Tag: gay captions

Gallery
by ccallenreese

gayboykink:

The tender moments of submission.

Andrew gazes fondly over his prize, stroking the boy’s chestnut hair. Oliver’s not yet awake, as the drugs haven’t worn off. Andrew knows when Oliver comes to, he might be scared and flail so he keeps the ropes on for the boy’s own safety. Andrew knows once Oliver sees his face, everything will be alright. He smiles, satisfied. The deep hit to his bank account was worth it. Every penny as valuable as gold to him. He knew he was taking a huge risk hiring that shady man to kidnap his boy and steal him away, but Andrew could not bear another day knowing his boy was out of his grasp.

They had been lovers once, but when they were in college. But Oliver’s father had crippling gambling debts, and jealous of his beautiful face, sold his own son to pay off his loansharks. Andrew could not afford the cost, and could only watch helplessly as his lover was ripped from his arms and taken away. The private investigator he hired tracked Oliver to a slave work farm in upstate New York

Andrew saved for two years to acquire enough money to afford the kidnapper. It was only after Andrew received a small inheritance after the death of a grandparent was he able to hire the man. He was nearly broke now, but he would live in a barn with Oliver if he had to. The debt had been paid by the slavetraders. Andrew made a silent promise to Oliver that he would always be free, and he would always be safe. He would always be protected, and loved, because Oliver had always been – and would forever be – his beloved boy. No one would take what belonged to him ever again.

_____________________________
Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

blissfuldominance:

Waiting for Sir is the worst. 

Even more so when he’s late. He promised me he’d get off work early, and we’d go to the Valentines Day party your local kink scene is hosting. Who’d ever heard of a Master working on Saturday morning? Only mine, it seems; there’s always some crisis demanding his attention in the office. Does he love the office more than me? I start to wonder. It’s Valentine’s Day for god’s sake. My mind drifts back to this morning when he rolled over and gave me a plain, stiff fucking – just like any other morning. I was really hoping for something romantic other than an utterance “Happy Valentine’s Day, boy.” Did he really not care at all? I had withheld my gift for him because of that.

Then, I hear it. A car pulls into the driveway. I lift my head, then tilt it. The engine’s cut. A car door shuts. Then the trunk. I’m up on all fours now, wagging my butt even though the tailplug isn’t in cause it’s drying in the bathroom. Habits. I pace back and forth in front of the door until it swings open.

And there’s my Master, holding a big bouquet of flowers and a paperbag. I was so astonished I forgot to bark. My Master smiles.
“What? No greeting?”
I lose it. Full barking mode on! Complete with paws up on his thighs,and butt wiggling. Master grins at me, and sets down the paper bag so he can scritch me and cuff me behind the ears. “That’s a good boy, thatta boy!”
I roll over and offer my belly, and he gives a rub.
“Good boy. You didn’t think I forgot would you? I lied about having to go into work today. Truthfully, I bought most of this yesterday, I was just an idiot and left it in an office drawer.”

My disappointment melts away. Of course, he didn’t forget to get me something. I butt my head against his leg. Master kneels down and offers me the bloom end of the flowers. I stick my face in there and inhale, nuzzling the velvety petals with my nose. The perfume is fresh. After I dry them, I’ll make sachets out of them. I pause, blink, and then sneeze. Master chuckles.
“I’ll go put these in water. Here, here’s one of your presents.”

He takes a small box out of the paperbag, then begins to open it. I watch eagerly. It smells like chocolate. I fucking love chocolate. He presents it; in his hand in one of those chocolate orange things, wrapped in foil. An edible, scrumptious-smelling toy ball. I bounce on my paws and bark at it. He grins and puts it on the wooden floor, then pushes it so it rolls. I go mental and chase after it, batting it with my paw as I go.

He watches me for a moment, before going into the kitchen. I wait for a few moments, distracted with my toy, before I get his gift. I hear him get himself pour a cup of water and figure it’s good timing. I trot in, carrying a red paperbag in my mouth.

My Master looks pleased. “Whatchoo got there boy? Is that for me?”
“Ruff ruff!” I reply although it’s muffled.
He strides over to me and takes it out of my mouth. After beating the staples, he peers inside to see those Japanese gummy candies he likes so much, plus some heart hard candies, heart post-it notes (for the damn office), and strawberry lube. A smile lights up his face. “I love it. Exactly what I wanted.” He kisses my forehead. “Thank you boy.”
I lick him back.

