The Professor & The Dancer

She had to stop him again and again, scolding him, not, she told herself, like a parent, so much as one training a magnificent man-beast to leap, stretch, bend and lift. And dance. Oh yes, he could do it. She knew the others were grumbling. "Why this nobody, this kid with one-tenth of the experience and practice and timing that they had? Why him? Whisper, whisper, grumble, grumble." And they could see the attraction, so of course they were sure Cachonda had lost her cool, just wanted to get felt up every day by her boy-toy; probably went home and sucked him dry every night, rode him hard and put him up wet. After all, look at how exhausted he was, the circles under his eyes. Look at the frikken hard-on he had half the time. Damn, that was unprofessional.

Someone left him a dance belt to hold his gear in place more discreetly with a note that said, "Please be a pro and wear it and, dude, chill."

Should she have been the one to educate him? The trouble was she wanted him to be aroused when he danced. She had built moves where he ground himself into her from behind, grasping her by the hips as she squirmed to get away. Another phrase had him backed against the altar while she ran her hands fiercely up his legs, over his crotch and up his chest to his face. Now that his 'business' was neatly tucked in she would miss the little quiver and stiffening she felt every time she rehearsed that move.

But Ariel was becoming a true dancer. For a man so massive he was able to move with incredible lightness. He understood, though sometimes his face twisted as he tried to get what she was telling him, showing him, pushing his body to do. But then a light in his eyes winked on and it was as though some dance spirit had moved into his body. It pulled him along, making smooth muscular lines that were true and somehow enchanting. When Antoine saw this he would be jealous, but, but ... he would understand.

They rejoined the others on a hot day in early August. She had taken longer than she planned to train Ariel, but she knew he would not fail her or disappoint the others. They would be jealous and they might even mock him or jostle him to throw him off his game. But she was not worried. He was a natural. And he was big. And she wanted to use any jealousy as part of the story. These young people should be competitive. The men should want to fight him, or fuck him, or both. The women should want to fuck him and fight her. All grist for the mill.

As they got into the spirit of the thing, the men began to strip to the waist, to get cool, yes, but also to reveal their tight pecs and ripped abs. The women were still practicing in a potpourri of outfits, from tight lycra to baggy sweats. But on that very hot late August afternoon, Nyama, the woman dancing the rival princess stopped and screamed.

"This is ridiculous! Look at all these guys. They can dance in nothing but a pair of shorts while this stupid bra grabs me every time I move. That's enough!"

She ripped off her top and tore the bra from her body revealing her high, tight breasts.

"Now, let's dance!"

And she started ululating and prancing around, knees high, alternating with buttocks twerking, breast swinging freely from side to side.

"That's what I'm talking about! Sisters?!"

She bounded up to the Ariel and madly shook her breasts at him.

His face lit up and a giant smile wrapped across his face. He glanced at his fellow male dancers. This was a challenge. He leapt up and sauntered around her popping his chest and flexing his arms. She waggled her ass. He popped his hips and lifted his knees. She pranced around him.

The rest of the company followed suit, bras came off and were thrown in the corners in contempt, and soon all the couples were posturing around each other; bodies becoming slick with sweat; eyes smokey but shining. There was no music and yet the room was filled with the pounding of invisible drums.

Some couples were men and men, women and women. The male couples twisted around each other, millimeters apart; mouths agape, animals catching each others scent, preening, showing off their toned shoulders and tight asses. The female couples matched breast to breast and mirrored each other, spooned each other front to back, dancing backs against bellies. Everyone was crooning, howling, and moaning; filling air with hisses and whistles.

Prof. Cachonda was furiously taking notes. This was more than she imagined and better; but could she get away with it? This was digging deep into the real stuff. If she enabled this level of freedom, there was no going back. But in her gut she knew she wouldn't stop it. This was exactly what she wanted, and to look at the faces of her students, they were enchanted. Maybe she could build just enough esthetic bullshit around it in the project description and the program notes that few could object. She would be sure to include multi-ethnic music and body painting, and root everything in deep tradition. The Puritan New England undertow would be ashamed to challenge her elevation of diversity. Yes, she had it.

She built herself a mashup of world music in the dark hours; lots of percussion; call and response, ululation, native instruments. She laid it throughout the performance on a bed of Ravel's Bolero, the music building and becoming more fiery.

She invented a story: She was the powerful matriarch of a traditional village, sage in the arts of folk medicine, sexual initiation, and deep magic; a tribal leader, shaman, griot, wise-woman, teacher of arcane arts. Her mate had been killed by this young man from a rival village in a great battle. She needed to be requited. At first she could not decide if she would poison him or take him as her new lover and king. She gave herself a dramatic solo in which she switched rapidly from strong, erotic thrusts to great chopping motions as she imagined destroying her opponent. Then softening surrender.

