Re: An old story I hope you like
Chapter 2, Part 2 – Lorna's story
My hand shook slightly as, eager to hear his voice for the first time, I answered the phone.
"Lorna?" His first word to me was my name! I glowed with pleasure at that. Then the weight of my expectations for this moment left me tongue-tied.
"Yes," was all I could say.
"Hi, it's Steve. It's lovely to hear your voice at last."
Hearing the word 'Voice' broke the spell on my tongue.
"I could hardly wait to hear yours, Steve," I gushed, "That was the bad part about us being gagged, not being able to talk to you and hear you talk back. You know what us girls are like."
"I've had some experience," he replied and we laughed. Laughing with him was lovely. "How are you feeling now?" he asked.
My conviction of his care for me grew a little more with his question.
"A bit shell shocked and sore, but getting better all the time," I replied.
"Me too!" he said, "By the way, you have a lovely voice."
"Thank you. I always worry I sound too posh and stuck up. One of my very ex-boyfriends told me I sound like Joanna Lumley on laughing gas. Your voice is lovely too. You sound just like Terrence Stamp."
He sounded really pleased at that.
"I take that as a big compliment. He's a sort of hero of mine. East end boy made good, like me." Then he asked me, "Lorna, do you like ballet?" I nearly fell of my chair and almost squeaked my reply in my excitement at his question.
"Steve, I absolutely love ballet! I went to ballet school until I was 18. Then I was in the University Ballet Company. I still go to classes twice a week and I dance with the local amateur company when I have the time. I'm dancing in our next production in a couple of months. I'd love you to come and see me dance. I'm thrilled you love ballet as well." I was almost trembling at the idea of him watching me dance in my leotard and tights costume and the pleasure he would get from seeing me on the points of my feet in my ballet shoes. His next comment confirmed his interest, to my great delight.
"Actually I have to admit I'm more into the fetish side of it really, but I'd love to see you dance anytime and watch a ballet with you too." I loved that he was so easily candid with me about his pleasures.
"That's a good starting point. I can get us complementary tickets through the law firm I work for," I suggested. I felt the foundation was now laid for me to have the confidence to ask what I really wanted to ask him, "Do you want to come to my flat on Saturday and bring your ballet gear. We can have a ballet theme evening and I'd love to see you in your kit. And I'd love you to stay the night." My heart was pounding and my mouth went dry as I said this.
"I'd love to come and I'd certainly bring my stuff if I had any, but I don't", he replied, with a note of regret.
I knew straight away what to do.
"That's no problem", I said brightly, and I told him about my friend Irina, who owns a ballet and dancewear shop, and suggested he pay her a visit. I also said she would take special care of him if he mentioned I was his friend. So we arranged that, while I was at my Saturday morning pointe class, he would drive over to Irina's shop after he had played football. Then he would come over to my place for an early evening meal, which would give us lots of time for fun and games afterwards. He signed off with an affectionate, "See you Saturday, Ballet Girl," which I really liked, and I settled back into my bath and looked forward to a night of romance, kinky fun and sex – ballet style. I couldn't help laughing as I thought of him in muddy football kit one moment and then in a leotard, tights and ballet slippers the next.
The following evening, after a long day at the office, I met Julia at the wine bar and told her all that had happened. She had brought her photos of her naked skydiving session with Rick and we had a real ladies' night together as we talked about our respective men and the amazing events that had brought us together.
"Every time you touched his dick you made me so jealous," I confessed to her, "And what made it ten thousand times worse was that I was tied up and gagged and I couldn't do a frigging thing about it."
She looked embarrassed as she touched my hand.
"It was just business, honestly. He's really all yours." Then she grinned as she added, "He felt bloody nice though."
"Not as nice as the feeling I got when you fucking well stuffed him into me!" I retorted, and we screamed with hysterical laughter, which caused dozens of pairs of eyes to glance in our direction.
After recovering our composure we continued our conversation.
"Did tying me up and gagging me turn you on?" I asked.
"I have to admit it does appeal to the dominatrix in me," she laughed, "But its part of the job sometimes and I have to be responsible because I have a duty of care to our clients." She was more serious now and asked concernedly, "Did I hurt you in any way at all, Lorna?"
"I was fine, really," I reassured her, "The first time, I got really turned on. I was desperate for you not to notice how wet I was. The second time, in a weird way, it felt familiar and comfortable and comforting. Wow, the weird stuff that lurks inside our brains!"
We shook our heads in shared homage to The Depravity Of The Female Mind and then we forgot about men and talked about work gossip, holidays, clothes, Big Brother, how much better the world would be if women were in charge – and just about everything else.
As we staggered out of the wine bar, tottering and clattering on our high heels, Julia took hold of my shoulders.
"You're beautiful Lorn'. You're like a Spanish Gypsy dancer. I'd love to have your lovely dark hair and eyes and I'd kill for your tiny waist. You're drop-dead gorgeous Lorn'. Rock his effin' socks off, girl!"
I went home feeling very drunk but wonderfully affirmed in my womanhood, and I looked forward to Steve with greater confidence and expectation.