He goes to find my orange ball again, and rolls it with his shoe. I chase it all over the house in a tizzy, until it hits a wall, cracks, and then I feast on its sacchrine insides. After, I make a point of crawling into my Master’s lap and licking his face. He isn’t able to resist kissing me, knowing I smell and taste delicious.

______________________________________________
Text is fictional. Source was deactivated, so no idea.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

Sometimes he comes to me, pouting, arms out, needing comfort. I don’t always ask, just sometimes he feels these pangs of self doubt that he can’t handle the big scary world out there, and then he comes running to me for a hug. He’s kind of a big puppy. Scared of his own shadow. Take a submissive bottom boy, drop it down three levels, and you’ll find him.

“There, there,” I say, pulling him against me, one hand curved around his side. “I’m here.” I will usually push down his underwear a little – he doesn’t wear much clothing around the house – and give his ass a reaffirming squeeze.

I always start with his ass. It’s where I make love to him and claim him. It’s the heart of his sexuality – not his cock. His cock is secondary. He needs to know that I’m not tired of him, that I still find him hot and sexy, and giving that soft bubbly butt a big squeeze confirms that I still think about sinking my teeth into it every time I see it. I run my palm up the sweeping curve of his spin, murmuring comments in his ear about how silky his skin is, how floral his scent. I keep him close to me, always reassuring him with both hands.

He presses his soft cock against my leg and buries his face in my neck. “Are you sure you really want me? And not some skinny, muscular twink?”
I scoff. “Are you crazy? I have you! I love you and your body, every supple piece of it. I like you a bit tender and soft, because it makes you a delight to cuddle with. Ever cuddle with a guy whose bodyfat is 1%? It’s like cuddling with a surfboard.”
This makes him giggle, and I know he’s just bluffing. He just wants the praise. I reach back down and massage one globe of his buttocks with one hand. He moans against my shirt collar.
“I love men,” I clarify, “When I see you, I see an embodiment of every male characteristic I like, and I want. Your adorable personality is the cherry on top.”
“Even though my cock is small?” he asks, unsure.
“You have a cock. That’s my requirement. And even though it might be small, it’s still a good toy.” I drop my voice to a husky purr and whisper in his ear. “There’s plenty there to touch…and stroke…and edge… you have a fat cockhead and you love it when I rub that sensitive skin with my fingertips don’t you?”
He shudders against me. “Oh Papi,” he says with a sigh. “You really know how to make a boy feel special.”
I kiss his ear. “That’s cause you are. You are my boy.”
“Mm I love being your boy. Squeeze my ass again?”
I do so.
“Mmnnn~” he coos. “I love feeling your strong hands on me. Makes me feel so safe.”
“Why don’t we go into the bedroom and I squeeze you all over, work your body inside and out?”
“A massage?”
“Yes, boy.”
He smiles at me. “Because I am your special boy?”
“Because I love you, and I like doing things for the boy I love.” I kiss him.
He pushes back and I gift him with more kisses. I give, he takes, until his lips are puffy and tingling.
“Woah, Papi,” he breathes.
I grin. “That’s the lip massage. Come on.” I take a handful of his ass again. “Let’s go upstairs and do the rest of you.”
He follows me up the stairs, fingers squeezing mine.

______________________________________________________________
Text is fictional. This is Topher DiMaggio fucking Paddy O’Brian.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

Your slave boy was pulling the delicate laundry hanging to dry on the balcony. You were watching him though, the way the sun rays and shadows were playing off your boy’s nude body. The morning urge came out of hiding easily. You pinned him against the railing and took what you wanted from him, with your mouth and your cock. It doesn’t matter how humiliated he might have felt, being fucked with all those people milling about publicly below. It was up to him to be quiet and focus on pleasing his Master. It was your loud grunt when you came in him though that got some people to look up. You could feel your boy blush all over, but he kept his eyes ahead. It was not his job to question if his Master wanted the neighborhood to know he was owned slavemeat. When it was over, he thanked his Master for the sex, and continued on with the laundry, hole dripping until his Man plugged him.

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Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

Lachlan was examining an old book of costume designs for details to borrow for illustrations when he heard a knock at the door. He was both relieved and annoyed by the sound. He needed a distraction, but he bothered that inspiration wasn’t coming to him. The illustrations were due in two days and he hadn’t done the linework – not to mention the coloring! Ugh, it was going to be overtime for sure. The other drawings
for the Richman campaign came to him instantly; he’d propped them up to
remind himself he didn’t suck at his job.

