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For the moment this is the final installment of Charlottesville High School. If the inspiration moves me and time allows, I made add on to it. As always, any of your thoughts, suggestions, or observations are welcome.
All story characters involved in sexual activities are 18 years of age or older.
* * * *
This was not a good day for me to spend time with Marisa Pappan’s art. Her work was passionate and powerful, even the non-erotic stuff was erotic, and I was already a walking bundle of sexual energy. Amy, my son’s girlfriend, was dancing the adagio from Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade as the finale of her ballet school’s senior recital. Amy was good; not, as I had been, professional material, but good. On the other hand Robert Jones, her partner in the dance, couldn’t wait until it was over. He’d grown to detest ballet, an activity his overbearing mother had foisted on him. He had no interest in rehearsing and Amy wanted to do a first rate job; this might be the biggest stage on which she’d ever perform. She’d prevailed on me to practice with her.
The problem? Scheherazade is the most sensual ballet there is. A little background might help you understand my situation.
I’d been a prodigy, moving from Charlottesville to New York in my teens to be tutored by Samuel Johnson, among the best teachers and most powerful figures in ballet. He and I would practice for hours, I’d become wildly aroused – the passion of my dancing was among its most striking attributes – and we ended up in bed. I was naive, knew little about birth control, and expected this older wiser man to let me know what to do. He didn’t; I got pregnant. He wanted me to abort the child; I decided to keep it.
He fulfilled his financial obligations to me and the child, but no others. Thin and having health problems, I had to leave school during the third trimester. When I reapplied I was turned down. I was also rejected by the other leading schools. Sam Johnson wanted no reminder of his indiscretion; I’d been black-balled.
That’s when Florence Henson called. She’d been a celebrated dancer; now she was a persistent critic of the ballet establishment. She’d heard what happened and offered to teach me. We danced together, we fell in love, and while I made great strides, I still couldn’t find a spot with any of the leading companies. Sam Johnson’s influence was simply too great.
Then I was summoned by Beverly Clearly, every bit as important and even more imperious than Sam Johnson. She told me with my ability and her connections she could get me a position with the New York Ballet, but there was a condition: I could not longer work with Florence, whom Beverly detested. My ambition won out over my heart. I accepted her offer, then took the coward’s way out, telling Florence over dinner at a crowded restaurant, pretending we would survive my betrayal, knowing we wouldn’t, and sacrificing the only true love affair of my life
I was with the New York Ballet, at the top of the food chain and, for the first time since I’d moved to New York, unattached. It was a wild time. My dancing kept me in a constant state of arousal; I was surrounded by beautiful people unabashedly celebrating their physicality. I became a sexual carnivore: women, men, groups, a mother and daughter, a father and son. I had them all. And then, during my second year with the Ballet, I shredded my knee; I’d never dance at this level again. I was yesterday’s news.
I returned to Virginia, went to college, now I was the Assistant Principal at Charlottesville High. Since leaving New York I had some pleasant long term dating relationships with perfectly decent men who did most everything for me but make love the way I craved. I also had a few short term crazy flings with wholly unreliable younger guys or married men who screwed me silly, but even then, it’d been awhile.
And now every day I was dancing with my son’s girlfriend. And if I haven’t been clear, dancing arouses me, it wildly arouses me. Amy was beautiful; Amy was sensual, and while they were discreet, it was clear she and my son had an active happy sex life – yes, we’d had the birth control discussion. I also suspected that dancing turned her on as much as it did me; I could feel it whenever her body moved against mine. I was a walking mass of concupiscent desire. No, Marisa’s art was definitely not what I needed to see right before heading home to dance with Amy. Thank god, I thought, the recital was only two days away. Thank god for my dildo, vibrator, and butt plug.
* * * *
I got home, considered bringing myself off, but there wasn’t be time. I had just changed into a two piece black leotard when Amy rang the bell. I opened the door. Amy was dressed as I; it was, in fact, like looking at a picture of my eighteen year old self.
People constantly commented on our resemblance. I was five feet tall, she four feet eleven inches. We were both slight of build, had dark skin, round faces, small features, olive eyes, and dark brown, almost başakşehir escort black, straight hair. Hers, as had mine in my teenaged years, cascaded past her shoulders; I now trimmed mine to shoulder length.
