AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ChapterThree
The balletI’m watching is Swan Lake, and my crush’s role is that of Prince Siegfried.
Damn it. I’m jealous of that crossbow he’s holding. Given that my goal is to get this man out of my system, seeing him live might’ve been a step in the wrong direction.
His muscles—especially on his powerful legs—would make a statue of a Greek god weep in envy. His gleaming eyes are pure melted chocolate, and dark chocolate is also what his slicked-back hair reminds me of. His face is angelic, with cheekbones so sharp-edged they look like the hard layer of Crème Brûlée after you break it with a spoon. Oh, but all of that pales in comparison to the bulge in his pants—a feature of so many of my masturbation fantasies that I’ve even named the contents of it Mr. Big.
So, yeah. Seeing all this is the opposite of helpful—and if I activate the vibrating panties I’m currently wearing, it will make everything that much worse.
Originally, I put on the masturbatory panties because I figured this is my last chance at a ménage à moi with The Russian. If sniffing his tights works as intended, I’ll have to resort to some other visual aid for visiting the bat cave—like Magic Mike, 300, or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Then again, I shouldn’t be selfish. This adventure would make for an amazing blog post. I don’t usually get naughty in public, so this might be educational for my followers.
Yeah. I’ll do it for them. It will be my last hurrah with The Russian—made that much more interesting because I’m seeing him live.
I scan the nicely dressed people sitting around me. The coast is clear. They’re focusing on the spectacle in front of us, as they should.
I fish out the little remote that activates the vibration.
Last chance to change my mind.
Nope. The Russian flashes me the perfection that is his butt, with a gluteus maximus that I want to lick like rock candy.
I press the “on” button and grin as my underwear begins to vibrate.
It’s DIY time.
Even at the lowest speed, my clit is instantly engorged, and I have to hope the electrical components inside this technological marvel are waterproof. Soon, I have to painfully bite my tongue to keep from moaning. Tchaikovsky’s music is genius, but it wouldn’t drown that out.
I had no idea it would be this hard to keep quiet. Must be The Russian’s hotness in action.
Panting, I turn off the device to give my clit a chance to cool off. If I get caught doing this, I’ll be escorted out and banned for life for being the pervert that I am.
When I think I can stay quiet, I turn the thing back on again.
Nope. Just as The Russian performs a particularly mouthwatering fouetté, the desire to be vocal is back with a vengeance.
Fuck. Me.
Whoever designed these panties should win some sort of a prize. They do to my nether regions what the Swan theme song does to my ears, or The Russian to my eyes.
An orgasm of cosmic proportions builds inside me, and staying silent takes an effort of will I know I don’t possess, so I turn everything off once again, for good this time.
Fucker. Now I’m just really frustrated and cranky.
As if to sharpen my frustration, the ballerina playing Princess Odette shows up.
Can you say “impossible standard of beauty?” Translucently thin on top, she looks like someone who’s never tasted a croissant in her life, yet her legs are powerful and seem to go on and on.
I know, I know. My jealousy is as green as a St. Patrick’s Day donut. In my defense, her character is supposed to be sweet, noble, and guileless. She, however, dances the part with seduction, like Odile, the evil black swan. Speaking of Black Swan, it’s all too easy to imagine this woman stabbing someone with a shard of glass, the way Natalie Portman’s character did in the movie.
That’s it. Decided. Henceforth, this ballerina will be Black Swan in my mind.
As the ballet continues, I cringe each time The Russian touches Black Swan—which is often, especially during the pas de deux. In fact, things get so bad that when Princess Odette meets her sad end, I find it hard to empathize.
I’m just glad the show is over. Watching it live was definitely a mistake.
Fighting the exiting crowds, I make my way to the bathroom, where I lock my stall and climb on a toilet to hide my feet as per Blue’s instructions for Operation Big Sniff. Her instructions are also why I’m wearing all black—dressy pants appropriate for the venue, a button-up shirt that’s slightly too tight on me (I bought it a few pounds ago, so sue me), and a pair of ballet flats that have seen better days but are the fanciest shoes I can run in.
