Need Me – Being Trevor’s Toy
I dance across the stage, legs kicking out perfectly and body in perpetual motion. The crowd is a dark, blur. Hundreds of people are watching as I entertain them with my beauty and my pain.
Only one man understands this and he is out there watching.
I know he appreciates my talent, seeing me as his personal ballerina. He sees himself as gracious by allowing me to share my body and my pain on stage for all to consume.
And he is.
My beautiful, dark, damaged Trevor is gracious. He’s generous in all things and I find myself trembling, not from exhaustion, but from anticipation. I can’t wait to climb into his limo and feel his body against mine. I hope I’ve pleased him tonight through my adages , jetes , and grand allegros . Once upon a time I danced for the crowd, basking in their adoration and believing it my due.
Now I dance solely for Trevor.
I smile broadly when I reach my final mark and bow. The crowd thunders its appreciation. I can’t help but search the darkness. I hope to catch a glimpse of his crimson tie splashed across a blinding white shirtfront like blood. My patience is a lie as I accept the applause along with my fellow dancers.
Backstage is the familiar controlled chaos. Air kisses, laughter, and champagne flow heavy. I give a few words to the local paper, stopping to take a photograph with the reporter and another dancer. We laugh and congratulate one another, blissful at the performance’s obvious success.
Opening night is a dancer’s special labor and delivery—the sweat and agony culminates in a beautiful performance made all the more sweet because of the countless hours spent in labor.
I’m not so far gone that I can’t still appreciate the splendor of what I’m blessed to do. I’m so lucky to have this life, to be a professional dancer and have all those hard-earned lessons pay off big. My heart is full and I am happy.
Still, I’d trade it all for Trevor in a second.
Finally, I’m able to slip away. An enormous bouquet of red roses awaits me in my tiny dressing area. I lose precious moments smelling their intoxicating sweetness. I’m reminded of myself when I see them—soft, thorny, and living in a suspended state of beauty fated to wither away.
It’s nothing. I’ve always been morbid. I can’t help but see the darkness behind the light and be drawn to it.
With a final fragrant sniff, I turn away from Trevor’s roses and quickly change out of my costume. The costume supervisor’s assistant comes by and plucks it out of my hands for spot-cleaning. I’ll wear it again tomorrow night and for the next nine nights afterwards. Although I enjoy my work and my good fortune, I’ve already shoved dancing out of my mind.
Trevor’s been on the Continent, doing what he does best—making lots of money. He’s a self-made man with lots of large companies interspersed with a few pet projects. His properties are spread all over the world and he’s in possession of several bank accounts fat enough to support and staff them completely.
And although he’s only been gone for eleven days, I’ve missed him fiercely.
I’ve missed being on my knees. I’ve missed the feel of his hands in my hair as he thrusts into my open, wanton mouth. I’ve missed the fullness in my cunt and the branding in my ass.
I’ve missed his come dripping out of all my holes.
I know myself to be vulgar. I don’t think of us in flowery language. What we do and who we are together is raw, stripped of pretense. So I can’t help but use words like cock, cunt, and ass. I wouldn’t even if I could. I am reduced to a shameless state with Trevor.
I am not the pretty ballerina of sugarplum dreams. I am the sinister otherness waiting to be pounced on in the woods, hands spreading myself wide to be devoured by the wolf while sending the huntsman on his way with a curse.
I’m obsessed. I’m doomed by my obsession and I do nothing to stop it. At least not anymore.
I scrub my
I dance across the stage, legs kicking out perfectly and body in perpetual motion. The crowd is a dark, blur. Hundreds of people are watching as I entertain them with my beauty and my pain.
Only one man understands this and he is out there watching.
I know he appreciates my talent, seeing me as his personal ballerina. He sees himself as gracious by allowing me to share my body and my pain on stage for all to consume.
And he is.
My beautiful, dark, damaged Trevor is gracious. He’s generous in all things and I find myself trembling, not from exhaustion, but from anticipation. I can’t wait to climb into his limo and feel his body against mine. I hope I’ve pleased him tonight through my adages , jetes , and grand allegros . Once upon a time I danced for the crowd, basking in their adoration and believing it my due.
Now I dance solely for Trevor.
I smile broadly when I reach my final mark and bow. The crowd thunders its appreciation. I can’t help but search the darkness. I hope to catch a glimpse of his crimson tie splashed across a blinding white shirtfront like blood. My patience is a lie as I accept the applause along with my fellow dancers.
Backstage is the familiar controlled chaos. Air kisses, laughter, and champagne flow heavy. I give a few words to the local paper, stopping to take a photograph with the reporter and another dancer. We laugh and congratulate one another, blissful at the performance’s obvious success.
Opening night is a dancer’s special labor and delivery—the sweat and agony culminates in a beautiful performance made all the more sweet because of the countless hours spent in labor.
I’m not so far gone that I can’t still appreciate the splendor of what I’m blessed to do. I’m so lucky to have this life, to be a professional dancer and have all those hard-earned lessons pay off big. My heart is full and I am happy.
Still, I’d trade it all for Trevor in a second.
Finally, I’m able to slip away. An enormous bouquet of red roses awaits me in my tiny dressing area. I lose precious moments smelling their intoxicating sweetness. I’m reminded of myself when I see them—soft, thorny, and living in a suspended state of beauty fated to wither away.
It’s nothing. I’ve always been morbid. I can’t help but see the darkness behind the light and be drawn to it.
With a final fragrant sniff, I turn away from Trevor’s roses and quickly change out of my costume. The costume supervisor’s assistant comes by and plucks it out of my hands for spot-cleaning. I’ll wear it again tomorrow night and for the next nine nights afterwards. Although I enjoy my work and my good fortune, I’ve already shoved dancing out of my mind.
Trevor’s been on the Continent, doing what he does best—making lots of money. He’s a self-made man with lots of large companies interspersed with a few pet projects. His properties are spread all over the world and he’s in possession of several bank accounts fat enough to support and staff them completely.
And although he’s only been gone for eleven days, I’ve missed him fiercely.
I’ve missed being on my knees. I’ve missed the feel of his hands in my hair as he thrusts into my open, wanton mouth. I’ve missed the fullness in my cunt and the branding in my ass.
I’ve missed his come dripping out of all my holes.
I know myself to be vulgar. I don’t think of us in flowery language. What we do and who we are together is raw, stripped of pretense. So I can’t help but use words like cock, cunt, and ass. I wouldn’t even if I could. I am reduced to a shameless state with Trevor.
I am not the pretty ballerina of sugarplum dreams. I am the sinister otherness waiting to be pounced on in the woods, hands spreading myself wide to be devoured by the wolf while sending the huntsman on his way with a curse.
I’m obsessed. I’m doomed by my obsession and I do nothing to stop it. At least not anymore.
I scrub my
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