red carnation
Amélie has earned a punishment, and Ana delights to deliver.
Amélie Lacroix is pretty when she balances on a single foot and twirls with her arms raised above her head. She is pretty when she smiles and laughs, not the performance she executes onstage but something genuine.
She is pretty with her cheeks flushed pink and her lips curled downward in a childish pout. Ana likes her like this, likes her balancing on the edge of embarrassment, annoyance, and arousal.
“I said I was sorry,” Amélie says. On the stage she is always poised and graceful, but off it she can be surprisingly immature. She’s used to being feted. Coddled.
“Yes,” Ana says, unmoved. “But if I don’t teach you a lesson, you’ll think you can get away with it, and I’m afraid you can’t.”
Amélie seems about to say something before she thinks better of it and closes her mouth. Her blush deepens. She looks like she wants to mutter another disrespectful remark under her breath. She has not yet learned to show Ana the proper respect. But she will.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” she says. It’s less of a whine this time.
“There you go. Now, hands around your ankles.”
The expression that flashes across Amélie’s face shows that she clearly thought a display of genuine contrition would be enough, but to Ana’s delight she does not make a fuss. She bends smoothly in half, dancer that she is, and stands still with her posterior skyward.
“Good girl,” Ana murmurs, and cups a cheek. Amélie’s body is all muscle, but there is still some softness there. Her leggings are tight enough to outline her plump lips. Ana enjoys the view, but she will not deign to touch Amélie there today.
Amélie lets out a soft noise when her leggings and underwear are brusquely yanked down, but she doesn’t move. Ana strokes her soft skin and spreads her cheeks for a better look. Amélie is waxed, as always, and her pink lips are prettier without the cloth in the way, but Ana’s attentions today are for a different hole.
“Does Gérard play with this?” Ana asks, as she reaches for the lubricant. It’s a cruel question, maybe, and Amélie’s silence is the only answer necessary. If Gérard paid his wife any attention at all, she wouldn’t be bending over for Ana.
The solid metal plug is small for this first infraction. When it’s been slicked up, Ana presses it to Amélie’s waiting hole. She shivers at the cold, but she takes it easily enough. It slides securely into place. Ana tugs on the ring and relishes the gasping moan Amélie swallows back.
“There we go.” Ana pats it, wipes off her hands on the waiting towel, and pulls Amélie’s leggings and panties back up. “You can stand.”
Amélie does. Her cheeks are so red she looks like a tomato, though perhaps that’s just gravity pulling all the blood to her head.
“I won’t be able to dance,” she says quietly. Humbled. The thought sends a spark through Ana.
“You’ll have to,” Ana says. “I’ll be watching.”
.
The ballet is Salome and the director ruthless; she barks objections at her dancers over an arm held a degree lower than appropriate, a spin a quarter of a rotation too much. Certainly she would object to the presence of an audience, but the names Ana Amari and Overwatch hold a great deal of weight. Ana doesn’t really feel guilty about pulling rank for something as innocuous as this.
So she sits in the theater, a few rows back from the stage, a lonely audience of one. Her tablet is open on her lap and she’s only half-paying attention, but every now and then she glances up and meets Amélie’s eyes.
Amélie is the lead, of course, draped in exquisite crimson to foreshadow her bloodlust. Certainly Amélie has perverse tastes, Ana thinks wryly, but she can’t imagine her collecting heads. But there is an unrestrained animalism in her movements, especially when the director orders a More! Push yourself!
At first Amélie’s motions are jerky and unsure, but sharp criticism catches her soon enough and muscle memory takes over. Her job is much too competitive to allow for distractions, even ones as lovely as the one Ana has engineered.
She wonders how the plug feels as Amélie spins and leaps and runs across the stage. Surely it makes itself known with each little motion. Is she clenching tight around it, afraid it will slip loose and show her coworkers how debased she is? Does she relish the shifting weight of it every time she moves her legs?
Perhaps she will come to think of it as not such a punishment after all.
Ana is pleasantly wet there, seated in the lavish old theater, a show before her. Amélie seems to be performing for her benefit alone. Perhaps she’ll ask for Gérard’s head on a plate. Mesmerized as Ana is by her thin body swaying amongst all that blood-red cloth, she thinks perhaps she would acquiesce.
The dancers are permitted a brief break and promptly scatter to their phones, the restrooms, or to get something to eat. Ana remains where she is, continuing her work until a buzz from her own phone distracts her.
It’s Amélie.
Please may I take it out
Ana smiles despite herself.
No.
please I cant take it I cant focus
When Ana doesn’t respond, there are a few moments of silence, and then a picture.
Amélie’s fingers are soaked and shiny with viscous strands of her own nectar. Three of them, wet down to the knuckle. Ana leans back in her chair and lets out a deep sigh. Five minutes is not long enough to join Amélie in the bathroom, and she likes drawing things out anyway. But she entertains the fantasy anyway and imagines sucking Amélie’s fingers clean and then going down on her. She would toy with the plug, have Amélie coming in moments.
After your rehearsal as I said.
A longer pause. Then, finally, Amélie responds.
yes madame.