She had her Amazon princesses echo her queen's dance, reveling in their sexual power, miming the taking and tying of men, using them until they were satisfied; titillating the hidden group of warriors come from the opposing village to capture the queen. But her Amazons distract and charm the warriors and capture the young chief as he secretly admires the queen.

The next plot twist was that the queen had decided to kill the warrior prince when she saw that a beautiful young Amazon in her own village wanted him. For the Amazon she chose a tall Asian woman with beautiful golden skin, magnificent thighs and shoulders, whipping shiny black hair that fell to her ass, makeup like a fierce bird. She and this princess danced an erotic pas de deux accompanied only by drums: buttocks moving in slow circles; then wild pelvic thrusts; undulating abs and breasts lifted by rapid, passionate breaths. In the end of that dance they wrestled, shining with oil and sweat and only by will alone was the Queen able to defeat the princess; offering her as a prize to the opposing warrior general.

She had the men, oiled up, wrestle in pairs and in groups, tight muscles flexed against each other. A mad tug-of-war. A slow motion capoeira inspired mixed martial arts. At first the women were forced to watch; huddled tight against each other, hands clamped over bosoms and bellies. Then, to distract the men, they worked their own power, dancing with sensuous hip thrusts, sudden leaps, and bent postures with arched backs so as to twerk their tight dancers' rumps.

They carried the queen to a high platform where she writhed to the music, becoming more and more frantic; the male dancers and some of the female dancers swept up in her magnetic lust. But one by one she rejected them, until finally, her quarry, her chosen dancer, the warrior prince of the other tribe fiercely approached her. Now the queen needed to win the heart of the prince. She would have him and make the child, the heir she needed before it was too late.

This was not just a mating dance. It was mating. She had hidden this from the rest of the company and the faculty and admin advisors until they had passed on her dance, shaking their heads but grinning with secret delight. Most didn't give a shit about "maintaining a proper institution" or possible lost donors.

What happens at U stays at U and parents and others should know that. This was where new ground and a lot of hymens were broken. Perhaps this one would get her fired. She didn't care. She was ready to move on, one way or another.

The plot of the piece had a climactic wedding scene in which the two villages joined, couples paired and then did an ecstatic dance that linked to old-time rock and roll and current hip-hop with traditional ceremonial dances. But her 'twist' was that to prove his worthiness the prince had to show he could match her sexual energy in a special ritual, a ritual in which she seemed to be submissive but was able to reveal her power.

For this scene she had her crew built two 'palm trees' side by side in a wide vee, just wide enough so she could brace her legs and arms against them, spread-eagle about two feet up. The young village women prepare her for the ritual, giving her a magic make-up mask and a magnificent headdress, clothing her in a 'dress' that draped from the shoulders like a long grass skirt, barely hiding her breasts and secret parts. They anoint her body with oils that run down her face, neck, breasts and belly. Then in a ritual abduction they bind her and carry her to the trees. There she is lifted and bound between the trees, arms spread wide, legs stretched apart; forced to drink a strength-building concoction that is also an aphrodisiac. Then she was left to wail and growl and struggle.

Meanwhile the prince was being similarly prepared. Stripped to nothing but a loincloth he is decorated with 'tattoos' that make him scream but show his strength. He too is coated in oil and fed a strength potion.

The women and the men dance mating dances to encourage their 'champion' to win. Who will have the strength to outlast the other? Will the prince fill the queen so full she will have a child before nine moons? Will they match each other in energy, in temperament? Will lust become love?

Huge drums begin a low slow rhythm as the prince makes his journey to his bride-queen. He walks with strength, pride and sex. The queen also hears the drums and realizes she cannot escape. Sweet love flute tones weave between the beats as she realizes she will need to use all her powers to win over her 'opponent'. He approaches. He stops, his broad back and powerful buttocks shining with oiled muscle. He spreads into a Maori haka stance and does a fierce and funny ritual, showing he is so ready for this dangerous she-demon.

And then the 'battle.'

By dress rehearsal they knew they had something earth shaking. Professor Cachonda discreetly had some of her friends in the dance community email or tweet a critic here, a dance writer there. She concocted an academic press release to go to other colleges, speaking of "Professor Thalia Cachonda's desire to reveal the cultural fusion that contains ethnic conflict at its core ... A collaborative piece inspired by the elemental power women bring to the psycho-sexual conversation inherent in gender relations. ... an effort to reveal identity fluidity by juxtaposing cis stereotypes with shamanic symbolism in ritual courting behavior ... " and other such creative bullshit to paste on the avante garde burlesque ballet she was going to clobber them with.

