The Dancer

In the interest of discretion, let the reader decide whether this story is a figment of my imagination, or whether the account really happened?

Fact or Fantasy? You decide. The truth shall remain an enigma.

*****

Once upon a time, in a faraway place, there was a Dancer, a ballerina, a leading ballerina, to be precise. She was approximately 30 years old, Caucasian, tall, standing at 5'11, lean, smallish breasts, 34B, dark hair, sophisticated, with sharp looks and features, and flashing sapphire blue eyes.

As those stereotyped by her profession, she walked with poise, owning the environment wherever she went.

The Dancer, dressed classically and conservatively in the stage and playhouse environment, with her long dark hair gathered and slicked back with simple elegant style. We met at a theatre after-party, her name was Rose, introduced to me by the stage manager.

At the time I was a director of a sales & marketing company, of Italian ancestry and looks, fairly tall at 5'11, medium build, lean, Caucasian, dark hair, green eyes, receding hairline and 40 years old.

She seemed to light up the room, even more so than the sparkle of her sapphire & diamond engagement ring, and the matching blue-white flash of her eyes. Eyes that held your gaze, eyes that never looked down.

I was immediately taken by her presence. I noticed her simple classic black clothing, offset by her Cartier watch. She wore the larger male, or gentleman's version, with confidence. There was no confusion as to her femininity, however. The scent of Angel swirled in close proximity around The Dancer.

I also noticed, however, that she seemed slightly distracted, her eyes switching direction regularly, surveying the room, like an eagle, taking up her insight of the guests. The Dancer chatted freely, and warmly, soon introducing me to her husband, Edward, as he approached with a drink for her.

He seemed very down to earth and dressed like a country laird, rather tatty in comparison to her classic style. I judged Edward to be in his early fifties. He reminded me of an absent-minded author, lost in his own thoughts.

Most noticeable were his pronounced limp and the weird gait as he walked, assisted by a walking stick. We chatted about that night's performance, and nothing of real importance, save the current political situation of that time.

My conclusion was that she leant towards liberal politics, whereas I was slightly conservative, having a similar political opinion to her husbands if truth be told.

Anyway, the evening drew to a close, and I needed to be on my way, though not wanting to say goodbye to The Dancer.

They decided to leave, and on parting, she asked for my business card.

Rose was to the point, "It's been most interesting meeting you, Steven. May I have your business card?"

A few weeks passed by, slowly, a week at a time, and I often thought about The Dancer.

Then one day it happened, out of the blue on a quiet evening at home, a text arrived, from The Dancer.

It read simply, "Hi Steven, we'd like to invite you over for drinks & snacks, this Thursday evening, 7 pm. Keen? Rose."

My reply was swift and sure, accepting the invitation politely, though wondering at the dynamic. I clearly found her attractive, our chemistry undeniable, yet it's said that two are good company, and three is a crowd.

On thinking the invite through again I came to the conclusion that they were obviously inviting a bunch of people over, and that there would be no dynamic or awkward situation.

Thursday duly arrived, and soon it was time to head to their home, a chance to meet with The Dancer.

I made sure to dress well, wearing a dark pair of Levi's jeans, a neat pale blue button up shirt, my dress Rolex, and a navy blazer.

They both greeted me warmly on arrival and welcomed me in. The Dancer was dressed in a laid back fashion, wearing sheer white Capri trousers and a wispy white cheesecloth shirt, her beautiful dark hair down, a waterfall of sensual curls.

I noticed that there were no other guests. Would this be awkward?

The Dancer soon went to the kitchen, her incredible body and presence leaving the room, leaving me with her husband, the scent of Angel in the air, while he prepared the drinks.

I noticed that there were no awkward moments or silences at all. They were very relaxed. He had an inner peace. He offered me whatever I wanted to drink, so I chose what they were having, smoky Jack Daniels, on 3 ice cubes, in a heavy crystal glass.

The Dancer soon arrived with lovely snacks, on crackers and toothpicks, the delicious savoury tastes of smoked salmon, olives, cream cheese, caviar, and asparagus.

Her husband then asked, "Steven, have you been wondering about my situation, my disability, my doddery walk, my limp?" I replied that, I had, in fact, wondered about his situation, and what had caused this.

