I was invited (or, rather, dragged along for the ride) in a short story challenge by the marvelous Anastasia Vitsky. I love her work, and with her gentle prodding, I’m learning to write f/f. The challenge this time was to write a 2k-word short story with the prompts wooden spoon, classical ballet, and f/f. Good thing my kids have been taking ballet since age 3! This is an unbeta’d, unedited work, just for fun and spanks.
My students have long since packed up their pointe shoes and exited the studio for winter break. I gather the assorted gifts I’ve been presented, placing them carefully in a reusable shopping bag. I’m quite ready to leave yet, though. There’s something I love about the quiet after class is finished. I contemplate putting the CD back in and working on my own piece, but I decide against it. Instead, I slip out the door to peek in the next room.
Elinor is doing what I should be—working out some choreography for her solo dance in the winter charity performance. I pause with my hand on the doorknob, mesmerized by her movement. She isn’t like me, all her height in her legs. She’s compact and muscular, a powerhouse built perfectly for the energetic jazz dance she loves. I can just barely hear the thump of her feet and the pounding backbeat of the music filtered by the soundproofing we’ve done to the rooms.
Slowly, I turn the knob, knowing she won’t notice me at first. That’s good; I want to be able to see and hear everything without her realizing it. She’s so beautiful when she lets herself be free like this. It’s rare for her to turn over her tightly-held control, even to me. Fortunately, I know how to help her with that.
El and I have known each other since approximately forever. This was our playground, once upon a time when we were two little girls caught up in our mutual fondness for all things pink ant tutu-related. We share classes all the way through school, when we parted ways for college—she for business and I for choreography. Reuniting to buy the studio was the best decision we’ve ever made. I couldn’t ask for a better partner, friend, and lover.
Her feet fly and her hips sway, steps perfectly in time with the music. Just watching her has my pulse racing and my palms sweating. My stomach clenches, and my lips part to allow my breath to escape in quiet pants. She is beautiful, my sweet Elinor, and I want nothing more than to put my arms around her and hold her close. I know what would be even more fun for us both before we get to that step, however.
The song ends and I applaud, causing El to turn around and stare at me for a moment. A grin spreads across her gorgeous face, and her cheeks are stained red. She loves when I watch her, but she still feels shy, like she might not meet my standards. As though that could ever happen!
“Did you like it?” she asks, still out of breath from both the exertion and the high that comes with it.
“It could use work, Miss Elinor.” I smile so she knows I’m only teasing.
She laughs. “Yes, Miss Giovanna.”
I set my things down in the corner. “We could work on the ballet before we go home.”
“Sure.”
Although El teaches jazz and tap, she takes the ballet class I offer my adult instructors. She does it to keep up her skill for her lyrical classes, which makes sense. She isn’t built like a danceuse, so it’s more challenging for her to move that way. It doesn’t much matter, since I teach in the Italian style of classical ballet and she’s good with her footwork. It’s fun to make sure she knows who’s in charge, though.
We’ve both been dancing, so we’re plenty well stretched, but I make her warm up anyway, as this is a different style. She runs a hand through her short, blond spikes and offers a sly smile. She knows exactly what’s coming; we both do. It’s a dance we’ve done together for a long time.
“Position, please,” I say, and Elinor scurries to stand beside me, ever the wayward pupil. I eye her sideways. “Remember, grace and poise.”
“Yes, Miss.” She bows her head, contrite.
“Good. Position, or there will be consequences.”
I take note of the naughty smirk just before it fades, but I ignore it. No sense in letting her know she’s getting to me, though I suspect she’s well aware. We begin the series of steps, without the music this time. Next time, we’ll add the CD. As we move, I call out reminders of the steps.
“Good…good…and demi-plié…Elinor!”
She’s faltered on a simple step. She stops, pointing her chin toward her toes but glancing up at me through her long lashes. I sigh.
“You will have to take the consequences,” I tell her.
“Yes, Miss.”
I step around her and look her up and down—her sturdy, muscular legs; her lean torso; her splendid breasts; and finally, her perfect, round bottom. I love the way her body curves, so very different from my own. With my palm flat, I deliver a resounding smack squarely on her backside. She squeaks and jumps a little, but I know what’s really on her mind.
“Now. Will you do better the next time?” I ask, making my voice sweet again.
“Yes, Miss. Of course, Miss.”
“Good. Shall we go on?”
She nods and her eyes go wide as she realizes her mistake. “Um…yes, Miss.”
