Lila finished her solo and stood in the center of the floor, breathing hard, glowing with that specific satisfaction that came from moving freely.

"You're incredible," I said from the doorway.

She smiled, wiping sweat from her forehead. "I'm rusty. Haven't danced like that in months. The agency kept me so controlled, so structured—I forgot what it felt like to just move."

"You'll get it back. Your body remembers."

She nodded, then looked at me with something like curiosity.

"Do you dance?"

I pushed off the doorframe. "Yeah."

"Like... casually? Or actually dance?"

"Actually dance." I crossed to where she stood, bare feet silent on the sprung floor. "Ballet. Contemporary. Jazz. Hip-hop. Ballroom. I know most styles well enough to teach them."

Her eyes widened. "You're joking."

"I don't joke about dance. It's art. I respect it."

She studied me for a long moment. Then smiled—that specific smile of someone who thought they'd found an opening.

"Prove it."

I laughed. "You want to dance with me?"

"I want to see if you're full of shit or if you're actually as good at everything as everyone says you are."

Fair challenge.

"Okay." I gestured to the space. "What style?"

"Ballet partnering," she said immediately. "If you know it, prove it. Most guys can barely do basic lifts without dropping their partners. Let's see what you've got."

She was testing me. Expecting me to fumble, to be adequate but not exceptional, to be another rich guy who claimed skills he didn't actually have.

She had no fucking idea what she was asking for.

"ARIA," I subvocalized. "Something classical. Slow build. Give me eight minutes."

"Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, Pas de Deux variation," ARIA replied instantly. "Perfect for showcasing technique and partnership. Cueing now."

Music filled the sanctuary. Soft at first—strings and woodwinds weaving together in that haunting melody that every dancer knew. The kind of music that made you want to move before you even decided to.

I offered my hand.

Lila took it, still skeptical, and let me guide her to first position.

Our feet aligned. Her right hand in my left, my right hand settling light on her waist. Professional hold. Respectful distance.

The music swelled.

And we began.

First Movement: The Test

I led her through basic steps first. Simple choreography—chassés, balancés, gentle turns. Testing her technique, letting her test mine.

She was good. Really fucking good. Her lines were clean, extensions perfect, balance impeccable even after months of forced inactivity. Muscle memory carrying her through movements she'd done ten thousand times.

But she was still testing me. Waiting for me to fuck up the timing, miss a cue, lead her wrong.

I didn't.

Every step was precise. Every hand placement exactly where it needed to be—never gripping, never controlling, just there at the exact microsecond she needed support.

Every moment of contact calibrated to her body's specific physics—her weight distribution, center of gravity, the heat of her cunt radiating through the thin fabric when my palm pressed low on her lower belly, the way her ass flexed under my fingers when I guided her hips.

We moved through a simple promenade, my hand steady at her waist as she extended into arabesque, leg rising behind her in a perfect line.

But as she reached what she thought was her maximum height, I applied the slightest upward pressure—not lifting, just suggesting—and her leg climbed another three inches while my thumb deliberately stroked the sensitive crease where thigh meets ass, teasing the edge of her leotard.

Her eyes widened. Her breath hitched and her pussy visibly clenched under the fabric.

That shouldn't have been possible. She'd been dancing professionally for years. She knew her arabesque height.

Except I'd just shown her she'd been wrong.

We transitioned into a supported pirouette. My hands on her waist, lifting just enough to make the turn weightless. She spun—one rotation, two, three—and I was there at the end, catching her precisely, absorbing her momentum, my thumbs pressing firmly into the dip above her hip bones, right where her pelvis tilts forward when she's aroused.

No wobble. No adjustment. Perfect.

But then I did something that made her breath catch and her nipples harden visibly through her leotard.

"Again," I said quietly. "But this time, don't prepare. Just spin."

"I need to prep—"

"No. You don't. Trust me."

She looked uncertain but nodded, already wet form my Touch, thighs slick when they brushed together.

