The Whore at the Ballet – St. Petersburg, Part 1

Our last night together.  Tomorrow begins the painful journey back.  I’m not complaining, no matter what would have happened in St. Petersburg, the return was going to be painful.  I just didn’t think it would be this painful.

We are sitting in the hotel lobby, ready to see Cinderalla at the new Mariinsky theater.  I should be feeling like Cinderalla, but I don’t.  He went all out for our last evening.  The ballet was sure to be a highlight, as was the theater itself, of our time together.  He dressed me conservatively, although only to the untrained eye.  A skimpy wrap dress, see-through sleeves, and a see-through bottom.  The top part covered all the essentials, barely. One false move and my tits are on full display. 

Of course, I had my winter coat with me, though only until I exchanged it for a small tag, number 1676, at the coatcheck in the belly of the theater.  It is a modern building.  Nothing like the classic Mariinsky theater.  He holds the two tickets in his hand and leads me up the stairs.  My collar and O-ring on full display at the center of a deep cut-out, loosely covering my breasts. 

Mariinky 2 Theater

He asks for directions to our seats.  Even he is surprised that nobody else is in the private box with us.  Right at the center, overlooking the entire theater, a box for 30 and we have it to ourselves.  Why?  What does he have in mind?  I know I’m nothing more than a paid whore to him, but this seemed extravagant.  Yet, no latex, not bondage, no humiliation beyond what I’ve become used to. 

The third bell and still nobody in the box with us.  The theater is beginning to fill.  Latex might have been a bit out of character, although there are plenty of stylish women showing off their figures.  Mostly, though, they show off their staggeringly tall heels or boots and their willingness to serve as arm candy for the rich.  They all have a touch of class, none of them look slutty. 

So different from the way he makes me feel.  I’m his slut.  Dressed not to impress, but to be used.  Unlike the Russian women in the seats below us, I had my boobs virtually hanging out of my dress.  He insisted that I have my o-ring in front.  For anyone who was at all familiar with bdsm, my status was clear.  I’m his. I will do as he pleases.  He has broken my will to be more than I can have right now. 

“Isn’t anybody going to join us in here?” I just cannot believe that the entire ballet was sold out and we had the enormous box at the center to ourselves.  “No, I made sure nobody would.  It’s just going to be us.  And once the lights are lowered, you’ll find out why.”  I am his whore.  He has made that abundantly clear over the past days.  This is going to be his ultimate humiliation of me.  Out in the open, the eyes directed to the stages, and up in the box, he can do with me as he wishes.  That is the deal from now on. 

I am his Cinderella, just without the happy ending.  The first act begins.  The sisters are cruel, ridiculing her, and still, Cinderella’s grace and generosity were captivating.  I am on my knees, I don’t get to enjoy the show until my job is done.  He grabs me by my collar, unbuttons my dress, I’m half-naked.  His eyes don’t wander for a moment.  He enjoys the performance, gives plenty of applause, ignores my frustrated attempts at giving him a blowjob.

He is distracted.  This has never happened.  The one skill I can always rely on are my blowjobs.  They always work.  And here I am, naked, although invisible in the darkness.  I know the play, the first act ends with the granting of a wish.  All I wish is for my magic to return. 

He loves Russian ballet.  It’s modern, graceful, elegant, powerful.  Cinderella is beautiful.  No amount of sood and dirt can hide her beauty.  Maybe that’s what he wants.  Tear me down, make me doubt myself, just to find out if I have it what it takes to be his Cinderella.  For now, I’m just his whore.  There is nothing glorious about being between his legs, knowing that the lights will eventually come on.  If I don’t get his load over my chest before the first act is over, there may be no happy ending.  And even if I do, is this what I’m reduced to?  Do I have to prove  myself like a fairytale character?  Maybe I’m just the pumpkin to him.  No glitz and glory.  Just a hole to fuck, a whore to pay, a slut to humiliate.

I don’t know how far into the first act we are.  Finally I can get his erection going.  Anyone not watching the ballet will probably only see the dark private box, but I know the characteristic bobble-head motion.  I’m working hard, more than normal, making it all so much more humiliating.  I can take the humiliation of being his public slut, but don’t take my dignity away.  What’s left of my dignity is being good at what I do.  After all, that’s what he paid for, and I said it was OK. 

The light goes on, my chest is covered in his white creamy cum.  I button up my dress, we go outside.  His juice seeps through my dress.  I look like I’m lactating. I’ve never had breasts this large.  Not even when Sierra’s brother pumped them full with saline.  I’m his whore.  All pretense is gone.  He has made me into who I will be. 

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