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Subject: the Dancer (MF, solo)
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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 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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