Literotic asexstories – Fifth Position by PeachesAnd_Cream,PeachesAnd_Cream
For a while, everything hurts. I avoid class for a couple of weeks, delaying the inevitable. When I do return my poise is non-existent, and my body feels like lead. I know she won’t be there, but her absence still cuts deeper than I could’ve imagined.
The burn in my chest hurts worse than any criticism the Master throws my way in the following few lessons.
“Assemblé… Mia! I said Assemblé!”
“Andouille. It took you long enough….”
The other dancers whisper amongst themselves. I don’t bother to listen.
With time the weight begins to lift. The pain is more of a dull ache, and I can dance again. My body is more in tune with itself than ever, and after weeks of criticism I’m no longer afraid of failing. When I step into the studio, the rest of the world falls away as the music swells and flows through me. I barely hear the Master’s praise. I’m no longer dancing for anyone else – this is just for me.
I’d forgotten all about the number she left for me.
Uncovering it brings back our last moments together in all their searing glory. I resist the urge to press the paper to my nose and inhale any of her lingering scent, then throw it back where I found it and try to steady my breathing.
I try to ignore the persistent curiosity about why she would leave it for me. Or more specifically, who might answer if I were to call. One morning, before I can overthink it, I dial the number with trembling fingers.
A male voice answers. Of course it’s not her. Then sadness is replaced by shame when the man introduces himself as a therapist. A therapist. Like I’m some kind of broken doll, and this is her way of easing her guilt now she’s done playing with me.
I try to make my excuses, battling against my need to be polite. “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. A friend gave me this number, but-.”
His tone is more gentle the next time he speaks. “Mia? I’ve been expecting you. Natasha said you might call. She-”
“It doesn’t matter what she told you, because I still can’t afford this.”
“There’s no charge – this is a favour for a friend.”
“I don’t care-”
He cuts me off firmly this time. “One conversation. If you want to walk away at the end of it then that’s ok. I’ve been keeping some time free for you. Do you have a pen to hand?”
After, as I wrestle with the mess of emotions, I first curse my inability to say no. Then I try to feel furious about how patronising it is to decide a therapist was necessary without even speaking to me first… Finally, I accept that attending is inevitable, because I’d do anything if it meant feeling any kind of connection to Natasha again.
In a turn of events that isn’t at all surprising in hindsight, it doesn’t end up being one conversation. Weeks turn into months, and therapy is more painful, cathartic and worthwhile than I could have possibly imagined.
My therapist is bearded and handsome, a couple of decades older than I am. After a few sessions I also recognise him as a dominant. I’m ashamed to say that at one point I end up convincing myself that I’m in love with him. At the end of a session, I bite the bullet and ask him if he’d further my education by taking me on as his submissive.
After the longest, most awkward pause known to man, he clears his throat and looks at me with a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
“Have you learned nothing about boundaries in these sessions, Mia? I thought we were making progress?”
Looking at literally anywhere but him, I bite my lip and begin gathering my things. I usually appreciate his humour, but, today, it makes the humiliation burn worse. He can read me like a book, however, and changes his approach.
“Mia, we need to address this appropriately. Now please, sit down.”
I can’t ignore the authority in his tone, so I slump back down opposite him. I want to resent him; but, deep down, I appreciate that he won’t let me avoid things.
“I was very clear on my role as your therapist, was I not?” His tone is gentle, with just a hint of his usual humour.
“Yes, I understand… I understand how it would be completely inappropriate and unethical. But, as you hadn’t been charging me, I thought maybe what you got out of this was…”
When I sneak a look at him, his face is a mixture of horror and exasperation. I’ve never seen him flustered, and if I wasn’t so embarrassed I’d probably have found it funny.
“But that would mean that I was grooming you… do you really think that would be acceptable behaviour from me? Do you believe you deserve a therapist or a dominant who would manipulate you like that?”
I shake my head, my eyes glued back to the floor.
“Mia, please don’t blame yourself. I made the assumption you had enough information about why I want to help you. It was my responsibility to ensure that boundary was firmly established, especially when I know how common it is for clients to develop feelings for their therapists.”
“Is it common?” The shame lifts a little, but I still can’t bring myself to look up.
