WARNING:
This is an adult story, containing sensitive material of a sexual nature, including graphic descriptions of consensual, "vanilla" sex. If you find such material offensive or are underage, do not read further, but please bypass this story for one more suitable for you.
This is a work of fiction: it never happened. The young girl in the story doesn't exist, but the descriptions reflect fantasies concerning people I have known. This story is written for enjoyment and entertainment purposes only, and no commercial profit is expected to be made from it. It may be copied for personal use or for posting on other sites, provided the sites are free sites . . . it may NOT be posted on any site that requires a "membership fee" of any kind. Posting is permitted on sites where 'adult verification services' are used, provided they only cost a few dollars a year for access to many sites, (the way Adultcheck used to be), but posting is prohibited on any "Adultcheck Gold" site, which requires much more money.
Perhaps this story should be classified as a 'novella'. It is not simply a two page 'fuck-'em and forget-'em' story, but makes an attempt to create a mood and to develop some of the characters, and possibly even (gasp) have a bit of a plot.
Birth control is used in this story, because in 'real life' every reasonable adult should know that he or she should behave responsibly when participating in sexual activities and he or she wishes to avoid unwanted conception and the spread of disease.
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Chapter 1. Sari’s problem.
With some satisfaction, the Amonasro-Aida duet came to its incomplete end, and I paused to lean back from the keyboard of my piano and to take a breather before Radames made his entrance. I stood, flexing my fingers and stretching my back, then went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Practicing an operatic score on the piano for six to eight hours a day was tiring, but much of the score to AIDA was gradually 'working it's way into my fingers'.
I looked out of the living room window at the crowds swirling along Eight Street below. Early Saturday evening in Greenwich Village always provided a pleasant spectacle as tourists, natives, artists, and bums all rubbed shoulders on the busy sidewalks below. Summer was rapidly approaching and the warmth of today would quickly become tomorrow's oven. I would have to leave the window open then, and out of respect for my neighbors, I might not be able to spend so many hours practicing with the window open.
The pangs in my stomach reminded me that it was suppertime.
There was a tap at the door. It must be Sari (She pronounced it "Shah' - ree") I reflected. She always waited until I had paused in my playing before she would timidly tap on the door. I checked through the peephole before opening the door and greeting her with a big smile.
"I picked up some Chinese," she explained, holding up a brown paper bag. "Are you hungry?"
"Ummmmmm, I sure am," I responded, inviting her in. Passing by me, I caught the scent of fresh soap, shampoo, and - - - Channel No. 5? Soap and Shampoo I could understand, but somehow she always seemed too innocent for things like Channel perfume. She took the bag directly to the table. To my surprise, she had a bottle of wine also. As I closed and locked the door behind her, she went to the cupboard for plates, spoons and chopsticks. She looked in other cupboards while I began unpacking the containers of Chinese food.
"You have some wine glasses, don't you?"
"Yes, to the left of the sink." I pointed, and a moment later she returned and set the table. Like many dancers, she wore tights and a loose sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail.
While I poured the wine (I noticed it was a better vintage than I usually purchase), she sat and removed the rubber band allowing her hair to fall loosely over her shoulders. We ate quietly. She was in a pensive mood tonight and ate lightly.
I was surprised as Sari swallowed the last of her wine and refilled her glass. It was unusual for her to have more than half a glass of wine and I had never seen her take a second glass before.
"Frau Schmidt talked to me today," she said, taking her glass and moving to the sofa in the living room.
"Umm-mmm," I responded, sitting on the other end of the sofa.
"They're setting up the cast for the NUTCRACKER benefit in August. Frau Schmidt said I am being considered for the BALLERINA DOLL role."
"Is that the one where the girl . . . ." Unable to phrase it properly, I twirled my index finger in the air as if I were using it to stir a cup of coffee. Sari nodded.
"Yep!" she smiled smugly. "I get to do forty-two pirouettes without a break."
I reflected for a moment. "Is - - - - ummmm - - - - Who will be directing the production?"
She looked at me and didn't answer. There was such a sad look in her eyes.
"Is it - - - - HIM - - -?"
Sari nodded and her head drooped.