Lachlan sighed and closed the book. “Yes?” He glanced up at his secretary, a smiley, plump blonde woman.
“Um,”
she said, pointing a pencil toward the front of the office, “Your
husband is here. He’s bouncing off the walls, demanding he has to see
you ASAP.”
“Is something wrong?” Lachlan asked, already striding to the door.
“No, quite the opposite, I think.”

Their head illustrator was already running past her to the waiting area.
“Julian?” he called.
Julian
heard Lachlan’s voice and jogged toward him. He was grinning so hard his
cheeks hurt, all his teeth on display. “Come here, I gotta tell you something.” Without waiting for a response, he grabbed a very confused Lachlan by the sleeve and dragged him back into his office and
shut the door tight.
“Julian what’s going on?”
“Lach they picked us!” He leapt into his husband’s arms.
“Ooof!” Lachlan exhaled in surprise as he found his arms full of a petit brunet.
“They picked us!” Julian crowed.
“Who picked what?” Lachlan insisted.
Julian
kissed him hard. Lachlan did not dislike that, but was a tad embarrassed to
be receiving that in front of an open window. “My goodne-“
“The
adoption agency called. Couple 17, the teenagers we met two weeks ago? They liked our profile, the book we
sent them, the photos… It’s really happening Lachlan. They’ve picked us to adopt their daughter
when she’s born.”
“…What?” Lachlan breathed, shocked.
Julian smiled. “We’re going to be parents.”
All
the air left Lachlan’s throat. He worked his jaw, but nothing came out.
Tears sprung to his eyes. Julian wiped them away with his sleeve. “Us.
Parents. It’s really happening.”
“Oh my god,” Lachlan sputtered. He let
Julian down so he could hug him properly in a bone-crushing grasp.
“You’re 100% serious? They’ve picked us? Why?”
Julian giggled,
overexcited. “Yes. Our adoption counselor didn’t want to spill all over
the phone, but she said for both teenagers, there’s lot of
religious mania in the families. Huge homophobes, too. The teens said they wanted their kid to
have a “modern life” as they put it.”
“…Are you saying being a gay couple ended up working for us? After all that rejection?”
"That’s what I’m saying.”

Lachlan stared at Julian, trying to digest this. He let out a whoop and punched
the air. They made so much noise that Cathy knocked on the door.

“Um, is everything ok there in Lach?”
He went to the door to reassure their receptionist. “No it’s great! It’s fucking great! I’m going to be a dad!!”

When Lachlan’s boss found out about his and Julian’s adoption success, he took everyone in the small company out for lunch and drinks. People kept buying Lachlan and Julian drinks and the couple got a bit too drunk. Lachlan was given the rest of the day off, and Julian escorted him home.

They stumbled in through the door to their house, then made love on the sofa. As he was lying there, out of breath, delirious with happiness and cuddling a napping Julian, Lachlan suddenly had the inspiration for the drawings he was stuck on at work. He was feverishly sketching when Julian came to fetch him for dinner. After a nice meal, he went right back to his office to put down the basics for the colors. When he was done with the preliminary work, Lachlan didn’t even take a break before moving on to the next drawing project: designing the nursery.

____________________

Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

Mikhail posed for a portrait showcasing his two favorite things in the world – his family’s old summer dacha and his beloved pet faggot of ten years. He loved to bring the boy out here to the wilds outside of St. Petersburg and live nude and unencumbered by work or societal standards. Mikhail wanted a good photo to commemorate his life happy before he got old and out of shape. He had to wear shorts of course, so he could show it to people that didn’t follow his particular lifestyle.

While the photographer was messing with the light meter or something, the faggot noticed the tempting out-line of Mikhail’s cock in his shorts. It was pronounced, half erect, as Mikhail was excited by fresh air and the promise of vacation after being stuck in a car for hours. The boy’s instincts took over. It needed attention, so he gave it. He began to mouth the shape through the khaki fabric, ignoring Mikhail chiding him and squeezing the back of his neck. He muttered, “Not now, boy,” but the tone of his voice didn’t match the words.