“You aren’t even my first client that I’ve had this conversation with. We talk about very personal things; if some wires become crossed it’s easy for me to end up representing what you want from a partner. Does that make sense?”
“Oh… yes. Sort of.”
“And, aside from the fact that I am your therapist, even if I wasn’t, I don’t have any submissives.”
He sighs heavily, and when I chance a look at him, he looks years older and his sadness is palpable.
“A long time ago I was in a position of power, but not what a true dominant should be. I was not a good man, and I caused an unimaginable amount of hurt. I can never take back what I did, and I can never make up for it. So, alongside my regular clients, I offer free therapy to submissives to try and ensure they are never preyed on by someone like the man I was.”
I understand the weight of shame, so when his eyes meet mine there’s nothing but compassion to greet them.
“Thank you, I understand. So… did she know about your past? Or just that you would be willing to help me?” He knows I still can’t say her name, although we’re trying to work on it.
“Natasha?” I nod, and he ignores my wince of pain at hearing her name out loud.
“Both, but she isn’t actively in my life. Had she been, I wouldn’t have taken you on as it wouldn’t have been appropriate. But I want to reassure you again that I would never tell her that you’re even a client, let alone what we talk about.”
I nod, and the tension leaves the air. “So, same time next week then?”
He looks at me thoughtfully; there’s a hint of something in his eyes that I don’t recognise before the familiar glint of humour returns.
“Whilst I don’t want you to forget that propositioning me was wildly inappropriate, I’m flattered you think an old man like me could keep up with you.”
I snort, buttoning my jacket to hide my blush. “Sorry, it was my mistake for thinking you could. I hadn’t considered that whipping could be a health hazard for the elderly.” No sooner are the words out of my mouth do I wish I could take them back. My skin heats up by about ninety degrees.
“In another life, had I been your Dominant, you wouldn’t have dared speak to me like that.”
He looks amused, and somewhat wistful, whilst I’m tongue-tied and blushing from head to toe. He shakes his head wearily.
“Same time next week, and for both of our sakes let’s consider this matter dealt with.”
I mumble my agreement and slip out the door before I can embarrass myself any further. I’ve never been so glad to skip down the stairs and escape into the fresh air.
For a long time now, I’ve been the star student of our class. I never thought I’d find a silver lining to the hole Natasha left, but life is full of surprises, and it keeps on throwing me through a loop.
It starts off as a normal Friday. I’m running late for class, so I’m last in to change. I squeeze into my usual spot, chirping my usual greetings to everyone, and I’m halfway through changing before I realise that the chatter that usually fills the room is suspiciously absent.
A familiar, heady scent catches my attention and affects my traitorous body in ways in which it shouldn’t after all this time. Just like that, she’s here again; like nothing happened, like no time has passed, like she didn’t walk away and leave my heart shattered into tiny pieces. I don’t look – I can’t – and I pray that she doesn’t speak because I don’t think my heart could take it.
I can feel her eyes on me throughout the class, and I like to think they’re appraising as I soar through the session. Somehow I manage to make it through without a single encounter, not even a hint of eye contact… until I’m outside after class and trying to call a taxi. It’s raining hard, and we’re soaked almost as soon as we’ve stepped out.
I can smell her before I see her – scent really is the most powerful memory trigger. I don’t want to look. She gently tugs at my arm.
“Let’s talk. Come on.”
I spin around and try to hold on to the flare of anger that I feel when I look into her frustratingly, beautiful, perfect face for the first time in forever.
“It took just a few weeks to get me completely hooked on you. Then you were gone, and it took forever for me to be even slightly okay. And now you’re trying to call the shots again like nothing ever happened, acting like everything is fine-”
“Mia, do I look fine to you? I’ve watched you flourish whilst I fell apart.”
I look at her properly for the first time, and I can see she’s telling the truth. She’s still so beautiful, but she looks exhausted, and like she’s lost too much weight. Her intensity is there but so much dimmer than before.
I grab her hands, suddenly afraid. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
She chuckles, the sound stirring something in me I desperately try to ignore. “Maybe, in my head? I went home for a while, and it wasn’t a happy experience. And I don’t think I’ve slept properly since the last time you were next to me.”
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