And I launched her into the pirouette from standing—no preparation, no warning—just perfect timing and perfect force with my right hand sliding down to cup the underside of her ass for one filthy second before returning to proper position.

She spun. Five rotations. Six. Seven.

She'd never done more than four in her life.

I caught her at the end, perfectly balanced, my cock now obviously hard against her lower belly, and she stared at me with something like fear and awe and raw, dripping hunger mixing together.

"How did you—"

"You're stronger than you think. Your technique is better than you've been taught. Your teachers set limits that don't actually exist."

We flowed into a more complex pattern. Développé into attitude, my hand supporting her extended leg, holding her steady as she found her balance.

Except I didn't just support.

I traced my fingers along the underside of her thigh—professional, clinical—feeling where her muscles were tense while deliberately dragging my knuckles over the damp gusset of her leotard, feeling how soaked she already was.

"You're gripping here," I murmured, pressing lightly on her hamstring. "Release it. The support comes from your hip flexor and core, not your leg… and definitely not from clenching your pretty little cunt around nothing."

She released. Her leg floated higher, the attitude position transforming from strained to effortless as a fresh gush of wetness darkened the fabric between her legs.

"Holy shit," she whispered, voice trembling with need.

The music built. Tempo increasing. More complex choreography emerging naturally.

And I started really dancing.

Second Movement: The Revelation

Pas de bourrée into lift prep. I felt her weight shift, knew the moment before she jumped, and my hands were already there—catching her waist, lifting her clean off the floor in a fish lift that elevated her horizontal, her back arched, arms extended like wings while my fingers dug into the meat of her ass, spreading her slightly through the leotard.

She gasped—part surprise, part exhilaration, part desperate moan.

But I didn't just hold her.

I walked with her in the air.

Three steps forward while she was horizontal, eight feet off the ground, completely stable, not a tremor in my arms as I ground the heel of my palm against her swollen clit with every step.

Then I lifted her higher—transitioning the fish lift into an overhead press—until she was vertical above my head, hands at her hips, her body extending straight up like a living exclamation point her dripping cunt now directly over my face, scent intoxicating.

I held her there for four counts.

Then brought her down—not straight down, but rotating her through space in a controlled spiral that made her feel like she was floating through water—her slick folds dragging against my chest on the way down—until her feet touched the floor with the gentleness of a feather landing.

Her feet touched the floor and she was shaking, knees buckling, thighs trembling, pussy visibly pulsing behind the soaked fabric.

"That was..." She couldn't finish the sentence.

"A basic fish lift with a press transition. Want to try something actually difficult?"

Before she could answer, the music surged and I guided her into the setup for a grand jeté lift.

She knew what was coming. Saw it in my positioning, felt it in how my hands prepared and in the thick ridge of my cock pressed against her.

She ran three steps and launched.

I caught her at the peak of her jump—hands at her waist and thigh—but instead of just lifting, I threw her.

Gently. Perfectly. Sending her another three feet higher than her natural jump, extending her split jeté position until she was nine feet off the ground, suspended in the air for what felt like impossible seconds with one hand now blatantly cupping her soaked cunt, middle finger pressing the fabric inside her folds.

Time stopped.

Her arms were extended, back arched, one leg forward and one back in a flawless split. Every muscle in her body visible, engaged, beautiful. Her clit throbbing visibly under my thumb, labia swollen and parted by the stretched leotard. The position would have been impossible to hold on her own.

But I held her there, absolutely steady, letting her feel what it was like to truly fly while I slowly circled her clit through the fabric.

Three counts. Four. Five. Six.

Then I brought her down—not dropping, choreographing—with control so precise she literally couldn't tell when she transitioned from air to floor.

The descent felt like floating through honey, every inch controlled, my fingers never leaving her pulsing cunt, until she landed on one foot en pointe—even in bare feet she hit the position perfectly—and I was already guiding her into the next movement with two fingers now hooked inside the leg of her leotard, stroking through her slickness.

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