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Back to my feet, every step is enhanced by the black-clad dancers, lifting me, launching me forward.
They catch me, tug me back, toss me forward again. I’m overwhelmed, smothered, their bodies rising to envelop me. Out of that mass, I rise, floating above the stage in their hands, my toes pointed to the ground, my arms raised above my head.
The second movement starts as I’m tilted back, offered up as an offering.
The Dark Angel emerges to take his gift.
I sense the energy build with his arrival, the crowd whispering in anticipation.
Evan takes me from them, hooking one arm under my waist, the smoke and darkness receding, leaving me hanging in his arms, limp, lifeless.
He places one hand on my chest, slamming it down in a shower of sparks, once, twice, and on the third, I gasp. The angel sets me on my feet, circling me, turning me in a spin to look me up and down.
Our first dance together is tentative, careful, scared. It teases the audience, the two of us flirtatious as he strips away layers of the fabric around me, as I do the same to him. Until he’s stripped to the waist, his chiseled abs painted in glittering gold. Until I'm wearing almost nothing, only my nipples covered and a rope-tied thong covering my private area.
We tussle, growing closer, growing restless. The music increases in pace and urgency.
Colors shift on the stage from white and black, bright golds and silvers, to amber, a hint of red, deep purple.
It strobes to orange, a hint of fire as he tears away my will, awakening my hidden desire.
Our dance is temptation, the acquiescence of purity to the darkness within. I give every bit of my purity to him, every ounce of my being.
Not just her, the icon on the stage.
I give it to him, the man behind the angel mask.
Evan’s arms encircle me, pulling me back into him, flipping me around. He pulls me close, spinning me, our lips barely brushing.
Our spectators gasp, moans of longing accenting the chiming stress of the song.
I can relate, feeling how hard Evan is through the slim strip of fabric covering his waist. Every eye is on my body or on his jaw-dropping length.
And every single person in the room is just as aroused as the two of us.
I’ve been dripping since I took the stage in anticipation of him. So much so that I lose myself in the moment, dragging my hand along the length of his cock, gripping the fabric and yanking it free, leaving him bare, pulsing and erect.
The audience gasps, many of them applauding the feat.
Evan simply sniffs at me, throwing his head back arrogantly, his lips pursed in a smug grimace. He's enjoying every second of it, more than I’ve ever seen him.
And not just the performance, but what he knows he’s doing to me with every touch and caress.
He’s untethering me, pulling me apart, thread by thread.
The angel throws me away. Hard, viciously. Harder than we practiced. The other dancers catch me, reacting to his improvisation instantly, saving me from crashing to the floor, like it was part of the act. My rattling cry is half real, my body stinging from slamming into their waiting hands. I brace myself, curling down into a ball as they toss me back toward him in a wild leap, desperately reaching for him.
But he steps back, letting me fall, tearing my white dress. The scrapes on my knees are real when I hit the floor. Why is he doing this?
My white slip is in tatters from his rough hands, from the darkness clawing at me every time he casts me away. It leaves my breasts exposed, my nipples peaked and hard.
I don't even care that the audience can see me. I want them to see how badly I need him.
I crawl, begging, reaching up…
Only to have him thrust one hand out, forcing me away, blocking me from him and in doing so, commanding the dancers to proceed into motion, streaking my body with black and orange, with fire and ash, pulling away the last vestiges of my garments.
“No… please…” I hear my voice, whimpering. I'm standing there completely nude, streaked from head to toe in black and orange paint.
