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A Dancer's Control

By: Dankedonuts

https://dankedonuts.sofurry.com/

My life is all about control.

Dietary control. Every meal logged. Every snack rationed out. Every calorie counted. Energy needed to get me through each practice -- hours of exertion -- without putting on weight enough to slow my legs, or throw off my partner's arms.

Physical Control. Every movement precise. Perfect. In tune with the music. In sync with every one of two dozen dancers. Echoed again and again and again.

Mental Control. Up before the sun. Home after it's gone down. Mind on the art, on my part within the whole. My focus razor sharp, every hour of it.

Emotional control. My choreographer is a taskmaster. The director's neurotic. The new girl needs seasoning, and pointe shoes that fit. I endure every false start. Every lecture. Every near melt-down. With a smile and a return to first position.

Control over my privacy. On the long bus ride home - on certain, special nights like tonight -- I lean over my smartphone's screen. Delivering and receiving texts meant only to be shared between myself and the one I love. Through carefully selected emoji, I tell her what I want. She tells me what she wants to give. Neither of us uses revealing cartoon faces that might be seen by prying eyes; a Gerbil for me, a Fennec for her. Let alone our names; Bethany, Jolene. Nothing for the nosy to make sense of or gossip about.

We find agreement. We always do. We seal both ends of the discussion with the image of two hearts connected by a length of chain.

When I come home, there's the smell of cooking but no one comes to welcome me. I retire to the bedroom, strip out of street clothes and slip into a matching halter top and skirt. Soft leather, with a metallic green sheen. An open-front fringe jacket adds slow swishing sounds to the steps I take towards the door.

When I re-emerge into the apartment's common room, Jolene is waiting for me. Pink and red and meek. She's wearing just what I told her to. The strapless black dress, its hem cut dangerously high. A two-tone anklet, which she is to never be without, is her only accessory. "Welcome home, Mistress." She's blushing under her fur. I can tell. Her golden eyes are cast down. Her fluffed-out tail is, too. Perfectly poised, if not for the eager twitching of the tip

"Down," I tell her.

She lowers herself onto shins and knees, hands crossed over her heart. The motion stirs up a wave of perfume, lilacs and honeysuckle.

I hold out my hand to her, and she takes it in both of hers. Starts kissing it. She stops the moment I pull back, my slightest motion her strictest command. I nuzzle her cheek with the other, and she presses her head fully into my grip. I away to the couch. She follows behind, then overtakes me as I stand at one end.

My Fennec fluffs the many pillows upon the couch before I set down upon them. Then assumes the knees-and-shins position on the carpet, facing me. I listen while she tells me excitedly how much she missed me, how good it is to have me back. She spins a tale of all the cleaning she's been up to in my absence, though in truth the place looks more or less as it always does. I tell her she's done a fine job keeping her Mistress' house, but now I'm home and I expect more of her.

"I know, Mistress. I've prepared for your return. May I go and bring you what I've prepared?"

I nod. She leaves my side for but a moment, and returns with a wooden serving tray, the kind one uses for breakfast in bed. Upon it, is a meal set on fine plates. She feeds me shrimp and creamy pasta and chunks of breaded vegetables. My hand never touches the plates nor the silverware. Nor the wineglass which she carefully holds up for me to sip from. Nor the hand-towel which she uses to dab my lips.

When my palette is sated, I lay back, pressing my back firmly into the cushions. I unbutton my skirt, and wave to her an order to deal with the rest of the work of stripping the leather away. She does so with an eager smile. When she's done, she's standing at the far end of the couch, the tip of my slender tail knocking at her leg. There is no underwear to obstruct her view.

"Your turn to dine," I tell her.

"Thank you, Mistress!" is all she says before crowds her way onto the couch and begins. Teeth and tongue and lips dance their way across my folds. Trapping them between a vice of hot breath and a cold Vulpine nose. I tell her which to use and where, and how heartily. My orders begin quietly; I make her strain to hear them. They become louder and louder as the sound of blood rushing through my ears makes them harder to hear. I'm shouting them at the ceiling before long. The pleasures build upon one another until I can't form words at all. She does all the thinking while I merely squeal and sigh my way to the final shout of release.

My servant knows not to get up until she's licked up every last drop of my fluids, and used her fore-teeth to comb my fur back into order. As I lay panting, she massages my foot-pads. The last nervous sparks of orgasm hop to-and-fro about my toes before fading into silence.

At my signal, she returns to the head of the furniture and resumes her knees-and-shins stance. I lift a still-tingling hand to reward her with gentle caresses. Along a sizable ear. Across her chin. Down her neck. Following the slope of a breast until a finger finds the upper reaches of her dress. I let my claw snag it and drag it down, threatening to expose a nipple that's reaching to break free from black fabric. I let go, denying it, to continue my exploration of her breast's undercurve.

I lean over to touch and tease further still. Below her waist, I find a blot in the dress' perfection. Circular. Cold. Unyielding. I draw my hand away. My mind briefly wanders to the bed I left not long ago. Upon it lies my purse. Within it, a velvet case containing a single key.

Still upon her knees, my servant hikes her dress -- what there is of it -- up over her thighs. Twin glints of white light stare up at me, reflected from the steel that cages her sex. The scent of her excitation is unavoidable. Instantly identifiable from the smell of my own, which yet lingers on her breath. "If Mistress wishes to unlock me, I could please her in many other ways?..."

I let the answer linger, mulling it across my tongue, before I finally answer, "No."

Disappointment flashes across her face only briefly. Replaced by a subservient smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. "Thank you, Mistress." She resets the skirt, straightens it out.

I nuzzle her cheek again. She coos for the attention. "Go draw me a bath." With a backhanded wave, she is dismissed.

I watch her walk away. Memorize every motion of her tail. I can't see the twin chains rolling over the roundness of her rump, but I can hear them gently grazing across her fur.

A prickle of lust, just a little one, begins to warm my loins anew. I decide that I'll let my Fennec out partway through bathing me. After her touch has renewed the rest of my bloodsong. I'll instruct her to gratify herself. While I watch, and do the same. After, it might please me to take her to the bed for more entertainments. Then again, I might not. I might cuff her to the guest-room bed, and leave her there until morning. Dreaming of satisfactions I will not grant.

A contented sigh escaped my lips, taking away the very last drop of the day's frustrations. Tomorrow, I'll belong to other Furs again. Tonight belongs to me. She belongs to me.

My life is all about control.

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