The theater, it turned out, stood as a small but impressively structured building on the outskirts of London.
In her estimation the theater seemed something out of a fairy tale; or, at the very least, a captivating study in contrasts. Its exterior was a rich confection of ivory stone arches, stained glass windows painted in grand fashion with all the colors of the rainbow, cast iron gates and-flanking these gates-statues of sweet winged cherubs who smiled in greeting.
Yet once she stepped through these gates, slipping also through the stained glass double doors that fronted Theater Satine, she entered a world of dark beauty that stole her breath.
It turned out the building’s brilliant windows provided it’s only light; illuminating the polished cherry wood furniture placed in the club’s sitting area, setting visual fire to the rose brocade wallpaper and scarlet-hued seat cushions that also distinguished this space.
The windows also lent a curious light to the unique oil paintings that lined the walls of Theater Satine. As she drew closer to them, Moira’s eyes flew wide as she realized that each of the paintings depicted a gorgeous young couple in the throes of erotic ecstasy.
“Like what you see, Ms. Bentley?”
Her thoughts disrupted by a soft feminine voice that nonetheless purred with power, Moira turned to face a short fiftyish woman of generous proportions, much like her own. Clad in a foot length dress of sleek black satin, her keen blue eyes assessed her visitor with a strength and clarity that made Moira wince.
“How did you know my name?” Moira stepped forward to take the woman’s offered hand, immediately noticing the long fingernails that protruded from her ebony lace gloves.
“Somehow,” the woman smiled, “I just knew.”
Releasing Moira’s hand, she made a broad gesture that seemed to define and encompass the whole of their surroundings.
“I am Bethelyn Castor, the owner and proprietor of both Theater Satine and Ballet Noir,” she leaned forward to plant a daring kiss on the cheek of a stunned Moira. “And you, dear Moira, have written a brilliant book that is sure to make a beautiful ballet; our first full length production.”
“Why thank you.” Moira took a seat in a latticework chair at a table near the front of the club; watching as her hostess claimed a seat beside her and motioned for a nearby waiter. “I greatly look forward to tonight’s performance.”
A handsome young blond server presented her with a gold-hued tankard that brimmed with what appeared to be a rich red wine; then handed a second cup to her smiling hostess.
“I know that you will enjoy our show, Ms. Bentley,” she nodded with confidence. “I hand select the best dancers for Ballet Noir.” She arched her eyebrows, taking a deep sip of rich red wine. “And they just happen to include some of the most handsome young men in the city.”
“Really?” Moira felt her curiosity peak. “Well now I truly can’t wait to see the show.”
The two shared a girlish giggle as Bethelyn nudged her guest with a conspiratorial elbow.
“You are a truly unique young woman who always speaks her mind, I sense it through your writing,” she praised Moira. “I have a feeling that you and I will get on very well.” She leaned forward, retrieving Moira’s golden tankard and placing it in her hands. “And I have a feeling that you will love tonight’s performance, Ms. Bentley.”
“I’m sure I shall.” Moira took a deep, fortifying drink of the sweetest ruby hued wine she’d ever tasted; a brew with a fruity, herbal taste that both soothed and aroused her senses. “And do call me Moira.”
Turning her attention to the front of the club, she marveled at the sight of a tiled stage fronted by a long red velvet curtain; and bordered by a gold framed mural of ethereal cherubs in flight.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, taking a second sharp gulp of wine.
“Oh my dear,” Bethelyn giggled, gracing her with a second sisterly nudge, “You have seen nothing yet.”
As if on cue, the curtain lifted to reveal a stage decorated with endless bouquets of ebullient florals: roses red and gold, pearl pink carnations, and lavender water lilies gathered in golden urns that bordered the stage on all sides.
Standing center stage were two dancers, a male and a female, who themselves had floral attributes; both, Moira noted, were tall and willowy beings with exquisite lean forms and luxurious long hair.
The golden haired couple wore brass trimmed uniforms that shone ivory in the lights of the stage. The young man, an angelic being with carved bronzed features and bright azure eyes, wore an elegant tailored suit that could befit a prince.
His partner, a stunning young woman with keen green eyes and blonde hair that fell to her waist, stunned in a gauzy, floor-length gown that swept the floor as she walked.
This luminous couple met center stage as the music commenced; filling the atmosphere with the surge of violins and the rich timbre of a grand piano.
Moira gaped as the couple moved in perfect synch with this airy, ethereal tune, their arms entangling as their feet seemed to float on air.
Suddenly they launched into a flawless dance, their bodies moving in concert as they performed all of the twirls, dips and pirouettes common to the dance of ballet.
Then, at least in Moira’s eyes, they did something quite uncommon; coming together at the center of the stage in what looked like a passionate clench.
Her mouth dropped open as the female dancer sank in the male’s embrace, pressing her full breasts against his chest as their perfect hips shook and locked in the perfect likeness of intercourse.
Staring deep into one another’s eyes, the couple writhed in a seductive clench as their feet continued to float across the floor; finally the man dipped his partner in a thrilling manner, the reams of his long golden hair falling to drape their faces as he seized her lips in a passionate kiss.
Moira gasped as, in plain view of the audience, the couple’s mouths merged and their tongues entangled to complete their dance.
The crowd erupted in applause, with an excited Moira hollering her approval as the couple bowed and left the stage.
“They must be lovers in real life,” she whispered to Bethelyn.
“No,” the troupe owner shook her head. “Actually Noel is my lover.”
Moira’s eyes flew wide; she took a deep sip of wine, struggling to recover from this first shock as the second arrived in grand fashion just a few moments later.
The second dancer of the evening was a solo male, adorned in skin-fitting royal blue tights and a matching gold-trimmed jacket.
The splendor of this dancer’s costume paled in comparison to his flawless features: his wide dark eyes, his carved cheekbones, his full lips-a succulent mouth that now curved upward in a sensual smile meant only for her.
Ensnaring her with a hypnotic gaze, the dancer performed some flawless twirls and a graceful pirouette; moves that seemed uncommon for a man of his hard and divine muscularity.
She was just as impressed by his graceful fall of long, auburn hair; locks that he threw about like a lion’s mane as his feet canvassed the floor beneath him.
“It’s Ian,” she breathed.
“Yes,” Bethelyn’s soft voice just barely penetrated her aroused psyche. “He’s your Ian.”
Moira said nothing, only watched enraptured as the dancer thrust his firm arms high above his head and shifted his hips. His grin turned wicked as he launched into a full bodied gyration; his hips thrusting forward in her direction as his eyes continued to probe her.
Moira’s own gaze seemed pinned to his as the crowd dissolved around them; his every look, his every move, was only for her; and when he slowly unbuttoned his royal blue jacket to bare his body for her, she felt a wave of sheer, sharp arousal that threatened to overwhelm her.
Her heart pounded and her pussy gushed as his sudden, suggestive move revealed a massive muscled chest and sculpted ab muscles; both of which glowed in the lights above them.
