Tonight’s the night. The grand finale; the final class in ballroom dance. The culmination of weeks of practice; of months of tedium through which I have suffered in order to arrive here, at the end. The evening in which I may at last don my gown.
It’s stunning, gorgeous, this antiquated garment. Wearing it I will pity the modern woman who has cast aside such travesties of dress, not knowing, not recognizing the wondrous possibilities of the giant hoop skirt that, like a curtain, will conceal my naked undersides, the deep, dark crevices growing hot and moist with the fever of my body, the flush of my skin.
Yet they will pity me in my grandiose garb; will say to each other, “How quickly she tires!” as I retreat by myself to a sad, lonely corner while the others persist in the dance. Standing there all alone I will think of Henry, that husky-voiced fellow with the strong hands I have so duly admired each time I’ve found myself swooning within them. He is also mysteriously missing from the dance floor, much as I am so strangely absent, here at the last. No one will dream where he has really gone. No one will even think it odd the way I will have my hands folded in front of me while I quietly observe the rhythms of the dance; the way my lips will part as if I am breathing rather heavily for a person who stands, rather than dances.
And as the music continues, no one will think it strange that more and more of the men retreat to the corner where I am so dejectedly standing, all worn out with dancing. Men tire, too, after all. What could be more natural than to watch them gather in a circle at the far end of the room, chatting amongst themselves while the women continue to dance? No one will notice, against this masculine backdrop, when I turn slowly away towards the wall and rustle my skirts until Henry emerges, panting with the heat and exertion. No one will see me drop to my knees behind the concealing wall of men and unbuckle his belt; help myself to the refreshments within while my breasts protrude from their tidily-arranged cage; while he handles them with hard, groping fists as the others look on. No one will think it odd that one of the other men will help me to my feet; will, with the gentlest of rustles, again lift my skirt that another of his fellows might vanish beneath it.
And should the music threaten to draw to a close before I have taken and given as much as I’d like of the other ballroom dancers, perhaps I shall widen my stance; lift my skirts higher; invite two at a time to dive hungrily between my legs and sample the sweet juices within. And if they should fight; battle for prime position, perhaps I will enjoy that, too, the faces prowling, probing my nethers, the tongues licking and sticking and kissing where I most wish to be licked and sticked and kissed. Perhaps it will even be too much, two prodding tongues for one hapless organ; perhaps I shall have to send one on another journey, around the other way while I hold their heads in my hands, one before me and the other behind.
And perhaps I will be so caught up in this music, my own music, the music of my body and theirs commingled into one, that I will fail to notice when the band stops playing; when the good men and women of this quaint suburban town abandon their positions and march towards the corner I have so indelicately occupied in concert with the men who, like me, in the end, were more interested in pussy than dancing. Perhaps they will gather around, too, in horror and shock as I raise my skirts to reveal one of their fellow-citizens nose-deep in my pussy, and an equally fine gentleman tongue-deep in my ass. Perhaps they will stand all around and watch while I scream and explode, while I spread my legs wide and plead piteously for more. Perhaps even as I drop to my knees to inhale the final cocks, to imbibe the last freshly-squeezed juices of my partners in dance, some one of those fine citizens will feel it, too, the desire that’s overcome me these long aching months; will come crawling forward on hands and knees to thrust his own face between my quaking thighs, while I cover him discreetly with the giant hoop skirt so no one will see the shamelessness, the helplessness of my lust and his; of our lust and theirs.
I am ready; it is time. Now on to the dance.