Dancer Reprise–A Tale of Two Writers

The original “Dancer” was a story I wrote on my alt-blog, Dark Fantasies, found here. I shared it with my friend and fellow author, Will Crimson from Erotic Writer blog (found here). He’s been a mentor as well as a friend–because I think as we do this thing we do, having someone help hone the crafting of our naughty tales is an important thing. He liked the story I created, and then crafted his own version of the same. You should read mine first, to truly appreciate his. Go take a second…it’s a very, very short thing, truly. Okay, you hate clicking back and forth? Tsk. Okay, fine. Here is my version of Dancer (all 328 words of it! See? told ya it was short!):

 

just a short, dark vignette…leaving a lot to your own sordid imaginings…

Nine years with the SoCal Ballet and this is what came of it.

Her hips rolled with the seductive music. It wasn’t her intent to seduce …that was unnecessary, given the hungry looks of the men lounging on the pillow covered floor. Some held their cocks, stroking slowly, all attempt at subtlety abandoned. The music was hypnotic,  her body cajoled.

The veils stirred slowly, offering peeks of ripe, virgin flesh. She, who had prided herself on being a virgin, always too afraid to give her body to anyone, lest the fire of her dance be subdued by the yearnings of her cunt. She, curvy despite the years and rigors of giving herself one hundred percent to her craft. She, dancing now as she had never danced before, her heart racing not with her exertions, but with fear. She, so proud when Kalib Barb Halil had asked to take her to dinner, the richest man in the world, so it was rumored. And she, waking groggily to the hum of an airplane, hands and feet bound, head cloaked, struggles useless.

It had been rumored, she remembered then, that Kalib took possession of whatever took his fancy. To her detriment, she realized that some rumors were not gossip, but fact.

Kalib’s words, growled into her ear before he had shoved her into this chamber, rang in her head.

“You will dance. As long as you dance, you are safe-no man would dare touch you then. But when you stop, when the fatigue burns in your muscles, your legs and arms shake with the effort of continuing, then you will stop…and you will be the virgin dancer no longer.”

She’d heard the hunger in his voice, seen it as his eyes traveled across her body as she moved ceaselessly around the center of the circle of pillows draped with men who wore looks as hungry as wolves.

She danced.

***************************************************

And now, here  is Will’s version of the same event. It’s wicked and erotic, short as mine. It’s all in the details he adds and omits, the fine precision of his beautifully erotic mind.

 

The Dancer by Will Crimson

The pliant gold. Was the cloth gold leaf? Were the threads silver?

The veils were enough and not enough. If she leaped, the fine hem
slipped over her nipples — hard and glistening with sweat. If she

gracefully lowered her forehead, arms sweeping to

her sides, the sliding cloth revealed her thighs — the oiled,

fragrant entry lifted beneath the coil of her spine.

She had been massaged. She had been oiled. She had been shaved. She
appeared like gold, on gold — an aqueous, penetrable apparition than
glistened in candlelight.

Her intent wasn’t to seduce.

She heard the cry, the choked agony, before she saw a large man, head
thrown back, writhing, and the silver thread of his semen lacing his

hand and belly. Oh, but then she understood the cry’s agony when two

of Kalib Barb Halil’s men pulled the bloated sheik from the tent.

There was another rule — a rule she hadn’t known.

Then her intent changed. She let her dance be ruled by her cunt. Her
heart raced, but not with fear. The veil no longer tormented. The

round of her breast was hidden, then revealed by the bellow of

another man — pleasure, regret, confusion. The fine eruption of his
semen like a binding chain. He was lifted and taken from tent.

Her feet grew numb. The rhythm of the bells about her ankles, her

wrists, and her pierced nipples became uneven. She swayed with

fatigue. How long had she danced? How many men had succumbed? There

were only two, then one of them roared and bellowed with each burst — as
if his tribute were made against his will. And then there

was one.

She fell to her hands and knees.

Yes, let it be him. Let it be that man, the man for whom she had
danced, whose gaze was so different from all the others. He, whose
gaze she wanted. Let him see the wetness of her thighs. Let him see
that she was exhausted beyond exhaustion.

Let him see that she could no longer rise from her hands and knees though she heard his
approach behind her.

Let Kalib Barb Halil watch.

Let Kalib Barb Halil hear her voice — the first sharp cry of her taking.

She had chosen.

***********************************************************************

I think He (Will) is fucking *brilliant*. Do let me know what YOU think. We’re both interested in your feedback!

~nilla~

 

 

9 thoughts on “Dancer Reprise–A Tale of Two Writers

  1. Nice one guys. Usually vignettes of this length are so similar it’s hard to focus on them anymore. But this is an interesting little picture of the moment a girl realizes she is dancing for someone…and why.

    1. thank you for your comment postcardfantasy…(penelope?) It was fun to do this little project with Will. He’s the bomb!

      nilla

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