Page 90 of Endless Love

“W-what do you mean?”

“You need to ask that?” His face darkened with fury. “I put so much into you, gave you a second chance…the opportunity of a lifetime… but you’ve lost your passion for dance.”

My eyes stayed on him, my heart pounding, as he played with his cane, shifting it from hand to hand. Trembling, I scooted away from him, fearful he would whack me again.

“Where do you think you’re going, my oiseau?”

As I scooted back further, he followed me, taking long undeterred steps, his cane stamping the floor with each one. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. My heart beat double time with each ragged breath, my sobs punching through my pained muscles, bones, and flesh.

“P-please,” I begged tearfully. It was the only word I could manage.

My eyes stayed on him as terror filled every cell of my being. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed, his lips snarled. He breathed in and out of his nose as his face heated with a mixture of madness and lust. I’d seen this expression before and a new fear seeped into my veins.

Then, a few feet away from me, he paused and turned his cane upside down. Relieved, I didn’t see it coming. In one swift move, he hooked my neck with the handle and hauled me toward him. I gasped in pain and in need of air.

“You’re hurting me,” I choked out as he applied more force.

Leering at me, he laughed. “You should be used to pain, my oiseau. It’s what a dancer’s life is all about. No pain, no beauty.”

To my horror, he kicked me hard again, and as I winced, he dug the toe of his ballet slipper into my cheek, crushing it as if he was putting out a cigarette. As if I was to be disposed. Trembling with fear, I put my hands to my face to shield it.

“Don’t worry, ma chérie. I would never harm that pretty face of yours. I need you to look flawless in Paris…unless you want me to replace you with Mira. My other sweet little muse would kill to play the part of the White Swan.”

Quivering, I processed his words. There was no doubt in my mind he was still fucking Mira. And would bash my face if I didn’t acquiesce.

“I-I want to dance in Paris, Gustave. I-I do.”

His cane still hooked around my neck, he kneeled down beside me. He was wearing tights and a T-shirt that revealed every rugged muscle of his chiseled body. Between his powerful thighs, an enormous erection bulged. I looked away only to have him jerk my head forward with his cane.

“Look at me, Willow. I have so much to offer you. Or have you forgotten?” Snatching one of my hands, he forced it onto his colossal cock and smiled wickedly. Bile rose in my chest and I swallowed hard to keep myself from vomiting.

“Do you know what your problem is, my little bird?” he asked as he moved my hand up and down the curve of his thick, pulsing shaft.

Biting down on my lip, I shook my head.

“I think you’re distracted.” He groped a breast. “By that pathetic boy toy in New York.” He squeezed harder, eliciting a whimper.

“N-no. He’s nothing to me.” He’s my everything.

To my relief, he released my neck, setting his cane down beside him. My relief was short-lived. On my next breath, he gripped my shoulders and shoved me down onto the floor. My head hit the hard wood with a thunk as he threw my legs over his shoulders. Kneeling between them, he stretched the crotch of my leotard with his hands and sunk his teeth into the spandex.

“Gustave, what are you doing?” I croaked as he moved his thick fingers to the small hole he’d made. SWOOSH! My legs shook as he ripped apart the fabric and then yanked down my tights to my ankles.

“You need to be fucked. By a real man who knows how.”

Oh, God. NO! Gustave Fontaine was going to fuck me.

“P-please don’t do this to me.”

“Shut up and spread your legs,” he growled, ignoring my plea.

A mixture of fear and dread filling every cell of my body, I did as he asked. With my tights still on, my movement was limited.

His lascivious eyes zeroed in on my folds. They lit up like spotlights.

“My little bird, such a sublime ballerina-pink pussy.” He rubbed it and I froze, feeling nothing but numbness. “Still one of the finest and so beautifully preened.”

Gustave’s ballerinas had to be hairless. No leg or arm hair, no armpit hair, no pubic hair. There was an on-staff Russian woman who waxed us regularly.

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