**********
I love Saturday mornings because I can "lie in" until 8 and still have plenty of time to enjoy breakfast before my pointe class. I tied back my dark hair in a neat ballet bun, slipped on jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt over my pale blue leotard and white tights, put on some white ankle socks and my white plimsolls and, with my white ballet pointe shoes and pink ballet practice slippers and the rest of my stuff in a shoulder bag, headed for the dance studios.
One of the reasons I love doing ballet so much is because it's just about the only thing I associate with a good physical image of myself. Everybody whose opinion I value says I have the perfect body, figure, legs, feet and arches for ballet and, whatever else I might think about my appearance, I've always thought I look pretty good in a leotard or a tutu. So I always get a real buzz when I arrive on the studio floor and get ready for the lesson with the other girls. We chatted and laughed and joked as we pulled off sweatshirts and sweaters and tee shirts and tracksuits to emerge like lithe butterflies in our leotards and tights and legwarmers – white, black, pink, bright colours, pastel colours, stripy, shiny, in various levels of revealing-ness. Then we bent over or sat on the floor to pull on soft-soled ballet slippers, which either harmonised or clashed with the rest of our attire, for the preliminary warm-up part of the class.
At an unspoken signal we instinctively lined up at the barres around the walls and in rows across the floor and, with a fanfare from the piano, we began. When I'm doing ballet, the rest of the universe is left outside the door and ceases to exist. I become concentrated and centred on myself and on my task and my dream to follow and express every position and movement perfectly. After a few minutes of warming up I was in an ideal state of relaxed and ready body tone and mental clarity and focus.
Then we sat in a gaggle on the floor and chatted some more and swigged from bottles of mineral water, as we changed from our soft-soled slippers into the firm hold of our pointe shoes, with their firm shanks pressing against the soles of our feet, our toes pushed and nestled into their reinforced toe boxes lined with lambs wool, their sides pulled tight around our feet by their ribbons wrapped and tied around and gripping our ankles, all containing and controlling our feet for as long as we kept them on. Many dancers have a love-hate relationship with their pointe shoes, considering them an exquisitely designed form of torture. I love wearing them. They make my feet look divine and my ankles gorgeous with the ribbons criss-crossing around them, and when I'm on pointe I feel as if I'm about to fly.
We started again and for the next hour I bent and stretched and glided and turned and span and jumped and skipped. I rolled up onto my toes and hopped onto my toes and walked on my toes and balanced on my toes and span on my toes and sprang up from my toes and landed on my toes until class was finally over and my toes felt like fire. I released my feet from my pointe shoes and rubbed them in blessed relief for a few minutes while we chattered some more. Preferring to shower at home, I put on my ankle socks and plimsolls and wandered around in my leotard, tights, ankle socks and plimsolls for a few minutes while I talked with several other girls involved in our company's forthcoming production. Then I put on my sweatshirt and jogging bottoms and went home for lunch and to prepare for Steve.
I had just put the kettle on when he phoned.
"What a lovely surprise, how are you?" I asked.
"Pretty good thanks. We won four-nil".
"Is that very good?" I asked in mock ignorance.
"I scored three so something must have been going right."
"Do you think you'll score again tonight?" I teased.
"You said it Girl, but only if I can get out of my tights first. I'm off to visit your friend Irina now."
"Have a lovely time Steve," I laughed, "I've told her to look after you properly."
Irina phoned later as I was preparing a chicken salad for the evening.
"He's a very nice man. Make the most of him for as long as you can," she said, with her combination of perfect English grammar and diction and the dramatic rise and fall of her Czech accent, "He bought lots of lovely things too, including a beautiful white tutu."
"Oh my goodness!" I exclaimed. "He's really done it then?"
"He certainly has," she asserted, "and you must promise me that you will transform him into a real Czech ballerina for me. I want to see the pictures too."
"Guides honour," I laughed.
I had great fun deciding what to wear as a surprise for Steve. I'd never before set out to prepare myself with the main aim of pleasing a man in ways I knew would please him. It made me feel sexier and it heightened my anticipation of a wonderful time together with him. As I stood naked in my walk-in wardrobe, looking through my ballet clothes, I first thought to wear a shiny high-thigh leotard, but then I thought it would concentrate his attention too much on my fanny instead of on my breasts and my legs, which were where, to begin with at least, I wanted him to concentrate.
So I decided on a black basque-style leotard which gave a nice line to my décolletage and also around my lower thighs. I picked up some black fishnet tights, and something I remembered about the way he had looked at my legs suggested to me that he would really like me in them. They were footless, and this gave me the idea of wearing them with my plimsolls and ankle socks so that, at the right moment, I could peel them off over my plimsolls and be naked before him in my white plimsolls and ankle socks again. The thought of it suddenly made me wet with excitement.
After a quick calm down and freshen up, I slipped on a pair of tiny black satin briefs, pulled on my black fishnets and eased into my leotard, snuggling my bare breasts into the revealingly figure-moulding Lycra. Then I put on my white ankle socks and my white plimsolls. Feeling incredibly sexy, I just had time to put on some earrings, poppy red lipstick and some sweetly fruity perfume and brush my hair when the doorbell announced his arrival.
