Ballet is my everything—the music, the precision, the way my body feels weightless when I'm on pointe. But getting to classes has always been a battle. Mom's work schedule is insane, and I'm too young for my license. Lately, I'd been begging my stepbrother, Ethan, to drive me. He's twenty-one, home from college for the summer, and usually pretty chill. But I might have pushed too hard.
I kept flitting around the house in my practice gear—pink tights, pale lavender leotard, fluffy tutu bouncing as I warmed up in the living room. I was humming along to Tchaikovsky, doing little jumps and spins, trying to get his attention. "Please, Ethan? It's just twenty minutes each way. I'll owe you forever."
He was sprawled on the couch, trying to watch a game, and I could tell I was getting on his nerves. "You're like a mosquito today," he muttered. "Sit still for five seconds."
I laughed and did an exaggerated pirouette right in front of the TV. That was the last straw.
Before I knew it, he was on his feet, grabbing my wrist. "Fine. You want to dance so bad? Let's make sure you stay in one place."
He towed me down the hall to my bedroom—where I'd installed a proper ballet barre along one wall last year. I giggled at first, thinking he was joking, but his grip was firm. He snatched a couple of my spare satin pointe shoe ribbons from the dresser—long, strong, pale pink—and looped them around my wrists, tying them securely to the barre. I had to stand on flat feet, arms stretched overhead, tutu fluffing out around my hips.
"Ethan! Untie me," I protested, but there was a flutter in my stomach that wasn't just surprise.
He stepped back, eyes roaming over me slowly. "Maybe this'll teach you to calm down."
I tugged at the ribbons, but they held fast. The position arched my back slightly, lifted my chest, made the leotard pull tight across my breasts. His gaze darkened. He moved behind me, hands settling on my waist. The warmth of his palms through the thin fabric made me shiver.
"You've been prancing around in this all day," he said, voice low. "Driving me crazy on purpose?"
"No," I whispered, but it came out breathless.
His fingers gathered the layers of tulle, lifting the tutu slowly until it bunched at my waist. Cool air kissed the backs of my thighs. Then I heard the sharp rip—his hands tearing a deliberate hole in my tights right over my bottom. The sound echoed in the quiet room; threads snapped, fabric gave way. I gasped as the air hit my exposed skin.
"Ethan…"
"Shh." One broad palm smoothed over the curve of my ass, possessive. The touch was gentle at first, almost soothing, but it lit sparks everywhere. I shifted, instinctively pressing back. He gave a soft, knowing hum.
His hand slipped lower, fingers tracing the edge of my leotard where it snapped between my legs. When he tugged the fabric aside and touched bare, slick skin, I whimpered. I was already wet—embarrassingly so. He discovered it immediately, gliding through my folds with deliberate slowness.
"Soaked," he murmured against my ear, chest pressed to my back. "All that dancing got you worked up, huh?"
I couldn't answer; I could only tremble as one finger eased inside me, then two. He curled them just right, stroking that spot that made my knees buckle. The ribbons held me up as he worked me slowly, thumb circling my clit in lazy circles. Every breath I took smelled like his cologne and my own arousal. Pleasure built in sweet, aching waves until I came with a soft cry, pulsing around his fingers, tutu rustling with my shudders.
He untied me afterward, steadying me when my legs wobbled. His eyes were gentle again, almost apologetic, but the heat lingered. "Lesson learned?"
I touched my swollen lips, heart racing. "Maybe."
Later that evening, Mom rushed in from an emergency work call. "I'm so sorry, honey—I can't help you stretch tonight. Ethan, could you give your sister a hand? She's got that recital coming up."
He glanced at me across the dinner table. I met his eyes and didn't look away.
In my room again, door closed, the barre waited. This time I didn't need ribbons. I walked to it willingly, placed my hands on the smooth wood, and lifted one leg into a perfect standing split—ankle resting high on the barre, body open and flexible.
Ethan's breath caught. "Jesus."
I looked over my shoulder, tutu discarded this time—just leotard and fresh tights. "I'm really flexible," I said softly. "Want to see how much?"
He crossed the room in three strides. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back against the hard line of him. I could feel how much he wanted me. We moved together slowly—clothes peeled away piece by piece, touches reverent. When he finally slid inside me, my leg still hooked high on the barre, the stretch burned deliciously, letting him sink impossibly deep.
We found a rhythm—slow, deep, perfect. His hands supported my waist, my thigh, keeping me steady as he thrust. Every stroke sent pleasure rippling through me; every whispered "you feel so good" made my heart flutter as much as my body.
When we came, it was together—quiet, intense, clinging like we'd been waiting years for this exact moment.
After, he lowered my leg gently, massaging the muscles, pressing soft kisses along my calf, my ankle, my instep—like I was something precious.
I turned in his arms, wrapping mine around his neck. "Thank you for helping me stretch."
He smiled against my lips. "Anytime, little dancer."
Ballet will always be my first love.
But Ethan? He's quickly becoming my favorite partner.