Ballet Chinois
 

Lin was short and high breasted, with silky black hair flowing well past her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her figure was that of a dancer—narrow waist, slender legs—which is appropriate, for that’s what she was.

One night, after a recital, she was approached from behind as she was getting into her car. She’d heard footsteps echoing loudly across the vast empty parking lot and stopped to look up. It was a man—a fellow dancer whom she knew only vaguely, whose name was either Dylan or Derek.

“Hey there,” he said, stopping a few feet from the back of her car.

“Hey,” Lin replied.

She stood beside the driver’s door, keys in hand, and tried not to let her impatience show.

“Listen, I just wanted to say that you were great back there. I mean really, really intense!”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, my pleasure!”

Lin shifted her weight from one foot to another, feeling the pleasant burn of well-worked muscles in her calves and feet. The man—Derek or Dylan—smiled. Then, as Lin was about to make an excuse and depart, he took a step toward her, forcing her back against her car. He continued to advance until the distance between them was little more than a foot, and Lin could see that her earlier assumption was incorrect. The man across from her was not Derek or Dylan; he was a complete stranger.

Suddenly, she was afraid. A deep desire to turn, duck into her car and lock herself safely inside was not quite enough to overcome a paralyzing suspicion that were she to move, like a cat, he would pounce.

“Well,” she said, “I really gotta go. My boyfriend’s got dinner waiting.”

“Sure,” the man said, “don’t let me stop you.”

The tension between them increased. Lin felt his eyes rove up and down her body, and for the first time wished she’d chosen something a little less revealing than the tight yoga pants and spandex top she wore. Finally, she could bear it no longer. She turned, inserted her key into the lock—cursing the laziness that’d kept her from getting the automatic door opener fixed—and felt herself roughly forced against cold glass and metal.

The man pressed himself against her, and Lin felt the firmness of his erection through the denim of his jeans. He kept her trapped against the car, unable to move and too shocked to scream, for what felt like an eternity while he groped her body with impunity. This close, his breath, which was hot against the back of her neck, reeked strongly of alcohol, which when combined with the sour odour of stale sweat radiating from his clothing was enough to make her swoon.

Lin found her voice in the same instant he decided he’d had enough of foreplay. She screamed, tried to pull away, and was brutally rebuffed. The man, seizing a fistful of her lustrous hair, smashed her head against her car, and then threw her to the ground. Winded and stunned, Lin was unable to prevent him from spinning her around and climbing on top of her. He forced a thick hand between her legs, where, to her horror, he grabbed a fistful of spandex and abruptly pulled down her yoga pants, taking with hem the Hello Kitty thong that lay beneath.

“No!” Lin begged. “Please, don’t!”


“Shut up, bitch.”

The sound of a belt being unbuckled started her struggling.

Lin used every bit of strength she possessed, but it was no use. Her bunched up yoga pants prevented her from doing much kicking or struggling of any kind as he forced his long, hard cock into the dark cleft between her legs. She screamed again, louder this time, and was stunned by how exhausted it made her. With the man already thrusting inside of her, her body seemed to lose all its desire to keep the fight going. A quiet voice from the back of her mind whispered a soothing, deadly message. Be still, it said; lie there and take it, it’ll all be over soon. Lin was half ready to acquiesce.

“Little cunt,” he man grated. “Yellow whore!”

He forced her head sideways against the asphalt. Each thrust drove it back and forth against the rough surface of pavement, cutting, bruising, and tearing skin. Lin screamed from the pain.

“Nothing but a little brown fucking machine. Suckee-fuckee! Isn’t that right, slut?”

The bucking of his hips increased. He groaned in obvious delight.

Lin, well out of her mind, lapsed into her native Chinese, begging him to stop, to release her, to simply stop causing her so much pain. But this only seemed to spur him on. Withdrawing momentarily to flip her onto her back, the man ripped apart Lin’s top and exposed her small, firm breasts, their brown nipples stiffly erect. He reentered her and picked up his assault with gusto, ignoring her pleading cries—which sounded like nothing more than high-pitched gibberish to his unknowing ears—and focusing on the climax that he knew was close.

Lin writhed like a speared insect beneath him. She slapped at his thighs, twisted her head from side-to-side in constant, wordless denial.

The man growled, slapped her tits and continued fucking.

Abruptly, Lin’s ravaged body, responding unconsciously, contracted around him, milking him to what must have been an incredibly powerful orgasm. He thrust deeply into her violated pussy, and came deep inside of her.

Lin sobbed.

The man withdrew, slapped her across the face with his soggy, softening cock.

“Take that, you piece of shit whore.”

With that, he disappeared back into the night, leaving her sobbing, broken and alone.