Those Ocean Eyes

Chapter 1

Rachel still doesn't know what she did to provoke Cassandra July's wrath, but as soon as she walks into the dance studio, those icy blue eyes lock on her like a heat-seeking missile.

"Lose the leg-warmers, Schwimmer - unless you want me to start calling you 'Stumpy' instead?"

Rachel bites her lip, knowing it's not wise to react to her instructor's maddening smirk. She usually relishes being the centre of attention, but now she's desperate to slip under the radar. She's tried every tactic she can think of to win this woman over – appealing to her better nature (apparently, she doesn't have one), standing her ground in the face of endless criticism, even playing Miss July at her own game, but her teacher still maps her every move with an expression that vacillates between amusement and disdain. Rachel has always strived to be the best, but right now, she'd settle for the barest hint of approval.

She hastily kicks off her leg-warmers, and then scurries to the nearest corner to start her warm-up routine, trying her best to appear impervious to the weight of her instructor's reproachful gaze. It's bad enough when Miss July watches her from afar, but when she closes the distance between them, Rachel's heart skitters inside her chest and her stomach starts performing the kind of acrobatic feats her body will never be capable of.

She self-consciously undertakes her usual set of stretches, and then eases herself into the side splits, feeling her groin wrench with the strain.

"Schwimmer, it's not a split if there's a gigantic god-damn gap between your pelvis and the floor."

Miss July's tone is scathing, and Rachel stifles a gasp when her instructor illustrates her point by wedging a perfectly polished shoe between her legs, flexing her toes against Rachel's crotch, which is hovering barely an inch above the floor.

Blushing furiously, Rachel scrambles to her feet, and her hands feel clammy as she assumes a white-knuckled grip on the barre. She fumbles her way into third position, and tries not to shiver when Miss July reaches for her hips, correcting her posture.

"Class has barely started and you seem awfully... hot and bothered, Schwimmer. Is there a problem?"

Rachel stares dumbly at her teacher, trying to think of an adequate response.

"I'm fine," she says weakly, through gritted teeth. She lowers her foot from the barre, which is set just above waist-height, and then makes a show of wrapping her hand around her calf and extending her leg until her toes are nearly touching her forehead.

"Better," Miss July concedes, although she seems to find the grimace on Rachel's face more than a little satisfying, "But you should really consider investing in some cod liver oil for those decrepit joints of yours. It's like WD-40 for the flexibly-challenged."

She's standing so close, Rachel can feel the warmth of her teacher's breath against the back of her neck, and even the faint whiff of rum can't eclipse the alluring scent of her perfume. Miss July radiates sensuality; from the way she saunters across the studio wielding her cane like a whip, to her risqué choice of leotards, to how she compels the room's attention with a wave of her hand.

Now, she's circling Rachel with all the feral grace of a cougar waiting to pounce on its prey, and this is why Rachel finds it impossible to concentrate in class; why she forgets the steps to routines that she's spent days perfecting. Miss July's proximity is unnerving, and exhilarating, and Rachel doesn't know if she's terrified or turned on.

She dares to meet her teacher's mocking gaze, and suddenly she's floundering, hopping on the spot and blindly reaching for the barre.

Miss July snorts derisively. "Looks like balance isn't your strong suit, either." She points to the floor. "Sit down."

"W-what?" Rachel stammers, and she hates that she sounds every bit as apprehensive as she feels.

Miss July heaves an aggrieved sigh. "Park your perky little ass on the floor, Schwimmer. Now."

Rachel does as she's told, and her eyes widen a little when Miss July reaches out to grasp her foot.

"Lie back and straighten your legs," she commands unceremoniously, and Rachel licks her lips, casting a furtive glance at her classmates, who seem only half-interested in her ritual humiliation.

Reluctantly, she obliges, and she stifles a whimper when Miss July's hand comes to rest against her bare shin.

"Mmm, smooth," she observes, running her fingertips over Rachel's leg with an insidious smile, "Thank God for wax, huh? Otherwise you'd probably look like Sasquatch."

Rachel bites the inside of her cheek, because sometimes the sheer joy this woman takes in taunting her is almost comical.

"Holler if it hurts," Miss July informs her with an unrepentant wink, right before she guides Rachel's left leg towards the ceiling and then pushes it back towards her body. She anchors Rachel's heel against her shoulder, moving closer for better leverage, and Rachel tries not to moan as her teacher settles between her thighs. She knows it isn't perspiration that's dampening her leotard, and she sends up a silent prayer that Miss July won't notice the way her muscles tense reflexively, or the hitch in her breath.

Miss July grasps her knee, forcing it to remain perfectly straight as she uses her body weight to hyper-extend Rachel's leg, pushing it well beyond its natural limitations. Rachel feels a tugging sensation that runs from her calf to her hamstring, but the discomfort is negligible compared to the intoxicating rush that comes from being this close to her dance instructor. For a moment, they're breathing the same air, and Rachel's leg is sandwiched against Miss July's chest, which seems to be rising and falling a lot more rapidly than usual.

"Just say when," Miss July rasps, finally pulling back so she can switch legs. Rachel's eyes dart towards her teacher's face, and she sees a mixture of arousal and amusement in her unapologetic gaze. They resume their earlier position, and Rachel forces herself not to shy away from the challenge in her teacher's eyes, because she knows Miss July gets off on this; that she relishes every second of toying with her emotions and, apparently, her libido. Rachel's done with being the blushing schoolgirl, though, and she isn't about to cry 'Uncle.'

"Push as hard as you want," she says, levelling her teacher with a defiant smile, "I can take it."

Miss July looks taken aback for a moment, but then she starts to laugh.

"Careful what you wish for, Schwimmer."

Rachel can't stop her eyelids from fluttering shut when Miss July's fingernails pointedly rake over her inner thigh, but when she opens them again, her instructor is looming over her, holding out her hand. Rachel hesitates before reaching out to take it, half-expecting Miss July to relinquish her grip and send her sprawling back to the floor. Surprisingly, though, she doesn't. Rachel watches her instructor's biceps flex as she hauls her to her feet, and finds herself more than a little enamoured by her effortless display of strength.

Rachel can tell from the knowing smirk on Miss July's face that she's been caught staring – again – and she knows she has to stop giving her this kind of ammunition. If she's completely honest with herself, though, a twisted part of her is starting to enjoy seeing that predatory twinkle in her teacher's eyes.