Apologies if this story stops before the juiciest bits, but for me the fall is the thing that always got me. Where you land was never what hooked me, and I always filled in the blanks post fall with whatever my body craved at that moment, but the HUNGER came from being captured by the seduction I got caught up in.
The days before the Covid 19 lockdown had a few things that most people got excited about. Restaurants, bars, dance clubs. Those were never my thing. I was the suburban soccer mom when I wasn't teaching, only my girls did dance not soccer. My social world was fund raisers and supporting competition trips. The dance moms were a diverse group, but the serious ones were eventually convinced to form our own dance group and one of the instructors, Enna, decided the way to get around our mix of backgrounds was to avoid any of the usual styles of ballet, jazz, tap, and go with what she described as musical theater. Well she was half right. Turns out as a dance teacher who is careful about not sexualizing her students there are a bunch of creative urges that get sidelined with her girls. Given their mothers instead, the urge to let her own hair down (as she joined and led us onstage) was a bit too strong to resist.
Musical theater in her terms looked a lot like Burlesque.
Enna stood about five seven, long auburn hair darker than my own red. Her breasts were a surprisingly firm B cup, probably from all the dance keeping her core so damned toned. She didn't run scared from the baked goods counter so her stomach was not washboard flat, but added just another damned curve. She habitually wore dance tights like her students, but her ass filling out a little bit just screamed WOMAN while those long legs of hers were an invitation to sin. I hated her most for her ankles. I am about her height, but my ankles look like I should power lift, hers look like someone should be out looking for her glass slipper and lost prince.
We danced a number that one of the mothers came from Showgirls. I had the most background in dance, and because of a combination of years wearing the wrong bra and my breasts not going down after breast feeding, my 48G had left me with the choices of keeping fanatical about my own core strength or live in constant back spasm (so yes girls, pay for the right bra. Just because you can make it close, did not make it fit). In the middle of the number we come together and as Enna puts it, throw a little heat. I am no where near in enough practice to spin or go into lunges like that without running a really good chance of face planting on the stage. Enna got me to risk a lot going beyond my limits because she would be there. She really was "all that" as a dance teacher. Her hands were there to direct me, control me, keep me from face planting and making it look like I knew what I was doing.
She told me not to think, to just give her my body and she would make me perform.
I was THE most conservative of the dance moms, everyone else was totally willing to camp out to the max, where I had to be dragged kicking and if not screaming, then at least whimpering, but every single practice I would come away glowing. I felt SEXY. I felt pretty. On another level I felt really disturbed because when Enna was dancing with me, when she looked at me, into me, I could deny her nothing. She knew it, revelled in it. I revelled in that. When we stopped, her eyes would turn to the perky twinkling normal that let me free. I don't know if I was thankful, or disappointed to be freed from that gaze.
Fund raising, volunteering, networking is one of those things that spills over into everything. In my case, I like to cook, I like scented candles, so in order to afford the neat stuff I wanted, I got into the "party circuit". Stoneware, Tupperware, party-lite candles, that sort of thing. Most of the women were good sports about it, and I was enthusiastic about the stuff I used, so my parties went well as a rule. We drank a lot of wine, spent a lot of our discretionary money and I got what I needed for all the bake sales I would be doing anyway, and enough scented candles to keep me from being depressed through the long months of winter where outside meant shovelling at least an hour a day to keep the various vehicles able to make it to the plowed road.
I had got Enna to come to my candle party, and she had dropped enough money that I got to the third tier of hostess gifts (yes multi level marketing sucks you in for trinkets, but it was the trinket I really wanted so no regrets). She had one odd request, she needed an assistant for demonstration at a party for her own stuff, "sort of like Tupperware, but more exciting", and would come to my party if I would volunteer for hers.
Always a sucker for other cool things. Suburban sucker-mom! Besides, she turned "those" eyes on me, and I got all tingly and found myself agreeing.
She picked me up in her Barbie Jeep. I mean it's a no shit pink Jeep with a Barbie sticker on the spare tire holder. Enna has the confidence to carry that off, even if I am the one with the Barbie Boobs that draws the jokes. As we got in to go the party, I finally asked her the question she promised she would answer fully on the way to the party. Every time I asked what kind of party it was she would either say "its complicated" or "like Tupperwear, only better".
I bucked up and gushed "So tell me Enna, what IS the party?"
Enna turned the rear view mirror so she could watch my face as she answered. Her voice was matter of fact, with a sort of languid almost bored quality that made her sound so sophisticated and me feel every inch the sheltered suburbanite (although calling us a suburb was really just claiming to be less hicks than the surrounding farms).
"It's a Fetishwear party. Not Tupperwear, schtupperwear."
I blushed. Enna's hair may or may not be naturally that deep auburn, but my rust/copper top is natural and I am easy for her and some of the more sophisticated dance moms to light up like a pink glow bulb with an off colour remark. I was brighter than the dash lights.