We continue from where we left off, and I continue to cue her steps.“Plié, plié, balancé. Lovely! Now, fouetté jeté!”
She overreaches the leap and stumbles on the landing, so I stop her. She’s trembling a little when I approach. I slide my fingers under her chin and raise her face so our eyes meet.
“That was not good, Elinor. You must work harder. Shall I administer another consequence?”
“No, please, Miss. I will do better next time.” Her lip quivers.
I know her too well. “I believe you, but you still missed your steps. Turn around.”
She obeys, and I slide my hand across her hip to rest just below her stomach. I want to feel the way she shivers when I touch her. With my free hand, I pat her bottom, warming up. Then I give a firm slap to her delicious derriere. This time, she arches her back, and her hand flies to the place where I hit her. I brush her fingers with my own, appreciating the way my brown hand looks resting on her pale one.
“M-may we continue, Miss?” she asks.
“Yes. Will you be a very good student and do as I tell you?”
“Always, Miss.”
She returns to her position and waits for my signal. Her cheeks are pink, from exertion or embarrassment or arousal; I cannot tell which. I offer her a half-smile, and she nods, the color deepening. I love that she blushes for me.
The dance continues, and true to her word, Elinor doubles her effort. I know this is a stretch for her, and as eager as I am for her to make a mistake, I’m also proud of her. She’s an accomplished dancer, and to watch her is pure magic. My heart beats faster as the conclusion draws near.
At the last moment, as she completes the pas de bourrée couru—the running step into her grand jeté—she trips and falters. With a glance over her shoulder, she gives me a defiant look and does it again without permission, this time not missing a step and rounding out the piece with a final spin. She bows low, her forward leg outstretched with her toe pointed and her arm across her middle; a man’s bow instead of a woman’s. The faint smile on her lips doesn’t escape my notice, though it fades as quickly as it appears.
“The end was lovely, Elinor, but I must tell you two things. First, you were not given permission to continue. Second, that is not a proper curtsy for a danceuse.”
“Yes, Miss. I’m sorry Miss.” Her face is angled toward the floor.
“You don’t sound sorry.”
I hear the joints crack in her neck as her head snaps up. “You are a hard teacher to please, Miss.” Open defiance.
“For that, I shall have to increase your punishment.”
My brain races, knowing I have few things at my disposal here in the studio. A magazine from the parent waiting area? No, that won’t do. I look around, and my eyes land on my bag. One of the children has given me a cookie mix kit—this child apparently does not know me well—and it came with a wooden spoon. A smile creeps across my face at the thought of the perfect tool for my purpose. I cross to my bag and pull it out, untying the spoon from the rest of the kit.
There is a chair off to the side, and I drag it into the center of the room. I sit, my back straight so Elinor is keenly aware that I am still in charge here. She is still where I left her, but her gaze has followed me around the room.
“Come,” I tell her, and she does.
I draw her down so she is across my legs, head and arms down. I bend forward far enough that I can whisper in her ear as I work. Her eyes are closed, and her whole body tenses in anticipation. In one smooth move, I raise the spoon and bring it back down to connect with the firm flesh of her backside. She jerks in my lap.
“That’s one,” I murmur. “For your mistake.”
A second smack, a little harder this time. The arm that’s away from me twitches as though she wants to reach behind herself and soothe the burn.
“Two. That’s for continuing when you shouldn’t have.”
One final smack, this one sending a shiver through her whole body. It’s accompanied by a gasp and a low moan, just barely audible.
“Three. That’s for your defiance when I scolded you. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry, Miss,” she says. “I won’t do it again.”
I put my lips right up to her ear and whisper, “Oh, yes you will.”
She shakes a little, but I know it’s with amusement, and I chuckle too. I rub slow circles on the tender place where I’ve hit her, and she relaxes with a soft sigh. After a moment, I let her up, and she stands. She extends her hand to me, and I accept it. When she pulls me to my feet, she lets go and wraps her arms loosely around my neck. When she rises on her tiptoes, I lean down a little, and our lips meet. It’s brief, but it says everything.
“Are you ready to go home and finish what we started?” I ask.
Elinor lets go of me and says, “I should get my things.”
“I’ll help you.”
We collect her gifts and place them in the bag with mine. I put on my coat and help her into hers, and we exit the room. It only takes me a moment to lock the doors and turn down the heat. As soon as I’m done, Elinor slips her gloved hand into mine, and we walk out into the cold, clear night to our car.