The photographer got himself together and said, “Ok, smile!” but the faggot was no longer paying attention or taking orders from anyone that wasn’t his man. He was lost in playing with the throbbing cock he found hidden up Mikhail’s shorts. Mikhail shrugged and indicated for the photographer to take the picture. It was a more accurate representation of their relationship anyway.

______________________
Text is fictional.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

Johnny pauses in reflection before the next client arrives. He’s still sore from morning yoga, and his first client really liked to spank him while riding him. Three more to go. Today’s busy. Johnny knows he’s gonna have to use the Viagra later. He doesn’t really want to, but his clients like when he’s horny. Johnny suspects it makes them feel less dirty, less perverted, to be fucking a boy who is turned on. He’s sure that all his clients believe him to be a horny slut that badly needs to be fucked by several guys in order to feel sane. He also has an inkling it goes hand in hand with his “bad boy” image, with the tattoos and piercings and cocky attitude. Johnny still loves it when a man stops dead in their tracks when he drops the towel. He designed his body to be a piece of art. Hell, Johnny advertised his services by “inviting” potential buyers to an “interactive art exhibit” on m4m backpages. His inbox is never empty.

Johnny checks his bank account balance on his phone. He almost has enough. Being so close to his goal has been making him kind of crazy. He’d been selling himself for over a year now for quick money, watching in frustration as his balance went up and down with rent and bills. So close. Johnny drifts off for a moment, fantasizing about the moment when he breaks the news to his best friend Saul that he can now afford reconstructive surgery to fix his burned face and hands. Insurance didn’t cover cosmetic procedures, and university bills drained Saul dry. Johnny missed going out with his friend, who didn’t leave the house except to go to class. He lived off disability, like a hermit. Johnny felt so helpless after his friend was injured in that apartment fire, so angry at his neighbor for smoking next to an oxygen tank. This was his way of righting a wrong.

Maybe it was also something else, for Johnny had a crush on Saul since he was 16. He has a feeling Saul wouldn’t want him, not after he’d whored himself out like this, but for Johnny it would be enough just to make Saul smile. He’s a selfless boy. Well, not entirely. After he got Saul taken care of, Johnny plans to get right back to whoring. He wants to take a trip to Bali and hit the waves. Maybe Saul would come with him. Yeah, that’d be great.

A knock on the door brings Johnny back to present. He grabs a bathrobe off the chair. “Coming~” he calls as he rises off the bed. One more client, one step closer. Hey, this one is hot at least.

______________________________________
Text is fictional. This is Stephen James.

Gallery
by ccallenreese

He sighed, “But Daddy-”
“The only ‘but’ I want to see is the one facing me. Go sit in the corner for your time-out, or I will double it.”
He pouted but shuffled over on his knees and did it anyway. I watch his cock jiggle between his legs as he lowered himself to the floor. Such a big dick on that boy!
I cleared my throat. “Tell me what you’re being punished for.”
“For staying up late, falling asleep with the TV on, and not turning on the dishwasher.”
“Yes. You broke your bed time curfew, and your TV curfew, and we had no clean dishes for breakfast this morning, so you are going to sit there for an hour and think about how you can improve for next time. …Don’t pout at me, it won’t work.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more responsible Daddy.”
“Good. You will learn. 32 is too old to not have any discipline. You will be under my supervision until you are at least 35.
He sighed again. "I appreciate your investment in me, Daddy. Still sucks sitting in time out though.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer a spanking?”
“No!”
I gave him a slightly evil-sounding chuckle. I loved spanking him, because he absolutely hated being treated like a child. I got a thrill out of him flailing helplessly, feeling his cock harden and leak against my leg as his cheeks turned redder and redder. I saved that for big punishments though, as they were very effective. “That’s what I thought. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

“…Am I still going to be allowed to play paint ball tomorrow with the guys?”
“Maybe. If you’re well-behaved today and give proper service to my cock.”
“I’ll be good I promise! I’ll do that thing you like with my tongue on your balls.”
You know exactly how to make me go weak, I thought. “Actions are louder than words, boy. You can show me later. Now you sit there, and think about why I put you there.”
“Yes Daddy.” He hung his head.
“ Good boy. I’m proud of you for understanding that I know what’s best for you.”