He explained, while sipping his Jack Daniels on ice, that he'd been a senior person at the telecommunications company, and had suffered a very bad fall, falling off a microwave signal tower, and had barely survived. He added that this injury had affected many parts of his life, including his sensual life.

The Dancer listened with interest, keeping eye contact with him, nodding here and there, giving affirmation. She clearly loved him and doted on him.

Her hubby then asked me, "Steven, what do you think of her as a dancer, a ballerina?"

I then gushed, "I'd seen her dance in the ballet, she was clearly beautiful, she had rave reviews, and obviously very talented in her field!"

He replied by saying, "Honey, would you treat us? Would you do that? Show us your moves? Put some music on, some Tina Turner, and dance for us as we enjoy another drink and these lovely tasty snacks?"

The Dancer never hesitated, she found a Tina Turner CD, and within seconds was treating us to her sensual dance moves, one track after the other. She took turns, giving her hubby full attention on one track, and then me on the following track.

She had the ability to give her subject her undivided attention at that moment in time. She possessed a liquid sensual freedom, one that knew no limits, nor embarrassment.

Her final dance in the sequence was called Private Dancer, a sensual song about a dancer performing for a man. She danced this track for me, paying me undivided attention, her blue eyes flashing like lightning, her matching sapphire & diamond ring sparkling, with the scent of Angel all about me, going straight to my brain. My brain cells fizzed like champagne.

The Dancer disappeared towards her bedroom as soon as the final sounds of the song faded.

Her husband then prepared us another drink, and we sat down as before. My seat had a slotted view down the passage of their suburban townhouse, into their master bedroom, with the bedroom door slightly ajar.

I could see an interrupted view of The Dancer, as she sensually moved around their bedroom. The Dancer exuded confidence, yet she was a lady in the real sense, discreet, yet totally sensual.

Her husband spoke up quietly, "She's quite something, isn't she Steven?"

All I could splutter in reply was, "She's unbelievable!"

He then dropped the bomb, "Steven, I'd like you to join her in our bedroom if you'd like to, that is? She's attracted to you, Steven, she told me. I'd like you to join her, pleasure her, be considerate to her, take care of her needs. All I ask is that you let her lead and that you leave the bedroom door open, while I watch TV here."

I was dumbfounded for a few seconds, felt my face flush, took a big sip of Jack, and then quietly confirmed his request, to ensure there was no confusion.

Only a blind man could not have had heart palpitations! I looked up the passage towards the bedroom again. This time she was undressing, slowly, teasing me, she removed her clothing piece by piece, calmly tossing the wispy pieces onto a freestanding chair in the bedroom.

I then headed down the passage, towards The Dancer, and the unknown.

On entering her bedroom I ensured to obey the advice given, namely to leave the bedroom door open.

The Dancer evidently operated on a different level, in control, knowing what she wanted. She was like a caged bird, a bird living in a gilt cage, with the cage door wide open, free to fly, flying, flying free, yet always returning.

She was waiting for me, totally naked, her lithe body kneeling on the bed, her long hair cascading over her small perky breasts.

She said, "Steven, this room is a safe space, a different space, you can trust me, go with the flow, and follow my direction. Let's go on a journey, and enjoy the ride. Are you ok with that?"

I agreed.

"Very good," she said, "please fetch me a fresh drink, Jack on Ice, three large ice cubes."

And so, I left the room, my brain fizzing, and fetched her drink. Her husband assisted, and merely said, "Enjoy her to the max, Steven, and just go with the flow, that's the best advice I can give you."

On returning to The Dancer's bedroom I found her still kneeling in the same position on the bed, nipples erect. She leant over, took the drink, and carefully placed it on the bedside table. Reaching under the pillow she drew out a black leather braided riding crop.

"Ever used one of these, Steven, on a lady?" My mind boggled and fizzed again. I'd never hurt, struck, or laid a hand on any lady before, and the thought of me striking a lady had never been entertained. I told her that I'd not.

"Let me explain, Steven, did you know that there's a place in the brain, a place that can't tell the difference between pleasure and pain, a place I call The Zone? I want you to help me, Steven, assist me, and take me to The Zone, the place where pleasure and pain becomes a blur, the place where the blur is totally orgasmic for the lady. Help me to get there."

I replied, "Sure, I'm really happy to follow your lead, just show me the way. I'm just concerned that I strike you too hard?"

