Salome’s Dressing Room

3 min read

He entered her dressing room unannounced, the beautiful stranger with deep set eyes and dark hair. She had seen him sitting in the front row throughout her performance as Salome, watching her, and only her. The light in the dressing room was harsh, accentuating the severity of his features — the high cheekbones and prominent brow; offset by deliciously full lips that curled into a genuine smile at her surprise.

“How did you get in here?” Adeline demanded, as he welcomed himself into the tiny, cluttered dressing room.

“I asked for you. I loved your performance. I’d like you to come work with me.”

Between his beauty and her curiosity, Adeline found she was unable to stay annoyed at his intrusion. Feeling a little silly for being dressed in nothing but a transparent veil draped over her breasts, she reached for her bathrobe.

“Don’t put that on, please. I like you like that.”

Taken aback, she paused, gathering the robe to her chest, unsure of what to do. “Alright, close the door then,” she said, after a long silence. With great difficulty, she let go of the robe, letting it slip back onto the floor. She thought it odd that modesty should take a hold of her now, after the performance a moment ago. It was different, being nude on stage and naked in this more personal context.

She stood facing him, fighting the urge to cross her legs, standing as casually as she could. His gazed seared her skin and she felt both embarrassed and aroused. Here she was, naked, while that handsome creature, clad in his fancy suit, stood scrutinising her. She relished his attention. And she knew that he knew this.

“So, what do you want.”

He folded his arms, resting his chin on one hand, tilting his head and considering her demand.

“Sit on the dressing table,” he said.

She hesitated, but for only a moment, before complying. She could see her reflection in the mirror behind him, a silhouette created by the backlight from the dresser. His gaze roamed freely — from her face, over her breasts to the space between her legs that was surely now glistening with anxiety and desire.

Adeline had hoped the beautiful stranger in the front row would approach her after the show, but she hadn’t quite envisaged it panning out this way.

“I’m creating an artificial mind, and it needs someone to start from.”

“Why me?”

He walked up to her, holding her chin lightly between his thumb and fore-finger, tilting her face to him.

“Many reasons.” His hand travelled across her body, close to her skin, but not touching. Over her neck, the rise of her breasts, her belly, before coming to pause above her sex with her legs spread, ever so slightly.

“May I?” he asked.

“You don’t have to ask,” she replied.

As his fingers dove into her, wet as she was, he leaned into her ear, whispering, “I don’t think anyone could ever tire of you.”

Adeline threw her head back, eyes closed. Instinctively, she raised a leg, wrapping it around him and pulling him in. He smelled delicious, a gentle, dusky scent. The fine fabric of his suit felt pleasant against her skin, and he was warm and delightful to hold.

His kisses, which were measured at first, soon fell with greater intensity and abundance; all this while, the slick, slick of his fingers as they dove in and out of her. Clumsily, she undid the belt of his pants and reached for him. His head pressed against her sex; he was wet too. He teased his way in, lingering at her entrance, seeking her out. It was delightful, his flesh, hot and eager against hers. She felt impatience creep up inside her.

Then he entered her, hitting his target deep inside. She gasped. The sensation was sweet, so sweet. Her legs wrapped around his waist, his fingers digging into her thighs, as he thrust into and out of her. Deep, long, powerful thrusts that shook her with pain, but also with immense satisfaction.

Soon, she lost all sense of where she was, even of him. The only thing that remained was the overwhelming sensation between her legs that spread out to every inch of her body and the velveteen desire that suffused her. She felt her climax rise and begged him not to stop or change course.

As she came, she felt him spend himself inside her — hot, sticky, wet. She held him against her, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, his hips pressed to hers, her ear against his parted lips as they suppressed a cry.

And then it was over. The crescendo gone, she realised where she was: in her dressing room, with a stranger, as she had been more times than she thought reasonable. But if she was reasonable, she supposed, she wouldn’t be cast as Wilde’s Salome.

“Ask of me what you will, and I will give it you, even unto the half of my kingdom,” he whispered into her ear.

“But is the kingdom yours to give?”

His lips found hers and as he kissed her with tenderness, he pulled himself out and she felt a pool form between her thighs.

“Maybe now is not the time to discuss business.” He picked up the veil, now lying on the dresser, and wiped himself with it.

“Perhaps not.”

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