By the time she finished high-school, Regan had been enrolled in the Boston Ballet Theater School for several years. She chose to spend hours and days practicing at the barre, trainging her self for a life as a dancer. She spends most of her time wearing leotards and tights, a habit that she actually enjoyed. She commuted everyday by bus to the studios, usually returning in the evenings to her small apartment, after dark still wearing her sweaty, worn dance clothes under her jeans, too tired to peel them off before going home. She’s a special girl. And beautiful. Petite, though rather busty for a dancer, a cute bottom. A little Jessica Rabbit someone once said of her. Her hair, perfect, wavy strawberry blonde, is enviable, and her bright blue eyes squeeze devilishly when she smiles, a bright Cheshire grin. Her milky white complexion is dashed with freckles across her cheeks. She’s someone everyone admires. But Regan’s got a coolness about her, a sort of aloof, but humored maturity. Little does Regan know that Ms. M., her ballet teacher, is pathologically obsessed with her. Truly whatever is wrong with Ms. M. is serious. But this strangeness is well camouflaged by her imperious gaze, that omniscient scrutiny rightly ascribed to a teacher like herself. When M. is dozing under the covers at night, she fantasizes about her students, particularly Regan. Inoccent encounters after class, tender hugging, indulgences completely out of her grasp. Regan would never, ever indulge such affection. The more such appetites are repressed, the darker and stranger they become. A year goes by: nights filled with these unsatisfied desires. Days filled with the plebian rote of barre instruction, twisting girl’s supple thighs into an acceptable turnout, the constant smell of sweat, like pencil shavings, in the studio she encounters everyday with new longing. Something in her breaks. When she can no longer take the pressure, she submits, coming up with a sick and cunning plan to finally fulfill her dark appetites. On that particular day, Regan is wearing a well-worn, pink leotard with tank straps. It’s After class, Regan wants to do nothing more than peel off her sweat soaked ballet togs, slip under a hot shower and take a nap. But for some reason Ms. M. has asked her to stay long after the her peers have gone home. Ms. M. asks her to stand next to the barre, and go through the five positions one-by-one. M. is dressed elegantly in a simple, black sleeveless unitard. Her torso is long and curved, and her legs look muscular through he material. Her hair is in a tight, shiny bun. She looks regal and slightly sinister. She makes Regan does her barre exercises over and over again. There is something strange in her Instructor's tone: a nervous desperation. If Ms. M. were a man she’d be very uncomfortable. She can sense the eyes traveling up and down her figure, as if thirsting for a popsicle on a scorching hot day. “Stay,” Ms. M. Says. Regan is fixed in second position, breathing hard, her leotard and tights, so saturated with perspiration it feels slick and sticky, as if she’s painted with warm, smelly glue. Her shoulders down, her legs together, feet outturned so that the heel of her pink pointe shoes touch. But something strange is happening behind her—Ms. M. is breathing heavily. Before Regan knows what has happened Ms. M. grabs her hands and them behind her, bending her at her waist so she can hardly scream out in surprise. Her teacher strokes her backside and tells her, sweetly, she wont get hurt if she follows her directions carefully. This is totally inappropriate, but when Regan tries to scream out a big red rubber ball is thrust into her drooling mouth; a bitter foreign taste of rubber. On either side of the ball emerge the ends of a leather strap which is quickly pulled around the back of her head and secured with a small buckle. She squirms to free herself but M. has lassoed her hands with a length of rope. M ties Regan's hands behind her with white rope; then laces the free ends around her breasts like a crude bra. As the rope passes she fondles the girl through the damp Lycra leotard and tights. Regan is terrified. The Instructor sniffs her, coos and comments on how beautiful she is. She then takes a long length of rope and wraps it around the r girl's waist, then slips it between her legs, right between the lips of her vagina, her crotch covered with that damp, tight Lycra, then between the cheeks of her ass till it's pulled tight enough to hurt. Regan moans, and tries to beg through the ball-gag. But this is only the beginning. Ms. M. continues to play with her, tying her into ever more uncomfortable positions: strappados, hogties, ball-ties. M. plays with her own pussy through her tight unitard as she watches the girl struggle and beg through the ball-gag. She tastes the sweat dripping off Regan’s forehead, she touches the girl’s pussy and strokes her legs. When Regan begins t