Paradise by the Stage Floor Light

If there's one thing I hate, it's being cornered during the first act by a sweaty, naked blond Russian man...especially one I'd skipped out on the night before.

Sometimes, after-work drinks at Treasure Island took a turn for the dirty. Mikhail knew that I was flustered. He saw the handles of the overstuffed laundry bucket slip in my suddenly sweaty hands, and caught my eyes sweeping down his solid chest. The small, smug half-grin on his sexy lips gave away his satisfaction. After all, Mikhail been after me since I started working as a wardrobe tech on Cirque's “Mystere” show, and now I could see exactly what I'd turned down by running away. What was I thinking, anyway,

being interested in this guy? He looked like a fallen angel, his green-eyed baby face sitting atop a powerful body decorated by a couple of tattoos. I was your average Puerto Rican chick with a size six body, partial highlights, and no flexibility. In other words, not his type.

“Need help, Theresa?” He stood in front of me, blocking the way out of the stuffy dressing room.

The low rumble of his rough accent cut right through the synth music coming from the backstage speakers. I forced a smile in reply. He was an arrogant (big!) prick, standing there with his arms crossed. Pity that my view of “the goods” was blocked by a pile of sweaty Spandex.

“No, thanks, Mikhail. Shouldn't you be getting dressed?”

“For what? I'm not in fast track tonight. It's Run B, remember?"

Damn cast changes! I thought silently.

“Oh, well. Ah. I have to get the laundry started, so if I could get by, that would be great.”

Anything was better than my sudden fantasy of closing the door, throwing off my stagehand black, and riding him to death on a dressing room chair. “Oh, of course.” He opened the door, making sure that no one could see him from the hallway. I let out a relieved breath and started to scoot past. A hand suddenly landed on my lower back. No, let me be honest: my ass.

“You'll be coming out tonight?” Another low growl in my ear, and another gush of cream joined the puddle soaking my new thong.

I bit my lip. There was something else on my agenda after the show, and it didn't involve an incredibly hot Russian guy. “I have...” 

“You have to meet up with me and finish what we started.” The hand on my ass squeezed, and I moaned softly.

We'd wanted each other for a long time, but I wasn't about to give in like a tourist groupie.

“I don't have to do anything but this damn laundry. You acrobats are so fucking cocky,” I hissed as I walked by.

My face was flaming, and my hardened nipples poked into my bra cup.

“Theresa.” I paused.

“What?”

“Keep on running. I always get what I want in the end.” With a grunt,

I escaped towards the laundry room.

“That's what you think. You won't be getting me, so keep fantasizing.”

The best time of day was post-show. Everyone had left, the place was dead silent, and I'd charged through the laundry in record time. Perfect. It was time to do something fun – and no one would ever know. I walked past the dormant aerial cube and Chinese poles towards the large stage opening. As I entered the house itself, the dimmed lights surrounded me,and I knew that I was the only star present at that moment. It would, of course, be amazing to be on stage actually performing, but my design major self wouldn't be taking the circus world by storm any time soon. Approaching the musicians' area, I spotted exactly what I was looking for: a wooden board with wheels on each corner. The scooter was propped up against the stage scaffolding, the raised floor seeming to hover over a maze of metal and black space. Perfect. I loved watching performers pop onto the stage from underneath, and had been surprised to find out that there were numerous trapdoors, or traps, used for these entrances. Phillipe, one of the stagehands, had volunteered to take me under the stage one day, but had forgotten. So, I'd do it myself. It was dark, but I had a small Mag-Lite that I could hold in my mouth while I scooted through. Pieces of glow-in-the-dark gaffer tape marked paths to the traps, so navigation would be a cinch. With one last look around, I softly lowered the scooter to the floor and lay face down on it. Guiding myself forward, I entered the maze. It was pretty snug; the stage was about a foot and a half over my head, and only about three feet of space across the path, but I glided through to the center trap. Finally, I reached my goal. I unlatched the door and let it drop down, then stood up and looked through it. Remarkable! Fishing out my camera from my back pocket, I snapped some amazing shots from the very center of the stage. When I was done, I dropped back down, latched the trap door... ...and found myself flat on my back, a hard, muscular body pinning me down. One strong hand trapped both of my wrists over my head as I struggled and prepared to scream for the night guard. I wasn't about to get raped by some freak underneath the Cirque stage! After I minute, I recognized the man's scent, and could see some of his face in the light of the suddenly discarded Mag-Lite. His smell was clean and familiar, with a bit of spice and maleness. I recognized it from the night before, when my fingers were buried in someone's hair, his mouth getting busy with mine...

“Mikhail.”

No question, just simple truth. He had grown tired of waiting. I could feel the buttons of his shirt pressing down on me, along with the long, ready ridge of his hardened cock. My legs couldn't help but part a little more to give him a better, hotter resting place.

