Loading...We’ve all seem them; an object of nostalgia and whimsy. It is a jewelry box, a place to keep secret and personal things, sitting on the vanity table of a particular kind of woman. There is the lingering hint of some perfume, a subtle reminder of the elegance of it’s owner. It is the color of ivory, picked out in silver or perhaps gold, the edges frilled or otherwise decorated to soften the lines.
On the top of this ivory colored box is the figure of a ballerina on a circular dais. She is standing en-pointe, arms above her head in a perpetual pirouette, the dais spinning slowly as the music box is set in motion. She is classically thin and blonde, wearing pink ballet shoes and leotard, opaque white tights and a short ruffed tutu. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, with small flowers delicately painted in her hair in a loose tiara. Her skin is quite literally porcelain. Her expression is one of simple, pure happiness.
I have this box resting in a very special spot on my night table. It is the only real memento I have left of her. Somehow even photographs don’t evoke the memories and emotions of her as does the gentle perfumed scent it exudes, and the lilting melody it plays when wound. I listen to it every night before sleep. I wind the key, then lay back and let it all wash over me. I don’t know the name of the tune it plays, though I know it must be some classical piece that perhaps does come from a ballet. I can lay back, the music box ballerina slowly turning, and I would drift off to sleep. Sometimes I would dream of her, but most often I have no dreams at all. It’s as if all my dreams somehow died with her.
Tonight though was different. I recall the moment very vividly. I think I was drifting off, eyes half closed. I was staring vaguely at the ceiling, covers close around me against the encroaching evening chill. From the corner of my eye I could make out the turning, pirouetting ballerina. I was thinking in circles about what I’d been told by my friends that day. I was still young, they said, and I should try and move on and find someone else. I can’t deny they were at least in part right. My body ached so much for the touch of another, for the contact of flesh against flesh. I wondered how she would feel about that, if she would approve, if she would want me to be happy again -if I could ever be happy again without her.
Somehow, sometime in the midst of this introspection, I became aware that I was no longer alone. The figure of a ballerina, the one I was so used to seeing, was now silhouetted against the backdrop of my bedroom window. She stood not far from my bed side, turning herself in a pirouette; not in the mechanical manner of the music box, but in the brusque and athletic way of a real dancer. Her face snapped to sharp attention on each turn, her foot planted on the ground before launching herself into the next spin, her other foot balanced on her toes. My eyes opened wider, and I realized I was looking at an actual person; a young woman just over 5′ tall dancing beside me, near to the end of the bed. When she realized I was watching her, she came to a stop. She lowered her arms, then stretched them out as she bent down in a formal bow. She looked up at my face, and smiled.
She was dressed in exactly the same manner as the music box ballerina, and her hair was the exact same blonde, pulled back in a bun. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I could see the severe stage make up she wore, her eyes a bright and watery blue. She rose up again, arms still extended, and raised one leg above my bed, slowly turning herself so that her foot hovered over my prone body, leading it upwards towards my chest. Reaching out, I gently grasped the satin covered shoe, my hands actually shaking with fear and uncertainty. It was real. She was real. I looked at the ballet shoe I held in my hand, at the slender well turned foot it sheathed, and the stark white nylon covered leg it extended from.
“Wh..,” I stammered and failed.
She gave me another wise, red lipped smile, then dexterously removed her foot and sat herself on the edge of the bed by my waist. The ruffles of her tutu brushed against my hips. I started to sit up, and I’m sure must have looked very startled.
“I… But…”
She raised a single finger to her lips. I got the sense that she wasn’t merely telling me to be quiet, but also not to dispel whatever magic had brought her to my room, not to question it. I nodded every so slightly, setting back down onto the bed. My eyes had adjusted well enough I could even make out the small flowers that decorated her hair in a sparse halo.
She placed a hand against my thigh, then leaned far forward until her pretty face was close to mine. She closed her eyes, then laid her lips over my own, which I met in a long sweet kiss. At first it was light, then our lips parted and it became much more passionate. It had been so long I’d nearly forgotten what a great pleasure even a simple kiss could create.
Slowly drawing back, she looked down at my body, and began to pull down the covers to expose my bare chest. The ballerina trailed her fingertips along my bare skin, resettling herself so that she knelt on her knees, perched over me to one side. The feathery ruff of her tutu disguised the tent that was starting to rise beneath the remaining sheets from her attentions. I had a feeling that if I reacted the wrong way, I might scare her off, and so I got very nervous when her hands wandered further down towards my hips.
She stopped short of uncovering my hardening erection, though I think by now it was obvious to both of us. Instead, she rose up, and in a long and graceful movement, extended her right leg and swung it over my body so she was more or less straddling me. Firmly planted on her left knee, she’d placed her opposite foot up close to my shoulder, toes pointed hard into the mattress. It seemed a precarious position, despite her impeccable balance, so I instinctively reached up to hold her leg just above the ribbons around her ankle. I think my hand still must have been trembling as I felt the soft yet coarse texture of nylon beneath my fingertips. Extending her body forward, arms stretched out, she again sought my lips for another kiss.
