But suddenly, a narrow shadow materialized at my side.
“Um hi, Miss Lane,” I muttered, looking down. “I just have to change really quick.”
Our taskmistress is about forty, with graying hair pulled back into a painfully tight bun, her frame sinewy and ripcord thin. It’s scary actually because you can see a lot of arteries at the surface of her skin, like her entire body consists of varicose veins. Not to mention her pursed and wrinkly mouth, liked she’d sucked a lemon.
“And why do you need to change?” the woman asked, voice frigid, cold as ice. “Didn’t you just get here?”
I bit my lip. She was right. Practice hadn’t started yet, why would I need to change when I was already in a perfectly good warm-up outfit? God, why hadn’t I said I needed to go to the bathroom? Cursing internally, my mind fumbled for more excuses.
But then Miss Lane’s nose wrinkled. She’s got one of those small, thin noses like the woman’s always smelling something sour. But in this case it was true because her eyes squinted as she sniffed again, turning her head this way and that like a bloodhound.
“Is that …?” she glared at me. “Is that what I think it is?”
I held perfectly still, Thorn’s cum still dripping down my thigh. Oh god, my cunt was drenched with it, his aroma surrounding me, seeping into my skin. But I pretended not to know.
“Is that what?” I asked in an innocent voice. “Is what what?”
Miss Lane sniffed again, eyes squinty and suspicious. But then her head snapped up and the woman barked. “Plié!” she commanded. “Plié and then arabesque!”
Oh god, why oh why? I fidgeted, trying to stall.
“But Miss Lane,” I stammered. “I need to change, and besides practice hasn’t started yet,” I gestured to the few folks milling around, strapping on their shoes.
Those pale blue eyes stared at me, cold and piercing.
“Plié!” she barked again. “And then arabesque!”
My cheeks flushed, body going stiff. But looking quickly around the room, the choice was clear. It was better just to get it over with rather than prolong this torture. Maybe the cranky lady wouldn’t notice the stain at my crotch, the telltale proof that I’d been with a man. Maybe I could get it over so fast that she’d go away and leave me alone.
So breathing deep, I assumed the position, toes apart, heels together. And then as quickly as possible, I bent my knees so that my legs formed a diamond, the wet fabric visible only for a second, before leaping up into the air, one leg behind, both arms outstretched.
It was frankly the best arabesque I’ve ever done. Because this particular move requires full extension as you raise one thigh, legs parting, stretched almost at a ninety degree angle all the way from the tip of one finger to the back of one toe.
But the problem was that it was too good. Because as my form lifted, poised gracefully into the air, the spot at my crotch became obvious. The wet pink material and corresponding streaks on my thigh were out in the open for anyone to see, the answer to her sniffing nose.
And when I came back to earth, gracefully resuming first position, there was a smirk on Miss Lane’s face.
“So that’s why you have to change,” she sneered. “You’ve got cum smeared all over that slutty body.”
I blushed. Those words were so nasty! How could she say them in public, here in the practice room? Did anyone overhear? But there was no sense in pretending to be dumb.
“I’m so sorry,” I rushed, head down, biting my lip. “I’m sorry.”
But this was never going to do because after all, I was the new Laney. Besides it was Thorn’s semen leaking from my snatch, and I loved every ounce of juice he’d deposited. So I lifted my head and looked Miss Lane straight in the eye.
“It is,” I said with a deep breath, voice trembling but firm. “I was with a man this morning and we had a good time. If I’d known there was going to be so much, I would have taken precautions.”
Although what precautions weren’t exactly clear. Because thinking back to my early session with Mr. Channing, it’d been so good, so thorough, that I couldn’t have stopped that big male body if I tried. He’d pushed me down, cheek smashed against the coverlet, pumping into my pussy with that fat dick.
“Aw FUCK!” came the male roar. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
And I’d cried out, eyes closed, heavy boobs dragging on the bed, fists gripping at the sheets. Because Thorn was spurting in me again, filling me up, giving me my daily dose of cum, hot, thick, and virile.
So how could I say no? How could I turn down a snatch full of bubbly jism, the stuff of life? I couldn’t and I wouldn’t, because his semen is my personal boom-boom juice, the spinach to my Popeye, and I need as much as I can get, as often as I can get.