“What are you doing in the traps?” He lowered his head to nuzzle my neck, pausing to bite slightly.

“Do you really care?” He laughed.

“Not a damn bit.”

“Well, then.” I licked my lips and looked at his mouth as he stared into my eyes.

“I guess you got me where you want me.”

Suddenly, Mikhail rolled over, putting me on top. He buried his fingers in my hair and pulled me down to him. I knew what was coming, and last night's short taste hadn't been enough.

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

Our mouths met, and his taste exploded on my tongue. This time, it was pure Mikhail, with no beer or cosmo to mask his natural flavor. From the way he kissed, I could tell that he was going to fuck the shit out of me. Mikhail was thorough and in charge, nibbling my lower lip and sliding his tongue up and down mine with almost psychic precision. I couldn't stop the small little moans that started to burst through. I broke away from the kiss because I needed to sample his neck, cheek, and whatever else my lips could reach. He pulled out my hair clip and busied himself with my top; I fumbled with his buttons and tossed away his shirt. The dim light revealed something truly delicious: a perfect torso, toned by years of hard work and tough training, with arms were knotted with muscle. My fingers trailed down his washboard abs and played around his navel. An outie, I noticed. How cute. Another quick motion, and I was flat on my back again. One slightly calloused finger traced the edge of my bra, stealing inward to rim my nipple.

“God, you're hot.”

“You're not so bad yourself,” I said, watching him as he lifted my breast from the cup and latched on to the nipple for dear life.

He wasn't afraid to use his teeth, and I loved him for it. I hissed in approval as he tugged and soothed with one sweep of his tongue.

“Oh, shit, yeah. Just like that.”

I was so distracted by his good boob technique that I missed him opening my jeans.

I felt his hand touch the top of my pubic hair and exclaimed, “Yes, please!”

He sat up and laughed quietly, pulling my pants down. “So polite. But, can you be quiet when you come?”

I smiled. “Only if you give me something to be quiet about.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Shoving my legs apart with his massive shoulders, Mikhail grabbed my ass cheeks, bent down, and gave my swollen pussy lips a thorough, wet lick. I responded with a strong shimmy of my hips and a low, stifled wail. He ate me like he was born to do it, waiting until I was halfway out of my mind to finally pay attention to my swollen clit. I came so close to screaming that he grabbed his shirt and growled,

“Bite this.” I did. God help me, I did.

Two minutes later, I came so fucking hard that I thought I was going to black out. My thighs wrapped around his head and refused to let up, although I was no match for his brute strength when he did finally rise. In my post-orgasm haze, I heard a zipper, the crinkling of foil, and the sound of something wet and plastic. Too chill to do much, I let him push my knees up and out, feeling the hard tip of his dick as he zeroed in on home base. Mikhail's entrance was slow, straight, and serious, his thickness causing my tight hole to stretch to its limit to accommodate it. His mouth met mine as he sank to the bottom, his balls touching the crack of my ass. I honestly didn't know how he fit, because he was big, but I wasn't about to complain. He started to fuck me, moving slowly, sweat breaking out all over his body as if he was fresh off the stage. When I tightened my cunt around his plunging dick, some guttural Russian spilled from his mouth, and he gripped me even tighter. My hands clung to the valleys near his hips, and I pulled my legs apart as far as possible so that he could stuff every damned inch of himself into me. The smell of dripping pussy and perspiration mixed with the aroma of stage equipment, and I knew that this was a fuck for the record books. Mikhail's thrusts sped up, and I could see his head moving back and forth as he pistoned in and out, in and out. I pushed up and down in return, and my hand moved to my slippery clit to intensify the already overwhelming sensations. However, Mikhail had some other ideas. Sticking his finger in his mouth quickly, he reached between us, fiddled around a bit, and then started to finger my ass ever so gently. That caused me to be a very, very bad girl and sink my teeth into his shoulder, which resulted in him ramping up the fucking to new heights. I was beginning to black out around the edges, and couldn't even catch my breath. It was too much, and I was about to beg off when I came. Hard. This orgasm was one of the types you have when you're alone and no one's watching, where your face contorts out of all proportion and you simply can't control anything anymore. With a hard thrust deep into the pit of my vagina, Mikhail exploded, his muscles trembling under my fingers as he shot his cream deeply, safely, inside of me.

Afterwards, we both blinked in the semi-darkness, the trusty Mag-Lite causing our sweat-moistened skin to shine. We looked like we were wearing glossy costumes under that Cirque stage, and I sighed.

“So,” he whispered in a conversational tone, “I never did get an answer from you. We going out tonight?”

All I could do was whack him on the shoulder. I wouldn't turn that particular naked Russian down again.

“I guess. After all, you always get what you want.” 

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