Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery.
"The girls at the Royal Ballet Academy are downright scandalous. That one in the micro-skirt—it might as well be a belt."
"Get a shot of her! And check out the one in the sheer nightgown—is she even wearing anything underneath?"
I caught the photographer and his assistant whispering but didn't bother stopping them—just shot a disapproving glance at the barely dressed students.
Name's Sophia Laurent. Investigative journalist.
I was back at my alma mater because the Hooded Rapist case had gone completely off the rails, spawning insane urban legends.
The rumors were ridiculous, but somehow they'd gained traction.
The wildest one? That the city had a secret society called The Orchid Club—a bunch of rich elites who kidnapped beautiful women, locked them in a replica of The Scarlet Manor, and did God-knows-what to them before letting them go.
To calm the panic, the police brought in our news station to set the record straight.
Then, just hours ago, the Royal Ballet Academy's vice principal reported their star student, Emily Ashcroft, had vanished. Forty-eight hours, no trace.
They assigned me the story for one reason: before I became a reporter, I was the academy's golden girl. My connections here still meant something.
By the time I reached the dorms, two cops were already questioning Emily's roommates.
I motioned to my cameraman to start rolling while I scanned the room.
The newly renovated dorm had four bunk beds against opposite walls, each with a built-in desk and wardrobe. The balcony was a rainbow of drying laundry—including enough lace thongs and sheer bras to stock a Victoria's Secret.
"Those are all Emily's," a ponytailed girl muttered, face burning red.
"Mind if I check her things?"
I pointed to Emily's bed, where a duffel bag held her personal effects.
With a nod, I unzipped it—and immediately pulled out a pair of hot pink lingerie. On closer inspection? Crotchless.
"...Seriously?"
My cheeks flushed as the thong dangled from my fingers.
What kind of underwear was this even for?
Only one answer: bedroom games.
But records showed Emily didn't have a boyfriend.
Frowning, I dumped the bag. Beneath the stockings and more scandalous lingerie, I found birth control pills, a leather collar, a tail plug, and other... concerning items.
Then a Polaroid slipped out.
It showed Emily, completely naked, squeezed between two masked, ripped men.
"Get a shot of her! And check out the one in the sheer nightgown—is she even wearing anything underneath?"
I caught the photographer and his assistant whispering but didn't bother stopping them—just shot a disapproving glance at the barely dressed students.
Name's Sophia Laurent. Investigative journalist.
I was back at my alma mater because the Hooded Rapist case had gone completely off the rails, spawning insane urban legends.
The rumors were ridiculous, but somehow they'd gained traction.
The wildest one? That the city had a secret society called The Orchid Club—a bunch of rich elites who kidnapped beautiful women, locked them in a replica of The Scarlet Manor, and did God-knows-what to them before letting them go.
To calm the panic, the police brought in our news station to set the record straight.
Then, just hours ago, the Royal Ballet Academy's vice principal reported their star student, Emily Ashcroft, had vanished. Forty-eight hours, no trace.
They assigned me the story for one reason: before I became a reporter, I was the academy's golden girl. My connections here still meant something.
By the time I reached the dorms, two cops were already questioning Emily's roommates.
I motioned to my cameraman to start rolling while I scanned the room.
The newly renovated dorm had four bunk beds against opposite walls, each with a built-in desk and wardrobe. The balcony was a rainbow of drying laundry—including enough lace thongs and sheer bras to stock a Victoria's Secret.
"Those are all Emily's," a ponytailed girl muttered, face burning red.
"Mind if I check her things?"
I pointed to Emily's bed, where a duffel bag held her personal effects.
With a nod, I unzipped it—and immediately pulled out a pair of hot pink lingerie. On closer inspection? Crotchless.
"...Seriously?"
My cheeks flushed as the thong dangled from my fingers.
What kind of underwear was this even for?
Only one answer: bedroom games.
But records showed Emily didn't have a boyfriend.
Frowning, I dumped the bag. Beneath the stockings and more scandalous lingerie, I found birth control pills, a leather collar, a tail plug, and other... concerning items.
Then a Polaroid slipped out.
It showed Emily, completely naked, squeezed between two masked, ripped men.
End of Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Ballerina’s Flesh Gallery book page.