The Dancer replied, "A true Master, an expert, is able to take me to that zone, using the riding crop, and doesn't do damage or leave a lasting mark. But just in case, we set a safe word, mine is RED, if I use the word RED, then you are wielding the riding crop too hard, and then you back off slightly."

She continued, "Steven, It's ok to discipline me, It really is, I've been a slut, I've flirted with other men this week, I've distracted them and texted them, and lead them on, I need some grounding, a firm correction."

The Dancer assumed the doggy position, her beautiful candy ass raised towards me, her seductive sex prepared in a wispy narrow Brazilian strip, her pussy lips glistening in the golden light provided by the bedside lamps.

"So, you've been bad this week then, a tempting slut, the way you are tempting me now?" I asked. "Oh yes!", The Dancer replied, "Correct me, firmly, very firmly."

Whilst in the doggy position, and teasing me by making magical eye contact by means of her sapphire blue eyes, she started to pleasure herself by touching and rubbing her delectable pussy.

"Spank me Honey," she said. "Use the riding crop on my ass, as I pleasure my pussy."

And thus the journey into various areas of grey commenced. I used the crop on her super firm dancer's ass, firmly, but not too hard, with a consistent and predictable rhythm, so that she quickly learned to anticipate when the crop would fall. Time and again, and quite firmly.

I purposely chose an identical spot on each one of her tight cheeks, striking each spot with a firm crack. I quickly noticed that the more I spanked her, the more pleasure she derived, and the more she pleasured herself. Her continual moans told me of the sensual pleasure she was experiencing.

The spanking with the riding crop continued for some time, I would say for approximately fifteen minutes, slowly but surely, her pleasure increasing by the minute, the pain and the pleasure blurring into one sensual feeling.

By now each firm cheek had a large bright pinky red inflamed patch where the riding crop had repeatedly connected with a crack. My eyes fell on her fresh drink, and the ice cubes bobbing in the icy Jack Daniels. I managed to fish out a large ice cube without breaking the rhythm of the riding crop.

The Dancer moaned again, moving closer and closer to orgasm with each stroke of the crop. She was now in The Zone, the place where pleasure and pain blur into orgasmic ecstasy, barely able to sense the difference between pleasure and pain, as the sensations blurred, crossed over, switched, and mixed towards an orgasmic end.

I chose to take the ice cube and moved it slowly down her spine, one vertebra at a time while maintaining the rhythm of the riding crop on her sweet taut ass. The ice sensation caused her to twitch and shudder, her pleasure to surge, the moans getting deeper and more intense, her orgasm getting closer and closer.

I applied the ice through her lovely open candy ass, and then to the red inflamed patch on her left ass cheek, the ice sensation provided the trigger, and she came instantly, bucking and moaning with pleasure.

As her orgasm subsided I placed the ice cube on the right ass cheek and spanked the red patch on the left. She instantly came again, this time in shuddering waves, time and again.

She moaned, "Steven, honey, you are a Master, a natural."

At this point, I was still fully dressed, yearning, and needed to get naked for The Dancer.

She beckoned me closer, quickly unbuttoning my shirt, which was tossed to the chair. My socks came off next.

"Keep your jeans on, Steven, come and lie close to me, let's chat" breathed The Dancer.

I joined her on the bed, jeans still on, and we lay entwined, she all cuddly in the afterglow of her double orgasm, my jean covered thigh between her legs, feeling her throbbing heat, her head on my chest, me breathing in the scent of Angel.

Her breathing soon slowed, then she asked me a weighted question. "Steven, what do you know about the Male Orgasm?"

I replied, "Well, um, that's what happens, when a guy comes, you know."

The Dancer shared further, "Steven, I'd like to tell you a secret, a secret that maybe only one in ten thousand men know. The Male Orgasm is not what men learn of as youngsters, involving some sort of stimulation, or even sex, leading to ejaculation. It feels good for the guy, yes, lovely in fact, but it's not The Male Orgasm."

I thought to myself, "What on earth is this delectable nymph on about? I've never heard, or even read about what she's talking about."

She continued, "Steven, a lady can either have an orgasm or not, correct?"

So I merely replied, "Ok, so, then what am I missing out on? What's the Male Orgasm then?"

"Well," she said, "A guy can ejaculate and feel good, and then it's game over, correct? Most men feel that when they have ejaculated they've had an orgasm. Guess what, they haven't, they've merely ejaculated, and it may have felt good."

