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Subject: The Dancer (m.f)
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The following erotic short is designed for mature audiences and is not to be
read by persons under the age of eighteen.






The Dancer


	She was an exquisite dancer in every way:  lithe where the others were
stiff, she was capable of stretching her body into fluid shapes that never
failed to surprise a captive audience; elegant where the other girls were
cheesy or slutty, she made simple pirouettes seem like exotic fruits; focused
where the others were haphazard and arbitrary, she made use of every muscle
in her body; long and subtle, she capitalized effectively and economically on
the extension of her legs and arms; traditionally beautiful where the others
were made-up and painted and false, she moved inside her body with respect
and awe, surprising even herself some nights; and classic where the other
girls were sleazy, she never relied on thrusts and shakes when gesture and
suggestion promised more than exposed.  Naturally rhythmic, her dances
unfolded like mini-epics, simultaneously complex and straight forward,
compact and complete in ways that only the religious understand.  And
naturally good at her job, she suffered resentment and jealousy from the
other dancers:  she made more tips, she gathered more clientele, she turned
down more invitations for private shows than the others combined could hope
to brag about.
	Unlike her colleagues, Stephanie danced for the near religious artistic
rush, not expressly for the money, though of course she never complained
about the latter.  In high school, she had been on the gymnastics team, on
the diving team, and had even tried out her Freshman year for the drama club,
knowing ahead of time that they did at least two musicals every year; but
where she excelled in the former, she simply did not fit in with the largely
superficial gregariousness the drama club demanded.  In college, she gave
brief thoughts to being a dance major, and though she did enjoy the few
classes she took, Stephanie discovered sadly that modern dance, though often
bold and challenging, did not offer the release she needed – a release which
she scarcely understood then but which with time she began to crave more and
more, until, by the time she was "legal," it had become a full blown hunger,
an emptiness that needed fulfillment, not quick fixes.
	It was by circumstance alone that her first experience with exotic dancing
came about.  She and Gina had been carousing for a few hours with several
guys one Friday night, hopping from one bar to another, clubbing in that time
tested ritual of American youth, when Armando suggested that they all go to
the Twilight Club.  Although they were not a true couple by technical
standards. Stephanie and Armando had nonetheless pushed friendly flirting to
outrageous heights, exchanging blue language, smoldering gazes and the
occasional grope in public – enough to make others assume they had
consummated something, even though they took great pains to point out that
they were not an item.  That Friday night, in fact, quite inebriated and
friendly, Armando had twice squeezed Stephanie’s breast in front of the
others, making everyone present ooh and ah, their jokes rolling out freely.
 But Gina had heard stories about the Twilight Club, she knew what kind of
place it was, and she wasn’t about to be dragged out to the edge of town to
watch half-naked girls bump and grind for a roomful of drunken men with
hard-ons.  Just tipsy enough, just curious and drunk enough, Stephanie
expressed interest, even went so far as to say she wanted to see for herself
what "those kinds of places" were all about, why men seemed to be so fond of
them.  Gina tried to talk her friend out of it, even pleaded with her not to
go, arguing that she didn’t know what she was getting herself into, but
Stephanie had made up her mind and would not hear the protests.  In the end,
Gina bowed out, and Stephanie found herself walking into the Twilight Club
accompanied by four very drunk and very excited men, Armando in her arm.  
	There was nothing special about the Twilight club; if anything, it embraced
every stereotype of a sleazy strip club, right down to the throbbing music,
the dark and dangerous atmosphere, and the general feel of dirtiness that
pervaded the place.  Still, something heavy and urgent clicked in her that
first night, and by the third vodka and tonic, as she watched the seventh or
eighth topless dancer grinding her pelvis into the center poll and  pulling
on her impossibly long nipples, Stephanie felt what could only be described
as her first visual orgasm.  Her eyes glazed over, her lids fell heavily, she
stretched her neck slightly, and let out a low, hardly audible whimper, a
gesture that would not have been noticed at all if Armando had not had his
arm around her and a hand on her thigh, just above the knee.  He leaned over
and said into her ear, "What’s wrong?"  Stephanie threw her eyes open and
nearly gasped, for during the time she had had her eyes closed, the Twilight
Club had somehow magically transformed itself into a kind of temple – a
foreboding erotic holy place where men and women alike came to worship the
female body, that representation of all mysteries, all uncertainties.  Of
course, the Twilight Club remained exactly what it was:  a dark, smoky strip
joint; but, for Stephanie, something had changed for good, something
irrepressible.
	On the drive home, Stephanie sat between Armando and Gregory in the back
seat.  They were all drunk now, especially the driver, and the drive back to
