For the moment this is the final installment of Charlottesville High School. If the inspiration moves me and time allows, I made add on to it. As always, any of your thoughts, suggestions, or observations are welcome.
All story characters involved in sexual activities are 18 years of age or older.
* * * *
This was not a good day for me to spend time with Marisa Pappan's art. Her work was passionate and powerful, even the non-erotic stuff was erotic, and I was already a walking bundle of sexual energy. Amy, my son's girlfriend, was dancing the adagio from Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade as the finale of her ballet school's senior recital. Amy was good; not, as I had been, professional material, but good. On the other hand Robert Jones, her partner in the dance, couldn't wait until it was over. He'd grown to detest ballet, an activity his overbearing mother had foisted on him. He had no interest in rehearsing and Amy wanted to do a first rate job; this might be the biggest stage on which she'd ever perform. She'd prevailed on me to practice with her.
The problem? Scheherazade is the most sensual ballet there is. A little background might help you understand my situation.
I'd been a prodigy, moving from Charlottesville to New York in my teens to be tutored by Samuel Johnson, among the best teachers and most powerful figures in ballet. He and I would practice for hours, I'd become wildly aroused - the passion of my dancing was among its most striking attributes - and we ended up in bed. I was naive, knew little about birth control, and expected this older wiser man to let me know what to do. He didn't; I got pregnant. He wanted me to abort the child; I decided to keep it.
He fulfilled his financial obligations to me and the child, but no others. Thin and having health problems, I had to leave school during the third trimester. When I reapplied I was turned down. I was also rejected by the other leading schools. Sam Johnson wanted no reminder of his indiscretion; I'd been black-balled.
That's when Florence Henson called. She'd been a celebrated dancer; now she was a persistent critic of the ballet establishment. She'd heard what happened and offered to teach me. We danced together, we fell in love, and while I made great strides, I still couldn't find a spot with any of the leading companies. Sam Johnson's influence was simply too great.
Then I was summoned by Beverly Clearly, every bit as important and even more imperious than Sam Johnson. She told me with my ability and her connections she could get me a position with the New York Ballet, but there was a condition: I could not longer work with Florence, whom Beverly detested. My ambition won out over my heart. I accepted her offer, then took the coward's way out, telling Florence over dinner at a crowded restaurant, pretending we would survive my betrayal, knowing we wouldn't, and sacrificing the only true love affair of my life
I was with the New York Ballet, at the top of the food chain and, for the first time since I'd moved to New York, unattached. It was a wild time. My dancing kept me in a constant state of arousal; I was surrounded by beautiful people unabashedly celebrating their physicality. I became a sexual carnivore: women, men, groups, a mother and daughter, a father and son. I had them all. And then, during my second year with the Ballet, I shredded my knee; I'd never dance at this level again. I was yesterday's news.
I returned to Virginia, went to college, now I was the Assistant Principal at Charlottesville High. Since leaving New York I had some pleasant long term dating relationships with perfectly decent men who did most everything for me but make love the way I craved. I also had a few short term crazy flings with wholly unreliable younger guys or married men who screwed me silly, but even then, it'd been awhile.
And now every day I was dancing with my son's girlfriend. And if I haven't been clear, dancing arouses me, it wildly arouses me. Amy was beautiful; Amy was sensual, and while they were discreet, it was clear she and my son had an active happy sex life - yes, we'd had the birth control discussion. I also suspected that dancing turned her on as much as it did me; I could feel it whenever her body moved against mine. I was a walking mass of concupiscent desire. No, Marisa's art was definitely not what I needed to see right before heading home to dance with Amy. Thank god, I thought, the recital was only two days away. Thank god for my dildo, vibrator, and butt plug.
* * * *
I got home, considered bringing myself off, but there wasn't be time. I had just changed into a two piece black leotard when Amy rang the bell. I opened the door. Amy was dressed as I; it was, in fact, like looking at a picture of my eighteen year old self.
People constantly commented on our resemblance. I was five feet tall, she four feet eleven inches. We were both slight of build, had dark skin, round faces, small features, olive eyes, and dark brown, almost black, straight hair. Hers, as had mine in my teenaged years, cascaded past her shoulders; I now trimmed mine to shoulder length.