She gave me a hug and thanked me for the thousandth time for working with her. We planned the routine, then stretched. I was stiff; I had danced more in the last couple of weeks than I had in years. Happily, tomorrow would be our final rehearsal, then I could give my body some time off.
Scheherazade is unapologetically sensual; to dance it properly you have to embrace those feelings in yourself. I was dancing King Shahryar, Amy Scheherazade, and I quickly lost myself in the role, imagining myself intertwined, falling in love with the sensual slave-girl Scheherazade. We danced; I held her body to mine, ran my hands across her frame. We straddled each other, pressed our bodies together. I pulled her face to mine, our lips brushed in a kiss. I felt the warmth of her skin. I’d started the dance turned on and, minute by minute, it grew ever more intense. Then my attention wavered for a second – I thought about the vibrator waiting in my bedroom – and didn’t plant my foot properly. There was a slight cramp in my leg. Amy noticed, but I kept dancing and she did also. We finished a few minutes later.
Amy hugged me and in a voice filled with genuine concern said, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, felt a little twinge in my calf. Just a cramp. It happens sometimes.”
She gestured to the couch. “Why don’t you sit down. I’ll get some water.”
She returned, handed me a bottle of water, sat on the end of the couch, moved my leg onto her lap, ran her fingertips along it, applied pressure, palpitated the muscle.
“I’m so sorry; I feel terrible.”
“Don’t blame yourself, its not your fault. It happens sometimes, I still favor the knee. That old ballet injury still haunts me.”
“Yeah, that must have been so horrible, you were so good.”
Her voice was certain; it wasn’t an empty compliment. But Amy had never seen me dance.
“Thanks, but you were in diapers.”
She had that look on her face, like yep, I goofed. “You gotta promise not to tell.”
Bart and I have been looking for videos of you dancing. It’s taken some doing, but we found some. We’ve watched them together. You were magnificent. We’re having them transferred to a disc to give you for Christmas.”
I was genuinely touched, and curious. I had not watched myself in years
“I had no idea, that is so kind.”
She made a face.
I said, “Don’t worry; I’ll keep the secret and act totally surprised.”
Her fingers kept working my leg. When I started to tell her she didn’t need to do this, she shushed me, said she wanted to help, that she felt responsible. And she knew what she was doing. She found the right spots and worked on the knots with surprisingly strong fingers.
“Feels so good.”
“Thank you, it helps having a Dad who’s a physical therapist.”
We grew quiet. I focused on her hands. The remnants of the cramp disappeared, she worked my leg for another minute or two. I knew she and my son were sexually active and thought lucky boy, this young lady knows how to touch. I closed my eyes, was breathing rhythmically, when she stopped – it seemed abrupt – and said, “How do you feel?”
Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I stretched, then flexed my leg. “You’re amazing, all better.”
“Thanks, but you’re the amazing one. You’ve given me so much of your time. And about what I said earlier, I mean you’re still a wonderful dancer. Still, when I watch the videos of you before the injury it makes me sad to think how your career was cut short, how the world was deprived of your talent.”
I teased. “Thank you dear. It warms the heart of an old lady to hear she’s admired by the young.”
She laughed and in a conspiratorial tone said, “Would you like to see one of them?”
I checked the clock. While I still had an appointment with my vibrator, Bart would not be home for several hours; the administrative work I’d brought with me could wait.
I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine for me, one of water for her, and joined Amy in the entertainment room. She loaded the video into our home system, fiddled with the remote, and there I was, at her age, dancing Swan Lake, the quality of the video surprisingly good.
She sat next to me, cuddling against my side, holding my leg across her lap, softly kneading where the cramp had been. After our dancing the physical intimacy seemed natural; I draped an arm across her shoulder and watched the screen in utter fascination, traveling back in time. People were right; I’d looked just like Amy at that age and the longer I watched the more I recalled, re-lived might be more accurate, my joy in the dance, the way it pushed me to the edge of my capability, how my body became a finely tuned instrument, bayrampaşa escort how I attained an emotional euphoria, became a vibrating mass of sexual energy.
It ended and I looked at Amy. It had had much the same effect on her as it had on me. Her pupils were dilated, her skin flushed, her mouth half open. I studied her face, compared it to the one on the screen: same shape, same small mouth and thin lips, same color eyes.
She noticed me studying her. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, sorry to stare, I was just thinking how much I looked like you.”