campus became a long, harrowing affair.  Save for Armando, who spoke only
when he was directly addressed and then only responded in monosyllables, the
guys were all chatter, talking in that incessantly juvenile fashion only
young men can perfect.  Once, after the car swerved and nearly drove headlong
into a ditch, Stephanie grabbed hold of Armando’s hand and placed it directly
over her crotch, an action that carried so much improvisational force and
come-what-may playfulness that sparks of erotic energy flew freely between
the two of them.  Stephanie knew she was wet and suspected that, even through
her jeans, Armando could tell how excited she was.  The car grew strangely
quiet then, as if they all sensed something frightening and sticky were
taking place.  Not once over the next fifteen minutes did Armando make a move
to pull his had away from her crotch.  
	Amazingly, they made it back alive.  Without needing any further invitation,
Armando announced to the others that he was walking Stephanie home and that
he would see them tomorrow.  Stephanie offered no resistance, and the two
walked across the parking lot together, holding on to one another for dear
life.
	Back at Stephanie’s apartment, Armando sat on the bed, his head and body
reeling from the curious mixture of excitement, drunkenness and charged
hormones.  He did not know what to expect, and Stephanie hadn’t said a word
in well over an hour.  She retrieved a couple of beers from the fridge and
walked back into the bedroom with the most serious look on her face that
Armando had ever witnessed:  clearly, she had a plan.  Armando sat back
against the wall.
	Putting on a jazz CD, Stephanie began a dance that was amazing both for its
boldness and its startling grace:  not five minutes ago, she had stumbled as
she walked, her legs slurred, but now she moved with the elegant composure of
a ballerina.  She did not strip as much as she transformed from a beautiful,
normal coed into an erotic icon of everything sexual in the universe.  Quite
unlike the dancers they had watched earlier, Stephanie intensified her dance
once her clothes were removed, stating clearly with her body that the nudity
was not an end in itself but an introduction to deeper meanings.  She did
thrust, she did not rock her pelvis, she did not bump her hips against the
air, and she did not rely on the thousands of other typical exotic dancer
tricks:  instead, she dramatically  stripped herself of all inhibitions, one
by one.  During the silences between songs on the CD, she paused mid-air,
frozen like a still life, a statue of feminine nubility, regardless of the
pose she struck.  Once, she stood for a full minute with her left leg spread
a full two feet above the ground, and Armando could see no evidence of
twitching or muscle strain.  
Her dance lasted for thirty minutes, and by the end her body was enveloped in
a sheen of sweat, glistening under the dim lights of the room.  Initially,
Armando found it impossible to look her straight in the eye, and when
Stephanie gaze straight into him, he simply turned away, afraid perhaps of
betraying his less than noble thoughts; yet, when Stephanie did not ease up
on him and in fact made arrows out of her stares into his eyes, Armando at
last reciprocated, tossing off caution and inhibition alike, letting her know
the effect this was having on him.  The experience was intensely erotic,
indescribably sexual, and half way through, Armando could take the tension no
further:  he unzipped his pants, pushed them off, and began stroking his
penis, staring directly into her eyes as he did so.  Stephanie did not lose a
beat; if anything, she flashed at the new development.  She liked what she
saw, too.  Armando’s cock was exquisitely hard, perfectly symmetrical and
beautiful, everything she had hoped, and she was overjoyed to be the cause of
his excitement.  During the last song, Stephanie worked her body into a tense
muscular marvel, increasing her physical exertion until she felt she might
pass out from the intensity of her dancing.  And during this last round of
exercise, Armando increased his own dance, working himself into a furious
tension.  Finally, Stephanie stepped into his body so that her sex hovered
directly in front of him, so that he could breathe in her swampy aroma, so
that he could touch her if he chose.  In a loud grunt, Armando climaxed
powerfully, letting loose an uncontrollable series of paroxysms:  his release
copious, lengthy and violent.  Sperm landed against her sex, her thighs, his
chest, his hand and balls.  For finale, Stephanie lowered herself to him and
licked his come from his body, breathing hungrily as she did so, spending a
good few minutes on his balls and his shaft.  And when she was finished, she
collapsed on the floor in front of him, burying her face in his lap, her body
limp and exhausted, and the both of them passed out.
	It was the animal purity of that maiden dance, the excruciating precision,
the mysterious accuracy in her movements that helped Stephanie to make the
decision:  she was a dancer now, and the rest of her life would be
religiously devoted to study.  She desired to free the genius inside of her,
to learn not only the craft but the art form total, the spiritual and the
intellectual aspects of the dance that unleashed the secret desires and the
terminal needs of what it means to be a sexual human being.  And if she often
found her business to be sleazy, occasionally degrading and periodically
against the laws in some states, she always reminded herself that there was
the dance first and foremost:  inside that zone, she could be entirely free.

The End
	

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