She gave me a hug and thanked me for the thousandth time for working with her. We planned the routine, then stretched. I was stiff; I had danced more in the last couple of weeks than I had in years. Happily, tomorrow would be our final rehearsal, then I could give my body some time off.
Scheherazade is unapologetically sensual; to dance it properly you have to embrace those feelings in yourself. I was dancing King Shahryar, Amy Scheherazade, and I quickly lost myself in the role, imagining myself intertwined, falling in love with the sensual slave-girl Scheherazade. We danced; I held her body to mine, ran my hands across her frame. We straddled each other, pressed our bodies together. I pulled her face to mine, our lips brushed in a kiss. I felt the warmth of her skin. I'd started the dance turned on and, minute by minute, it grew ever more intense. Then my attention wavered for a second - I thought about the vibrator waiting in my bedroom - and didn't plant my foot properly. There was a slight cramp in my leg. Amy noticed, but I kept dancing and she did also. We finished a few minutes later.
Amy hugged me and in a voice filled with genuine concern said, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, felt a little twinge in my calf. Just a cramp. It happens sometimes."
She gestured to the couch. "Why don't you sit down. I'll get some water."
She returned, handed me a bottle of water, sat on the end of the couch, moved my leg onto her lap, ran her fingertips along it, applied pressure, palpitated the muscle.
"I'm so sorry; I feel terrible."
"Don't blame yourself, its not your fault. It happens sometimes, I still favor the knee. That old ballet injury still haunts me."
"Yeah, that must have been so horrible, you were so good."
Her voice was certain; it wasn't an empty compliment. But Amy had never seen me dance.
"Thanks, but you were in diapers."
She had that look on her face, like yep, I goofed. "You gotta promise not to tell."
"Okay."
Bart and I have been looking for videos of you dancing. It's taken some doing, but we found some. We've watched them together. You were magnificent. We're having them transferred to a disc to give you for Christmas."
I was genuinely touched, and curious. I had not watched myself in years
"I had no idea, that is so kind."
She made a face.
I said, "Don't worry; I'll keep the secret and act totally surprised."
Her fingers kept working my leg. When I started to tell her she didn't need to do this, she shushed me, said she wanted to help, that she felt responsible. And she knew what she was doing. She found the right spots and worked on the knots with surprisingly strong fingers.
"Feels so good."
"Thank you, it helps having a Dad who's a physical therapist."
We grew quiet. I focused on her hands. The remnants of the cramp disappeared, she worked my leg for another minute or two. I knew she and my son were sexually active and thought lucky boy, this young lady knows how to touch. I closed my eyes, was breathing rhythmically, when she stopped - it seemed abrupt - and said, "How do you feel?"
Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I stretched, then flexed my leg. "You're amazing, all better."
"Thanks, but you're the amazing one. You've given me so much of your time. And about what I said earlier, I mean you're still a wonderful dancer. Still, when I watch the videos of you before the injury it makes me sad to think how your career was cut short, how the world was deprived of your talent."
I teased. "Thank you dear. It warms the heart of an old lady to hear she's admired by the young."
She laughed and in a conspiratorial tone said, "Would you like to see one of them?"
I checked the clock. While I still had an appointment with my vibrator, Bart would not be home for several hours; the administrative work I'd brought with me could wait.
"Sure."
I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine for me, one of water for her, and joined Amy in the entertainment room. She loaded the video into our home system, fiddled with the remote, and there I was, at her age, dancing Swan Lake, the quality of the video surprisingly good.
She sat next to me, cuddling against my side, holding my leg across her lap, softly kneading where the cramp had been. After our dancing the physical intimacy seemed natural; I draped an arm across her shoulder and watched the screen in utter fascination, traveling back in time. People were right; I'd looked just like Amy at that age and the longer I watched the more I recalled, re-lived might be more accurate, my joy in the dance, the way it pushed me to the edge of my capability, how my body became a finely tuned instrument, how I attained an emotional euphoria, became a vibrating mass of sexual energy.
It ended and I looked at Amy. It had had much the same effect on her as it had on me. Her pupils were dilated, her skin flushed, her mouth half open. I studied her face, compared it to the one on the screen: same shape, same small mouth and thin lips, same color eyes.