“Yeah, everyone always commenting on it. They tease Bart and me, say it’s like he’s dating his mother, but he doesn’t mind. He thinks you’re beautiful and sexy. And as for me, well, I agree with your son. Looking like you, that’s an amazing compliment, you’re graceful and magnificent, and,” a sly tone crept into her voice, “hot.”
Then she dropped her voice, as if sharing a secret. “In fact, it was after Bart and I watched the videos that I decided to grow my hair out longer, so I’d look more like you at that age.”
She snuggled up to me. “I just wish I had your talent. I have a partial recording of you dancing Scheherazade. Do you want to see it?’
Dumbly, I nodded yes. My son and his girlfriend discussed my looks? My son thought I was sexy? His girlfriend thought I was hot? She actually emulated my appearance? He approved?
I watched her load the video. Her butt could have been molded from mine. She returned, snuggled against me. The video started.
I watched, recalling the performance: the dance, the crowd’s applause, the New York Times saying I’d fully realized the sensuality of the role, how turned on I was through it all. I remembered sneaking away from the after-party to fuck the male lead in my dressing room, then the two of us after the party, at his place, making ferocious love, not stopping until the sun was over the horizon.
On screen my body was pressed to his body; off screen my sex pulsated in time with the music. Amy pressed close to me, took my hand in hers, ran her fingers over my palm, her eyes on the screen, said, “Gosh, look at you, you’re amazing, so sexy.”
I croaked out a thank you; my nipples were hard.
When the video ended Amy hugged me, told me how great I was, got up, turned it off, turned back to me. Her breasts were outlined in her top; her erect nipples, like mine, on display, clearly outlined in her top; her face was flushed, her breathing deep.
“You’re such a sexy woman Jessica. And you’ve been so kind to help me like you have.”
She put her hands on the back of the couch, one on either side of my head, and kissed my mouth. Just a peck.
I didn’t pull away
Her face inches from mine, she whispered, “Thank you.”
My voice husky. “You’re welcome.”
She touched my cheek. My heart thumped in my chest. She kissed my neck, kissed up towards my ear. I was on fire. The entire evening: dancing with her, watching myself dance, learning that my son, and his girlfriend, thought I was beautiful, that they were not only conscious of her resemblance to me, but actively imitated my appearance, it all merged into a fiery gumbo between my legs.
I had to get control of myself: Amy was a student, she was my son’s girlfriend.
Amy’s mouth reached my right ear. She took the lobe between her lips; I felt her warm breath. She captured the lobe of my left ear between two fingers, tugged on it, whispered, “I love dancing with you. Your talented and graceful and sexy. And, y’know, it turns me on. And then, when were moving together, sometimes it seems like you feel the same way, that you’re becoming aroused.”
The hand on my ear went to my chin, turned my face towards her. She said, Am I right?” I dropped my eyes, not daring to answer the question.
She tilted my head back up; I raised my eyes, looked into hers. The fight was draining from me. She said, “I want you,” brought her lips to mine, kissed me. Her hand went to the back of my head, held me in place. Her tongue ran along my mouth; my belly did flip-flops.
I should stop this. She was a student. She dated my son.
“Amy, you’re Bart’s…”
She placed her hands on the back of the couch, moved forward, dropped to her knees, straddling one of my legs. She pressed her body to mine. My sentence ground to a halt. She brought her lips to my ear.
“It’s okay, I told him I want you, he said I should go for it. He knows you’re a sexual being. He understands how much freedom you gave up when you came back home to raise him. He knows you deserve more, he knows how good I can make you feel.”
Was all this true? Had Amy and Bart discussed my sexuality? Had Amy confessed a desire for me? Had Bart given his approval?
And then I was thinking about Florence and I making love, then about my son and Amy doing the same, getting hotter by the second. My body was betraying me.
Amy kissed beşiktaş escort my ear, my cheek, along my jaw line, back to the corner of my mouth. When she reached my lips I finally responded to her.
“Is that true? You told Barton you wanted me? He said it was fine?”
“Of course. Why are you surprised? He cares about you, wants what’s best for you. You’re a beautiful sexy woman. He knows you gave up so much of your personal life to make him the priority. And now that he’s become a man, that he and I are lovers, he recognizes your sexual side, how you sacrificed that for him.”