I felt some of my shyness melt away as our tongues met, and with my other hand I went to touch her on the cheek. She was warm and fragrant, smelling of a very familiar perfume. I slid my fingers down along her neck to her bare shoulders, touching the thin strap that held up her costume leotard. It was one of those breathless ‘should I or shouldn’t I’ moments, when you’re torn between what you want to do and what you should do. Hooking my thumb under the slender strap, I went with my instincts, pulling it down her soft rounded shoulder.
She lowered her arms to the bed to keep her self steady as she perched over me, while I arched my head up to receive yet another kiss. I kept holding onto her slender yet muscular calf, at the same time pulling that strap further along until it hung loose, close to her elbow. I was getting very excited, and whatever fear or trepidation I had when she first appeared so mysteriously in my room began to vanish. Here was a real live woman in my bed, and for whatever reason, this ballerina had chosen me to be her lover on this night.
In a single firm movement, I turned her onto her back, the leg I was holding now resting high on my shoulder as I lay over her. My hand pressed hard against her breast, now nearly uncovered from the undone strap of her one piece costume. The ruff of her skirt crushed against me, tingling my skin. Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t express any fear. After a moment, her expression relaxed, even as my naked erection brushed against the vulnerable crotch of her dance leotard. I could hear her breathing in my ear, an even rhythm that grew in intensity as I fondled her small round breast, pushing my hand down into her loosened top to reach it.
Her arms closed around me, and the leg that wasn’t being bent back by my shoulder rubbed sensuously against my hip. My cock instinctively sought entrance into her, despite the barriers that hid her cunt from view. Aware of my plight, she reached down and roughly pulled the crotch of her costume to one side. I let my hand run down from her chest along the length of her lean body until I was cupping her pubis, now mostly uncovered apart from her dance tights. I could feel the crisp pubic hairs through the thin material, and the trace of moisture that collected on the nylon, seeping from her slack labial folds. Her upraised foot curled and pointed of it’s own accord in response to her arousal, which I was churning by rubbing her cunt in a steady and hard circular movement, making her wetter and wetter. Her eyes closed, and the hand she wasn’t using to help support her vertical leg grasped at my back and shoulders.
Unable to hold back, I roughly dug my fingers into the thick seam that ran down the center of the hose, fighting to make an opening. At last the flexible and surprisingly strong material gave, and I ripped open a long gash along the length of the seam to expose a good portion of her pubis. Now her cunt was entirely open to my touch, and I brazenly stabbed two fingers inside her as she gasped. I rubbed the hard, slightly exposed tip of her clitoris before finally taking hold of the length of my prick and lining it up to her slack vagina.
I thrust myself inside her, the channel of her vagina parting with liquid ease, accepting the intrusion. I clasped her tight to me, pushing her leg even further forward. She was so nimble that this didn’t appear to cause any distress at all. Instead, she wrapped her other leg along my back, rubbing it’s nylon covered surface along my skin. It must have been a rather perverse sight; me entirely naked, and she still dressed in her ballerina gown, complete with a fairly crushed and ruined tutu, disordered leotard and torn hose. I could see that primly tied ballet shoe hovering not far from my head, bobbing to the rhythm of my thrusts. She held her breath, then took it in in hoarse gasps, over and over. The sweat began to collect on my body, and in my hair over my eyes.
The feeling of being inside her was almost too much to bear. It had been so long since the last time I’d made love to anyone, and that wet but firm pressure sliding and rubbing against my length was beyond exquisite. With one hand cradling the back of her head, some of her long blonde hair spilled out from it’s bun, and many of the small flowers that once adorned her hair now lay on the bed sheets, crushed beneath our bodies.
It was all happening very fast, too fast. I stopped my thrusting twice, trying to hold off that push over the edge to climax, but the second time it was already too late. I could literally feel the insides of my tightened balls open up, and the ecstatic rush as my semen burst forth in thick unsavory wads.
In the breathless aftermath, I rolled off her body. She embraced me from the side while I lay there, one of her lean legs crossing over my hips in a protective and intimate manner. Without a coherent word being spoken the entire time, I drifted off to sleep, my senses lulled with the scent of her languid perfume.
Needless to say, in the morning I found myself alone. Looking over at the music box, and the delicate figurine that decorated it, I wondered at what it all meant. Just a very vivid wet dream, or something more? I wanted it to be more. I wanted it all and back again.
All I can say in reflection is that, because of that night, things for me changed. I found that the heart in me, the desire in me, had reawakened. And it cannot be any kind of coincidence that the girl who I can to meet, to now occupies my bed on a nightly basis, is a professional ballerina with the city’s opera company. That too is a story yet worth telling.