Monica's dance was performed with the gracefulness of someone who had taken ballet and gymnastics for years. Every subtle sway to the left was an art form; every movement to the left a sonnet. Her thin frame, if she moved the wrong way, could have snapped in two. But Monica had danced this dance for me numerous times. Every choreographed pose was memorized.
This dance was special.
For three years Monica and I had dated and she knew practically everything about me. She knew what turned me on, and her dance routine was a combination of sexuality and her love for me. In just under three days we would be getting married, and it seemed as if this would be the last chance for her to perform the dance as my fiancee.
She had turned on some sexy classical music; for some reason, she got turned on when she danced to this piece. She told me when the cymbals crashed, she felt it deep in her pussy; when the horns reached a crescendo, her nipples would harden.
Monica's dance had different costumes every time, and the next time always proved to be better than the last. A lacy veil shielded her nose and her lips, a simple bustier made of soft velvet held her breasts, her flat belly was bare except for her piercing, and around her upper legs was a sheer skirt tied to her left hip. As she spun around, I caught a wisp of her bikini panties. Her dance was stimulating to the eye, to the mind, to the soul; every time she performed this dance I was aroused in more ways than sexual.