I always told them no.
Until I met the Baron.
Whenever I returned backstage, I’d lock the door to my dressing room, and there on the chair I’d brought from my act, I would slide two fingers inside my slick lace and rub myself quickly, the fluid still warm on my nipples, arching as I came. Thus, before I met the Baron, I never had to be close to a man. Sex for me was either public or terribly alone.
I didn’t know how miserable I was.
Well, you will hear dastardly things said of the Baron, and most of them are true. How he held sleeping girls in his bed and touched himself without their knowing; how he fucked his wives then left them, robbing them of their money, counting on the fact that they’d be too high from his loving to report his hasty crimes. Though the rank of baron is the lowest of the nobles, he still had money and the manners of a lord—could hide his true nature beneath a decorous mask. But as with all rogues, he was also a liberator.
I, you see, was a little like the Baron.
The night he arrived, it was raining outside. I’d just returned from the stage, the chair in my arms, and I entered my dressing room to find him standing at the window smoking a clove cigarette, elegantly slouched to one side. He was wearing a red velvet jacket, which matched my corset, and his black hair glinted in the light from old-style lamp I’d set on my dressing table. He turned, his face lascivious, as if he knew all my ills, and I noticed his tiny moustache like that of a classic villain.
I asked what he was doing there.
He told me to put down the chair.
I challenged him: “Why?”
He said, “I’ll take you over my knee.”
I threw back my head and laughed, but no sooner had I done so than he was grabbing the chair and throwing it down on the boards. He kicked the door shut behind us, clasped me by the arm, sat in the chair and pulled me across his lap. I gasped out, astonished, before I felt him spanking me, each strike making a slapping noise against my lace-clasped buttocks. I could smell his cologne rising from his flesh. Aroused as I was from the man I’d just pleasured onstage, each spank made me more wanting and hot. I parted my thighs a little, hoping he’d touch my sex, but he kept to my buttocks, talking as he struck: “You are talented, Anita. But you must learn to relent. You won’t achieve true heights unless you accept your nature.” His spanking grew fiercer, tugging at the lace of my knickers—the rough material plucked at the lips of my pussy and I begged him for more.
It was true I had always kept up my guard. As a girl, I’d been so quiet, giving nothing I couldn’t control. Even my secrets weren’t quite true—when you lie you’re rarely vulnerable. I was raised by my uncle, who once called me a woman of wax. There was a distance in his eyes as he said it, and we were eating rabbit stew. “But no,” he said, “wax melts.” I reminded him that he’d never once hugged me. When I said that was unnatural, he called me slut.
The Baron paused and told me to get up.
I found I was quivering.
Hearing him unzip, I looked down to see his cock pale and hard in his hand—it was longer and sleeker than any I’d seen: a beautiful sex, a perfect sex, and oh, how firm. Longing to lick and pleasure him, I began to sink to my knees, but he grabbed me by the hair. “No, Anita.” Raising me by the curls, he stretched me back. I had to relent. He glanced down at my corset, streaked with the remnants of another’s pleasure, and with his lips curling back against his teeth and a wildness in the blacks of his eyes, he cupped my slippery breast.
“You need this,” I said to him.
His smile curled up at one corner, and I caught a drift of the scent on his neck. Suddenly, he thrust me back so I pressed against the dresser, my pot of cold cream crashing to the floor, and he was on me in a second, pushing me back against the mirror, which thumped, collapsing, so my back stuck to the glass. He thrust his hands deep between my thighs, and at my ear, hissed, “I want you, Anita.” I cried out. His sex ground mine, and he tore through the lace. He filled me from shaft to tip. I jolted on the dresser so the mirror thudded behind me and a bottle crashed and broke, sending out a rosy scent. I was so wet that his thrusts were smooth as oil, and my sex, unused to the shape of a man, tingled and stretched. Through his teeth, he said my slit was tight as a virgin’s.
I’d never heard it called that—a slit.
He said to call him Papa, but instead I cried, “Oh, Uncle…” and thought I could cry it forever.
There, plowing his sex into mine, with the dressing table shunting at the wall, I glanced into the angled mirror that stood in the corner. And with my stockinged thighs wrapped around the thrusting Baron, my heeled sandals glinting and my red lips stretched apart, I, Anita, exotic dancer, released an ecstatic yell and finally learned to give way.