We were referring to a man who had been a star at the ballet company with every expectation of becoming one of the greatest dancers of all time. But a few years ago, he was in an accident and sustained injuries prevented him from ever dancing again. Now he walked with a cane, and directed ballets for the company. He was a brilliant, if cynical, choreographer. It would be an excellent career move for Sari to dance under his direction. But it was also rumored that he had a taste for young dancers, and liked give chorus girls a special private 'audition' before he promoted them to featured roles.
Seeing her dejection, I became uncomfortable and started squirming in my chair. "Is he - - -", I fumbled. "Does he want - - -"
I shouldn't even be thinking about asking this!
"Are you going to have to audition for him privately?" I finally asked, unable to think of a more delicate way of phrasing my question.
"Frau Schmidt said he would probably want to see me early next week, and I should be prepared."
"Look," I began. "I know there are rumors about him, but you don't KNOW whether or not they are true. Maybe the rumors are all overblown and maybe he's a really decent person who casts his productions based on dancers dancing abilities. Maybe the other rumors simply aren't true."
"Maybe," Sari admitted, "but Frau Schmidt asked me if I was a virgin."
My eyes widened.
"I don't think she likes what he does. But there's nothing she can do about it."
"What did you tell her?" I asked astonished.
"I didn't answer her. She said she hoped I wasn't, because it would be easer on me if I weren't." I tear rolled down her cheek and she began to tremble. I moved next to her and put my arm around her, and she hugged me, pressing her face into my shoulder and began crying. This should have been one of the most glorious celebrations of her young life, but here she was, crying in my arms. I held her as her shoulders shook and her tears spent themselves. Soon the paroxysms passed, and she pulled a tissue from a box on the end table to dry her eyes and blow her nose.
"I guess I should have expected it,' she reflected. "There are always stories around about 'the casting couch'. I always thought they were exaggerations. Apparently in this case, they are not." She began to weep again, and I held her until her tears spent themselves.
Chapter 2 - "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Gradually she recomposed herself and moved away from me to get another tissue. I didn't know what to say. Finally I posed the standard question.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Again, her head dropped, almost as if I had struck her. I saw her lips tighten and she examined the tissue in her hand. Then, making a resolution, she straightened her back looking forward. She looked like a dancer again.
"Yes, there is," she responded. "That is, if you are willing."
"Anything!" I assured her. She looked at me and gave me an appreciative smile.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I had known Sari for a little less than a year, ever since she had moved into my apartment building. She had been accepted in the apprenticeship program at a major ballet company in town. She lived and dreamed of the ballet. She had been the only 'apprentice' who had graduated to the chorus when the apprenticeship program ended, and this would be her first opportunity to move out of the chorus and into an actual role. It would mean her name would appear in the program and if she did well, she might start moving to bigger roles.
I had helped her move boxes into her apartment when she first arrived and we had became good, if casual, friends during the past year. The first thing I noticed about her was her radiant smile, which she gave occasionally. She had introduced me to her parents when they were in town.
She didn't own a TV set, so if there was a ballet on TV, she would ask if she could watch it on mine, and we would generally enjoy the show together. Sometimes we would have dinner together, usually takeout or Chinese, and for her birthday, I had bought two tickets to the ballet. When I asked her to go to the ballet with me, she had been so excited she had thrown her arms around me and kissed my cheek. Then suddenly self conscious, she had backed off. That had been the only time she had kissed me.
Once or twice a week, we would spend an hour or so together just talking, maybe sipping a glass of wine. We had shared our adventures and disappointments with each other, and I really enjoyed her company. We each had a key to the other's apartment, for emergency use, but she had never used my key and I had only used her key once. Romance had never entered the picture, although our relationship generally included a ‘goodnight hug’ at the end of an evening. And, to be sure, I had had a few fantasies about her glorious smile and her tight dancer's body.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Sari discarded the tissue and took a new one, which she began twisting in her hand. "I've been in this city for almost a year," she began. "My whole life has been the ballet. It's my dream, and I hope my destiny. As you know, a dancer's life expectancy is only about ten years . . . and a dancer has to take whatever opportunities she
can to move ahead."
I was uncomfortable. It sounded like she was planning to go to bed with the director, and possibly try to sleep her way to the top if she could. Somehow, this seemed absolutely foreign to the morality of the girl that I knew.
