She dances for him; en pointe, lightly skimming the dark wood of the tabletop.
“Enchanting, Number Eight,” he whispers huskily. He watches from the shadows, hooded eyes black as a starless night, dark hair falling across his face.
Assemblé…changement…petit battement. A final jerky chaînés, then she is still. Eyes closed, she awaits his critique.
“Beautiful, Mon Cher,” he breathes, awestruck.
“Nine, how will you compete with such a magnificent performance?” he asks of the next girl.
Nine moans through the gag. Her watering eyes plead as he pulls the rope and the noose tightens. En pointe, she dances.
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alt="Rude Awakening by Richard Lau"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="136694 by S.F.J. Painter"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Network Error by Kristin Lennox"
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alt="Teke Two by Liam Hogan"
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