by David Cain

“You almost done? Everyone’s gone.”

“Almost. Five more minutes. Wait for me?”

“Sure.” He dropped his bag and slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall. “What are you working on?”

“It’s a piece for Jerri.”

“For a show?”

“I don’t know. He’s working with a new composer.”

“Straighten your leg.”

“Thanks.” She walked over to the piano and restarted the music.

“I can’t get those reaches right, near the end.”

“Keep on,” he said. “You’ll get it.

He watched her as she danced, seeing her as he rarely did, isolated and up close, dancing for herself, unconscious of even his gaze, inwardly focused to bring out the sequence as choreographed. Beauty amplified under the microscope of isolation, the look of her, stretching and reaching, thighs, stomach, arms, fingers, beyond the pale, into the light.

They’d been in the company together for more than three years but he’d known her longer than that, he reflected. When they first met, she was a stick of a girl, still awkward and stiff but pretty in a way that was disconcerting, like she wasn’t real, almost. Beauty isn’t uncommon among dancers; there is a standard, normal kind of excellence and there was an interesting in the almost perfect flawed sort. She represented neither, just beautiful with a golden glow of grace.

When she went to the piano to restart the music, he moved to the piano bench to take over those duties, so she could dance.

A turn suddenly made him aware of her left nipple, a slight bulge and darkening of her thinly stretched leotard. Following the gentle swell of her breast through the movements became a mesmerizing pattern of lifting, swooping, falling into a delicate weightiness, rising as a breath, descending in a spiral of sweet passion.



The line of her stomach stretched and stretched, pulling tight slowly until it released, crunched into shallow waves of spandex hugging her writhing torso. Through his eyes he could feel his hand running along the lean lines, supporting and guiding and feeling, softly feeling with the turn of her body through his hands and into his arms. He shifted on the piano bench.


She bent to the ground, flexible as a human can be, the elegant sphere of her well-toned bottom raised high, higher, leaping to float across the space, mirror reflecting mirror reflecting the incredible undulations of her flesh, spreading, exposing, her lean thighs fading into her round buttocks as her loins bulged barely contained by the strained spandex cloth.

“Again?” he asked as she collapsed to the floor.

“I hate this piece,” she said. “I hate it so much. I know, I know, I’ll love it in the morning but for right now I want it on the record that I hate this piece.”

“Duly noted.”

She picked up her bag, turned to him and curtseyed. “Thank you for waiting and thank you for helping.” She smiled, noticing the erection in his shorts.

He bowed slightly. “And thank you.”


About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in ballet, books, dance, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, music, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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