And, after a pause, she added, “He, I, we know about Florence.”
She ran a finger down my body. It felt good. “He found some letters in a bundle in the attic. He says they’re pretty steamy. We contacted her; she’s the one who had the videos.”
I remembered the letters; I’d thought I’d lost them. Weakly, knowing I’d have done the same, I said, “He shouldn’t read other peoples mail.”
Amy smiled, said, “He understands; he’s willing to be grounded,” and kissed my lips. My sex was a steam room and memories of Florence, Amy’s body against mine, our dance, the knowledge that my son saw me as a sexual being; the walls were crumbling. I offered no resistance when Amy kissed me again my lips parted, her tongue was in my mouth.
Amy buried her hands in my hair, pulled me close. I tried to catch my breath, to claim some control, but Amy was having none of it. Increasingly confident, she held me to her and her hand slipped under my leotard, moved to my breast. I flushed, aching for her touch. My mind may have been muddled, but my body was focused, my pussy was warm wet hungry. Amy kissed my lips, my cheeks, my neck. She brought my hand to her face and kissed my fingertips. I moaned and Amy released my breast. Her hand slid down my body – her touch knowing and sweet – to stroke the inside of my thighs. A finger brushed the outline of my pussy, then pushed a little harder. I trembled and she closed her hand over my pussy lips, squeezed. I spread my legs wider.
Her touch was gentle and exquisite, her tongue soft and supple. I leaned back, eyes closed, immersed in the sensations. Her hand left my sex; she peeled off her top, tossed it aside. Her breasts, like mine, were small firm pert, the areolas slightly raised, the nipples brown. She leaned forward, kissed a nipple through my shirt, and slipped a hand inside my bottoms.
I reached for her hips, held her in place, jostled my leg, increased the pressure on her groin. I could feel her wet sex though our leotards. She wore no underwear.
Amy smiled. This had been my first overt act in our love-making; the needs of my body had overcome the reservations of my mind. I leaned forward; our lips met; I slipped my tongue inside her mouth. I was ready to make love to one of my students, to my son’s girlfriend.
Amy ended our intense, if all too short, kiss, stood, took hold of my shirt. I raised my arms; she pulled it off me, then sat back down, straddling my leg. Taking firm hold of the arm rests she slid her pussy on my leg, rested it on my knee, and leaned forward, mouth open, and covered my right breast, tapping the brown nipple with the tip of her tongue, then licking with the flat of her tongue. I stroked the back of her head, told her she was wonderful. She took my sensitive nipple between her lips and, gently, sucked and licked, then grazed it with her teeth; she gave the other breast the same treatment.
As she sucked on my breasts Amy slid up and down my leg, then humped herself on my knee. I raised my leg on my toes, forcing my knee between her pussy lips. Her mouth moved from breast to breast, but her licks and sucks grew wilder, less co-ordinated, oft interrupted by moans of sensual delight. I reached for chest, fondled her breasts; her nipples were hard and warm.
Amy groaned, savoring the orgasm building within her. Her movements got jerkier, she bucked her hips against my knee. She sat back up, leaving my breasts covered with her spittle, and put her hands on my shoulders, bracing herself and increasing the speed and force of her movements on my leg. Her jaw tightened, her head dropped forward and rested on my forehead; she fucked herself on my leg.
I worked her breasts, my thumbs rubbed her sensitive nipples; I held my knee firmly to her groin. Amy, taking a hand from my shoulder, reached for her clit, frigged herself at a blistering pace.
She told me it started with a tingling in her legs, arms, and stomach which spread through her body in a feeling of divine blissful warmth. Then, suddenly, as if falling from a cliff, she went rigid, a small hard orgasm smacked into her. The tingling returned, but now it was focused between her legs, and then it all let go, like an exploding balloon, the impact ricocheting through her body.
“OOhhhh, Mmmmm, yessss, nnnnhhhhhhhh.”
Warm waves of energy cascaded through her. Her juice soaked her leotard, seeped into mine. She shook, moaned, fell into my arms. I held her and she quivered; waves of pleasure ran through her body. She shuddered one last time and slumped against me; quietly murmuring in delight. I held her, she turned her head on my shoulder, we shared a soft kiss. Her eyes were happy, she smiled, snuggled up to me and after awhile whispered in my ear, “Your turn.”
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