______________
Text is fictional.

Best of December

Best of December

by ccallenreese

Best 20-ish original-content posts from December~

Why am I panicking? I’ve always wanted to be treated like a whore
Dildo-sucking pup
Vintage Houseboy Sluts
I love you, Dad. …Fuck!
Quality time with dick
Leaking at work
Compliments of the hotel
Hm, where did I put my toys?
Checking your pussyboi for wetness
Ubyr roadhead
Meat Packer shirt guy
Table punishment
Snowed-in? Slut out.
Wait. Waaaiiiiit. Good corporate dog.
Thinking about all the dicks I’ve sucked…
Dear Diary, today I got to fuck Collin.
Davey takes care of his horny, locked boy
Bigger, cooler sword
Tempting the slave with a cigarette
Torturing the houseboy’s cock for masturbating
Can’t stop kissing you

And of course,
Interrogating the Cat & Marriage Proposal

Gallery
by ccallenreese

[I reblogged this from a normal dance Tumblr, so for anyone who is seeing this post from there – take note the story below is NSFW and contains gay content.]

I never used to be early, ever. Since I dedicated my life to dance, I lived in a constant state of fatigue and stress and would sleep as much as possible. When I joined this company in London, I soon found a reason for being a bit more punctual – a 164 centimeter reason in white leggings, that is.

I opened the rehearsal hall door and smiled at the sight of Lambert spread out over this tacky red drop cloth on a prop sofa. He was a male, but he was a stereotypical prima-donna ballerina. Who else lounges around in leg-warmers and practice slippers? I smiled at the sigh of his curves neatly outlined by the sheer fabric. Lambert was one of our shortest male dancers, and by far the most feminine. He was the only male dancer that could squeeze in Bernadette’s little pointe shoes and wear them like a princess. Despite his size, that buff little man was the principal dancer in the company – and it wasn’t because his family name was emblazoned above the door.

I was impressed by Lambert, and inspired. Also, I was charmed by his dramatic streak and flair for fuss. When I first met him, Lambert put his hands on his hips and huffed at me for mispronouncing his name, “It’s LAMber, not lamBERT!” he insisted with a perfect French accent. He pouted at me with those cupid bow lips that begged for kissing. When Lambert was dressed up in powder and lipstick for performance nights, I was beyond relieved to have a cup to hide my erection behind.

Lambert looked up as I set my duffel back down. “Bonjour,” he replied.
“Hello,” I replied with my American accent. I strolled over to him. “What are you reading?”
Lambert turned the page. “I’m studying the program from when the Joffrey did their production of this show. The reviews were insane, people were raving about it! They packed theaters. I’m wondering howt hey did it, since the script is a bit weak, and the choreography a bit aged. Somehow the Joffrey was able to make some tweaks to improve it without angering the conservatives. The use of color in the costumes alone is incredible…”
A throb of jealousy pulses through me. No matter waht I do, no matter how much time I put into practice or exercising at the gym, no matter how hard I study, I will never be at Lambert’s level. I cannot match his dedication. To him, dancing is a religion.

I console my inferiority by cupping my hand and running my palm over the swell of his calves. “Mmmmmmm,” Lambert purrs under me. The touch slides up his thigh and slows as it crests over the sculpted muscle of his butt. As my hand moves up his leg, he arches up into my touch like a rather hedonistic housecat. I guide my hand backwards and down his elevated hips, between his legs and stroke his bulge firmly trapped in tight underwear. Lamber groans and buries his face in the pillow. “John, Johnny not – now, please, I am very sensitive and must wait to be horny after practice.”
I cluck at him with faux disappointment and my hand migrates back up, squeezing his balls a little, before sliding up his ass and resting on his back. I perch on the edge of the sofa next to him and run my flattened palm over his solid back. “Oh that feels good,” Lambert admits.

I immediately begin to give him a back and shoulder massage. Lambert sets the program aside and nuzzles his face into a pillow. Soon, he’s making some delightful noises as I work the stiffness from his upper body.
“Mon dieu,” Lambert says, “I hate that I’ll never be as strong as you.”

I flush under rare praise. I am bigger, so statistically, it’s probably true, but still, it’s hard to believe I can best Lambert in any category.
“Well, you are more flexible, beautiful, and graceful, you don’t need my strength.”
“I still want it. Mmnf. My hands get tired so quickly when I try to do this my feet or something.”
I work Lambert’s shoulders in my hands. “You need to relax more. You’re so tight.”
“Fuck,” he sighs. He never curses in practice or on stage. I am delighted to hear him slip in the rehearsal room. A moment later, I know why he’s slipped because he says: “It’s too late.”
“What’s too late?”
“I’m too aroused right now. I can’t dance when I’m horny.”
“Suck me,” I beg, now unable to think of anything else.

