Sextuplet and the City

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The ballet I’m watching is Swan Lake, and my crush’s role is that of Prince Siegfried.

Damn it. I’m jealous of that crossbow he’s holding. Given that my goal is to get this man out of my system, seeing him live might’ve been a step in the wrong direction.

His muscles—especially on his powerful legs—would make a statue of a Greek god weep in envy. His gleaming eyes are pure melted chocolate, and dark chocolate is also what his slicked-back hair reminds me of. His face is angelic, with cheekbones so sharp-edged they look like the hard layer of Crème Brûlée after you break it with a spoon. Oh, but all of that pales in comparison to the bulge in his pants—a feature of so many of my m**********n fantasies that I’ve even named the contents of it Mr. Big.

So, yeah. Seeing all this is the opposite of helpful—and if I activate the vibrating panties I’m currently wearing, it will make everything that much worse.

Originally, I put on the masturbatory panties because I figured this is my last chance at a ménage à moi with The Russian. If sniffing his tights works as intended, I’ll have to resort to some other visual aid for visiting the bat cave—like Magic Mike, 300, or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Then again, I shouldn’t be selfish. This adventure would make for an amazing blog post. I don’t usually get naughty in public, so this might be educational for my followers.

Yeah. I’ll do it for them. It will be my last hurrah with The Russian—made that much more interesting because I’m seeing him live.

I scan the nicely dressed people sitting around me. The coast is clear. They’re focusing on the spectacle in front of us, as they should.

I fish out the little remote that activates the vibration.

Last chance to change my mind.

Nope. The Russian flashes me the perfection that is his butt, with a gluteus maximus that I want to lick like rock candy.

I press the “on” button and grin as my underwear begins to vibrate.

It’s DIY time.

Even at the lowest speed, my clit is instantly engorged, and I have to hope the electrical components inside this technological marvel are waterproof. Soon, I have to painfully bite my tongue to keep from moaning. Tchaikovsky’s music is genius, but it wouldn’t drown that out.

I had no idea it would be this hard to keep quiet. Must be The Russian’s hotness in action.

Panting, I turn off the device to give my clit a chance to cool off. If I get caught doing this, I’ll be escorted out and banned for life for being the pervert that I am.

When I think I can stay quiet, I turn the thing back on again.

Nope. Just as The Russian performs a particularly mouthwatering fouetté, the desire to be vocal is back with a vengeance.

Fuck. Me.

Whoever designed these panties should win some sort of a prize. They do to my nether regions what the Swan theme song does to my ears, or The Russian to my eyes.

An orgasm of cosmic proportions builds inside me, and staying silent takes an effort of will I know I don’t possess, so I turn everything off once again, for good this time.

Fucker. Now I’m just really frustrated and cranky.

As if to sharpen my frustration, the ballerina playing Princess Odette shows up.

Can you say “impossible standard of beauty?” Translucently thin on top, she looks like someone who’s never tasted a croissant in her life, yet her legs are powerful and seem to go on and on.

I know, I know. My jealousy is as green as a St. Patrick’s Day donut. In my defense, her character is supposed to be sweet, noble, and guileless. She, however, dances the part with seduction, like Odile, the evil black swan. Speaking of Black Swan, it’s all too easy to imagine this woman stabbing someone with a shard of glass, the way Natalie Portman’s character did in the movie.

That’s it. Decided. Henceforth, this ballerina will be Black Swan in my mind.

As the ballet continues, I cringe each time The Russian touches Black Swan—which is often, especially during the pas de deux. In fact, things get so bad that when Princess Odette meets her sad end, I find it hard to empathize.

I’m just glad the show is over. Watching it live was definitely a mistake.

Fighting the exiting crowds, I make my way to the bathroom, where I lock my stall and climb on a toilet to hide my feet as per Blue’s instructions for Operation Big Sniff. Her instructions are also why I’m wearing all black—dressy pants appropriate for the venue, a button-up shirt that’s slightly too tight on me (I bought it a few pounds ago, so sue me), and a pair of ballet flats that have seen better days but are the fanciest shoes I can run in.

Taking out an earbud, I stick it into my ear and dial Blue.

“Hey, sis,” she says. “The crowd is dispersing as we speak. Hold tight.”

As I wait, Blue fills me in on all the juicy family gossip, making me wonder how she gathered all this information. No doubt using the same nefarious methods as Big Brother in the dystopian world of 1984.

“The Latvian Elvis has just left the building,” Blue finally says. “And I turned off the cameras in your way, so you can start the op.”

“Thanks.” I move to hop down from the toilet, but my foot slips and I headbutt the stall door.

Ouch. I see stars in my vision—shaped like urinal cakes.

Worse still, I hear a sploosh.

No! Please no.

Sadly, it’s yes.

My phone is swimming in the toilet bowl. Yuck.

“Hey,” Blue says in the earbud through crackling static. “Is everything o—”

The rest is an unintelligible hiss.

My poor phone is dead.

I debate fishing it out, as gross as that would be. I’ve heard you can stick these devices into rice to dry out, and they may resurrect themselves. In the end, I decide against it. The phone is so old it’s a stretch to call it “smart.” It’s better off drowning in the toilet with some dignity, even though I’ll have to skip about a hundred trips to Cinnabon to afford a replacement.

The question now is: should I call off the operation?

I no longer have Blue in my ear, but I have splurged on this ticket and I don’t know when I’ll be able to afford another one. Besides, I’ve gone through all the trouble of learning how to pick a lock, and Blue has done her part already.

All right, I’m going for it.

Taking in a calming breath, I sneak out of the stall.

No one is around.

Good.

As I creep to my destination, I’m glad I memorized the layout of this place instead of relying on the schematics on my phone.

The first lock in my way is easy to pick, and the second door isn’t even locked.

When I get to the last corridor, I realize I’m jogging, and by the time I stop next to the door of what should be The Russian’s changing room, I’m panting.

Yep. “Artjoms Skulme” is what the tag on the door says. I’m in the right place.

I take out the lockpicks, and the lock yields to my newfound skills without much fuss.

Heart hammering, I step inside. In the large mirror in front of me, I look frightened, like Blue would in a bird’s nest. Even my shoulder-length hair appears frazzled and pale, the strawberry-blond of my strands more ashy blond in this light than anything close to red.

Chewing on my lip, I look around for the tights. I’ve made it this far, and I’m not leaving without completing the operation.

Hmm.

I don’t see tights anywhere.

Just my luck. He’s a neat freak.

Wait a sec… I see something. Not tights, but possibly even better. Although also a bit creepier if I think about it too deeply.

I hurry over to the chair on which I’ve spotted the item—an article of clothing known in this industry as a dance belt.

Except it’s not an actual belt.

Designed for ballet dancers with external genitals that can flop about during vigorous jumps, this undergarment looks suspiciously like a thong.

I fan myself.

Just picturing The Russian wearing this butt-floss without tights makes me want to re-enable my vibrating panties.

But no. No time for muffin buttering right now.

I pick up the thong—I mean, dance belt. It feels nice and soft to the touch.

Must be made of boyfriend material.

I peer at the dance belt like I’m trying to charm a snake inside of it. A snake named Mr. Big.

Am I really going to do this? And if I do, does that mean I’m like one of those peeps who buy worn underwear online?

No. I don’t have an undies-sniffing fetish, more like the opposite.

Yeah. If anyone asks, that’s my excuse.

With determined movements, I rip the filter from each nostril and bring the dance belt up to my nose.

Here goes.

I take the Big Sniff.