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A Work in Progress

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"And your relationship with your understudy? We’ve all seen the backstage pictures by now, it seems you have found quite the young superstar," the Vogue journalist asks, and Lilia has to swallow.

She was against the company publishing backstage pictures, always, but she had been especially outspoken against this crop of photographs. They were wearing their regular practise leotards that were more grey than any colour they had been originally, and then there was the — no other word could describe it— mooning.

It is a question she knew she would be asked, but she has no idea how to answer it in a way that would satisfy her interviewer, their Ballet company, and Lilia; let alone Minako or the rest of the world.

"A work in progress," Lilia says. The woman opposite her blinks, and then asks, "Can you clarify that?"

"She’s a good ballerina, of course," Lilia answers, and uses the back of her hand to straighten her (too short) skirt. Her new tights are sheer and slide deliciously against each other. The clothes are new, and a gift — she’s going to have so much fun looking like a professional seductress. "But she’s still willing to compromise and work together."

The journalist looks baffled. "Isn’t that supposed to be what she’s doing?"

"No," Lilia says. "She’s supposed to backstab me. That’s still a work in progress."


"I’m supposed to backstab you?" said ingénue says, and continues stroking the sheer tights. Lilia narrows her eyes to slits, but she doesn’t close them entirely. They’re in a dance studio, currently, which means Lilia can watch her every move through one of the dozen mirrors.

Lilia opens her legs wider, lets Minako come closer. She’s been wet since Minako first touched her ankle, sliding slowly, sensually upward.

Minako takes her time stroking her legs — it feels more intimate with the soft material between her hands and Lilia’s legs, and it’s such a good thing to discover. Lilia hooks her leg around her, presses her down, until Minako is kneeling.

"Yes," Lilia groans, but Minako still isn’t touching her pussy, is still stroking the inside of her thighs. Lilia spreads her legs wider, and the skirt slips up further. It’s barely a belt, now. "Backstab me."

"Is that a strange euphemism for rimming you?" Minako asks, amused. Her hands continue their stroking, but now she is enveloping Lilia’s ass, fondling it in a way that makes it feel rounder, more voluminous like Lilia’s ass was worth more than a permanent place at the front of the stage. It’s heady.

Liiia’s mirror image already looks like it’s having the time of its life — Lilia didn’t know she could look so sensually, so dynamic, staying still and letting someone else put the moves on her. She was going to use it in her next performance — vaguely wondering if Minako used her like that, too, to figure out how to efficiently portray emotions.

"You’re thinking about dancing again," Minako says, and Lilia doesn’t have the time to contemplate that, doesn’t have a reply in herself to ask her what she was talking about, because Minako slides down the tights and the 300-dollar slip and is putting her mouth to better use.

Lilia groans out loud, and then presses a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound.

She had locked the door, and the walls were relatively sound-proof, but it was Russian architecture, and nothing was ever certain, except the grey walls.

Minako continues downward, and it’s the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect amount of wetness, and Lilia would be angry that everything she does is perfect but she’s really not. A long lick has her closing her legs around Minako. Minoko keeps on eating her out.

The sensation is perfectly agonising — Lilia wants to ride her face, and drive herself to a fast orgasm, just to take the edge of, Minako using the small touch at the inside of her knee to ground her. Minako teases her to the edge, again and again.

There’s the mirror, and she looks devastated, looks like her pleasure is drawn on, like she’s acting for an audience yet she’s not doing anything similar. The pleasure of the wet hot tongue in her most private parts is melting her. The slurping sound is driving her wild. It should be a dance, she thinks, and wants to laugh at the imagined faces of Russian dignitaries forced to watch her orgasm. Her very own piece of resistance.

She looks into her mirror image, and arches her back, presses her pussy into Minako’s face. Minako presses her knuckles against her clit, and Lilia’s toes curl and she is coming. She shudders around Minko’s  fingers, now in the wake of her orgasm even more sensitive.

"Another?" Minako asks.

"Yes, please—"

And Minako dives back in, and it is magnificent.

"Want me to do you?" Lilia asks, when she comes down and can formulate clear thoughts again. "No," Minako smiles, and it’s everything rolled into one. "You know I can’t dance after an orgasm." Lilia is so fucking glad she met this woman, and nothing could ever compare to seeing her like this, Lilia’s juices all over her face, smiling, and talking about dancing like it was the most important thing to do.

"Then your stamina is need of some training," Lilia says, and stands. Minako is visibly outraged, and Lilia smirks at her. "You keep dropping to your knees."

She comes closer and extends her hand. "En plié. Fouette."

Minako snaps to attention, automatically assuming the position and turning around. What she hasn’t expected from the sudden turn into a lesson, is the hand on her leg, guiding her through the turn, lifting it just that little bit higher. She wobbles on pointe, something she hasn’t done for years. The touch on her leg becomes stronger,  holds more of her weight. Minako leans in further.

Lilia laughs, a quiet chuckle in the empty room. "Stamina, I told you. We can train with more sex."

Minako turns into Lilia’s arms. One hand holds her legs straight, the other goes to her waist, to stable her position. "I have plenty of stamina," Minako says in a breathy whisper that is entirely unlike her.

"Yes?" Lilia asks, a twinkle in her eye.

The challenge has almost been accepted before it has been made; Minako surges forward, lets herself fall against the much older woman, lips finding lips. Hers are as soft as they look. They tasted of the cheap chapstick everyone used under the cheap stage makeup. It is almost more intimate now, then it was when she was on her knees.

Lilia exhales, and the gust of wind move Minako’s hair. There is tension in the air, just like at the cusp of curtain call.

"Patience, deliberation," Lilia said. "All things you should treasure."

"All things you mentioned in your interview," Minako said, and rested her arm on Lilia’s shoulder, deliberately emulating the pose the main dancers assumed after the pas de deux in their current production. "A work in progress." There’s a hint of hurt in her voice; a bit of insecurity hidden behind that contrary comment.

Lilia stepped closer. "Maybe I just want to keep you all to myself, have you thought about that?" she says. "A work of art — an unfinished masterpiece, for my eyes alone?"

They are very close, Lilia notes. Very, very close. And then, Minako steps forward in the way the choreography goes; and they are only performing for themselves as Lilia falls into step with her, but it is electric, and Lilia never wants to stop.