The Dancer continued, "On the other hand, a guy, a rare guy, can have The Male Orgasm, he ejaculates, and the orgasm may slam in, and come repeatedly in many waves. Sometimes even 3 or 5 or 7 waves, and each of those waves is equivalent or better than a full ejaculation, it's mind blowing in fact, and may be very scary for the newbie. He may think he's having heart failure or dying, he may feel he's not coming back! Now that's The Male Orgasm!"

This was all new to me, I'd never heard this expressed before, but The Dancer had shown me the way to The Zone. I'd seen the blur where pain crossed over into pleasure for her, and the totally orgasmic results. Maybe there was something to what she was saying, maybe she knew something that I knew nothing about. I hoped she could explain and show me the way to this new concept.

I asked The Dancer how this worked, and how to get there.

She replied, "Steven, it's a head space, a head space that you can learn, one that is fairly easily obtained. However it's contrary to natural instinct, you have to oppose natural instinct, and needs a partner that's on the same page."

"You see, with most men it's only about putting it in, lots of movement, and then its game over for them, an ejaculation that brings some pleasure."

"On the other hand, The Male Orgasm is about the lady, fully pleasuring the lady, allowing her to orgasm to the maximum that she needs, even three or five or ten times. During that journey, the male needs to change his head space, deny himself pleasure consistently & repeatedly, and merely be a tool for her orgasmic pleasure, to allow her total fulfilment."

She continued, "In so doing, the male denial of pleasure lays the foundation for a mind blowing and heart wrenching reaction called, The Male Orgasm, and not mere ejaculation."

I sputtered, feeling defeated, "How on earth do I last long enough that my play partner's able to cum time and time again, and I don't?"

The Dancer replied, while slowly unbuttoning my Levi's, one button at a time, "Would you like me to show you, Steven, to take you there, to that new zone?"

I nodded, slightly fearful, but placing my trust in, The Dancer.

My throbbing cock leapt out of the Levi's as the last button was undone.

I immediately thought of the Levi's slogan, "Live life, Unbuttoned," but such thoughts were quickly dispelled as she took my cock, stroked it with her warm hand, and then the sheer bliss, as her perfectly formed lips surrounded the head, then the shaft, her tongue quickly swirling the head in a sensual taste.

"Lovely," she said, making lingering eye contact with those flashing sapphire blue eyes of hers, "Thick and salty, tasting like the sea, I love the sea."

I noticed that she moved on, and ignored my cock quickly, not bobbing and slurping as most others do.

My jeans were soon off, and I was now fully naked, with The Dancer.

She said, "Touch me all over, Steven, touch every hot button, pleasure me in every way possible, remember now, deny yourself, it's all about My senses and pleasure now."

I started kissing her on her neck, soon finding the erogenous zone, using my lips and tongue, and not moving on. Sucking and kissing her neck, my thigh between her legs, her slick wet sex parted and splayed over my thigh, her soft movements as she rubbed her perfect pussy and clitty slowly along my thigh, the hair on my leg clearly causing her pleasure.

I continued to kiss and suck the hot zone on her neck, towards her ear, feeling her increased movements, grinding on my leg, and sensed the pleasure as she got closer and closer.

I also focused on any other hot buttons I could reach with my hands, such as teasing and tweaking her nipples, pinching gently, and running my hands over her candy ass, though never interrupting the kiss on the hot button between her neck and ear, all the while giving pressure from my thigh to her throbbing sex.

Through all the sensations I noticed that she clearly concentrated on her own pleasure, and getting off, and not on my pleasure at all.

This was new to me. In fact, she never touched my cock at all during the kissing and sucking on her neck, and I appreciated this immensely.

I could sense that this was different, I was the cause of her immense pleasure, I was her tool, and I loved the feeling! I was grateful that she denied me, because it was sensory overload as it was, skin to skin, the scent of Angel, the heat, the sexual tension.

I also noticed what I now call The Snail Trail, the slick wet mark that her glistening, moving, sliding sex had made on my thigh as she moved, and was made wetter and wetter, slipping and sliding, leaving The Snail Trail.

She came on my thigh soon thereafter, mewing and moaning gently, and holding me tight through the shudders. The Dancer's body was neat and tight and lithe in every way, so I chose to work my way down, first kissing each breast and sucking each nipple.