Lambert looks up at me with beautiful clear blue eyes. “Here? Now? People will be here any minute…”

But I am already standing and extracting my half-hard penis out of my sweatpants. His eyes light up at the offer of this treat so early int he day. Lambert’s hand rises to meet me. Lambert loves to play with me. It’s a weakness he wont admit to, I’m sure. He swings his legs over so he can sit up, and with a sigh of defeat, wraps his lips around me. I place a hand on the back of the sofa, one knee on the seat cushion, one foot on the floor, and the other hand on the back of Lambert’s head. I’m half folded around him, grunting and moaning as Lambert suckles me and explores my foreskin with his talented tongue. He cups my balls in his soft hands and pulls me forward, to the base. Stars swirl in front of my eyes as he blesses my cock with attention.
“Dios mio,” I gasp. “You have such a hot, velvety mouth, Lambert.”
He hums and makes my knees turn to gelatin.

Once, during one of our sex romps, Lambert said to me that oral is a lot like ballet, just ballet you do with your tongue. That night I learned just how fast my reload speed was.

I beg him to go slowly, but he’s eating me up. I watch him bob his head, devouring me, enjoying the sour tasting of me. Now that I’ve given him an outlet, all his sexual energy is pouring out. I stroke his silky blond hair and listen to him work. Lambert pushes the tip of his tongue into my piss hole and pre-cum dribbles out against his tongue. “Fuck Lambert!”
I can feel him smiling around my cock and for some stupid reason that sends me over the edge. I push my member down his throat and empty my seed in hot spurts. Lambert startles, and some of it dribbles down his lips, but he quickly recovers and pumps me with his hand as he tends my glans with his mouth. My vision goes entirely black, and I am cursing up a storm. Every nerve of mine is firing at once and I am surprised I haven’t fallen off the couch yet.
“Oh Lambert,” I groan. “You are a delight.”
He plays his tongue over my balls. “You know what I like about you American men?”
“Hm?” I ask, hazy.
“You never ask for permission to do anything. You thrust, you cum, you never ask or tell us, you just do it. It’s very sexy, the way you dominate like that.”
I puff out my chest, enjoying the testosterone coursing through me. “Is that why you love to bottom for me?”
“Yes,” Lambert says, licking his lips. “You nail me just how I like it.”
“Speaking of how you like it, you want your orgasm now?” I ask. My cock is softening, so I put it back into my pants. It’s still shiny from Lambert’s work, and I relish the idea of going through rehearsal with his marks on me.
“Oui oui!” Lambert points down. “Look how hard I am!”
“Good, cause I got just the thing for that…”

I wobble over to my duffel bag and extract a clean washcloth I use for sweat. I encourage Lambert to stand up. We kiss for a moment, and I pull his leggings down in the front until his cock springs free. I wrap the washcloth around it and pump him. Lambert melts against me as I milk his cock. Soft, he’s about 3 inches but when hard it’s more than twice that. A few pulls is all it takes before Lambert shudders and the towel grows wet under my fingers. He clings to my torso and pants against my neck.
“You all done, pretty one?” I purr.
“I feel like I’m floating,” he answers.

I stroke his hair and clean up the sticky mess between his legs. I also adjust his leggings and make sure he’s straight.
“Feel good?”
“Oh yes. I feel …cleansed. Empty. Clear-headed.”
“Good, cause practice starts in twenty minutes.”
Lambert puffed out his cheeks. “Fyew! That was fun! God, I love you American boys. Getting me into trouble.”
I fake throwing the soiled towel at him. “You like getting into trouble! You’re a mischievous little French minx in tights, a real danger to society.”

Lambert makes an uncharacteristically loud laugh. His hands immediately fly to cover his mouth as he turns red. Just at that moment, another dancer comes in.

“…What did I miss?”
“Oh nothing, Janine,” I smile sweetly. “Lambert and I were just fooling around.”
She rolls her eyes. “Man it is stuffy in here and it smells like sweat. How about we open a window?”
I cough. Lambert and I share a look. I stuff the washcloth into my bag. “That is a good idea.”

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Text is fictional. Source isn’t an actual ballet dancer, but some guy on Flickr that likes to pose in leggings. Huh!