the lights, the lace covered nothing of her ballet dancer's body. He found himself watching for the shadow of her tiny belly button, but it was the fishnet stockings, and the long, delicate black suspenders that fascinated him. He stopped at the stage.

"Can I help you?" she said.

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Yes, he thought - god yes, she could do anything she wanted for him. To him. She could bend him, twist him - she could use him, hang from him like she hung from her hoop - but it was more than that.

He held up the single champagne coloured rose.

She sat up, stopped the hoop. Dropping down onto the stage, she walked toward him, her feet barely sounding on the wooden floor. she pushed her hair back, out of her eyes.

"Do I know you," she said. 

She looked him up and down, and they both knew she did. 

"I…" he started.

Her lips moved in that same, knowing smile. He felt his cheeks flush with red. His cock hardened under her gaze. He ached for her - hell, he hurt for her.

He'd do anything for her.

"I just wanted to say, I think you're beautiful," he told her, quietly. "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She reached and took the flower from him, but as she would have stepped up, would have taken hold of his hand, he backed away. She was too good, too perfect, for him. She was everything he'd ever wanted - she was everything a woman could be. Everything.

"It's ok," she said, her hand stretched out to him. "You can touch me."

Slowly, moving inch by inch, he let her lead him. His fingers found the lace and he closed his eyes as her nipples hardened even more, under his touch.

"Come with me," she whispered. "Just for today. Be my valentine."