The group was on fire and she could tell from the glances, the whispers, the lingering touch here or there that they wanted each other. She felt a twinge of guilt when she saw that a couple of the straight women were letting their hair down with the gay women. Some straight men were easier around the gay men in private moments. They all shared a secret, a knowledge that they had tapped into something very deep, very elemental. But she had to stop it.

"Listen up!" She shouted as they all lay about gasping after the final runthrough. "That was great, not good enough, (groan) but pretty damn amazing. The only element left is to really believe it. Forget that you learned steps and are executing moves on beats. Tomorrow I don't give a shit (Huh?) Or rather, I give a shit more than ever, but I want you to 'be in the dance', 'be in the village', believe the story and live it. So here's the thing, I know this thing has cranked up your libidos to eleven. Fine. Good. And I know it has spawned some hot new relationships. I'm down with that. But tonight, tonight you are in training. It's like the Olympics tomorrow. So get some good eats that won't make you fart tomorrow. (Eeew! Gross!) Get plenty of sleep, and ... (here it comes) ... you must sleep alone. (What? No!) I mean zero sex and that means not even with yourself. (What the fuck?) No handy electronic devices. No sexting unless you can promise not to relieve yourselves. (Damn!) Seriously, boys and girls, I want you with me on this. Shut up Jason. Not that way.

"I want you to have blue balls and blue ovaries tomorrow. I never said this ... are the doors locked ... but I want you to come into this tomorrow so horny for each other that it hurts. Got it? And guess what? I will check up on you and if I catch you out you get an automatic D in my course. (Whaaaat?) I'm serious. This is part of the dance and it is important. And trust me, I will know if you have been banging tonight.

"So, pleasant dreams, kiddies. Great work. Looking forward to a fabulous performance tomorrow.

"Oh, one more thing. Right now, find your final mate in the dance and stand face to face. Now I want everyone, and I mean everyone, even those in committed relationships to others, to embrace your partner and give them as soulful a kiss as you can manage..."

She grabbed Ariel and followed her own instructions. His kiss was intoxicating, his arms shaking a little as he held her, and his cock rose and said a firm, "I want you." She broke off.

"Now stop and say goodbye. Don't talk to them again until tomorrow. I don't care if you are roommates. No intercourse of any kind. Now go."

She pushed Ariel away. He walked off fast, his hands in front of him.

Some of the dancers lingered, reluctant to let go. She gave them the hairy eyeball and shooed them out.

Would she be able to abide by her own rules? She was so ready to give herself a fast, rough wank, just beat that achy itch out of her. But no. Rules is rules, even for her.

But she was about to be tested. As she passed the huge oak in the middle of the quad a strong arm reached out and snagged her; dragging her against the rough trunk, sweaty body and man-smell crushing her into it.

"I can't wait." Ariel's voice came from way down in his throat, a hungry little boy, a desperate man. His mouth was on her neck, his tongue flipping at her ears, tiny bites on her shoulders. She was human. She was a woman and something elemental kicked in. Her palms were jammed against the tree as his arms swarmed around, not just touching, but digging into everything he could reach. Could she help it if her ass surged back against him where his urgent stiffness wanted to push through fabric and bury itself deep inside her?

For tantalizing moments she let him ride her, pinch her nipples, snatch wet kisses from the side of her mouth. But she had to stop him. She had to be an example to her crew. And she wanted Ariel to keep those blue balls. She wanted them to wait on her and need her. Of course, if she rejected him he might corral some other dancer, or some surprised coed, or village girl. She had to have a plan.

"Stop! Ariel. We have to be the examples for this. No, really, it's not that I don't want you. You have no idea how I could eat you alive right now. No. Stop. I planned this and I need you with me on this plan. Breathe. Chill."

She grabbed his swollen balls in one firm hand and squeezed, squeezed until she knew it had to hurt some.

"Holy! What?"

"Easy, easy now, big boy. I just need you, and me, to chill down." She used her best horse whisperer voice. "You calmer now?" She was still breathing hard and her quim ached to have something hard churning it. This was going to be a hard night, and not the way she wanted. Especially if they did what she was going to suggest.

"Ariel?" She looked him in the eye from up close, taking his face in her hands. "Ariel, you and I are going to be the sex police tonight. We are going to conduct raids. I'm going to get a master key card from the head housekeeper and we are going to check up on our charges. We are going to do our damndest to keep them on the straight and narrow. K? We are going to spend the night together, but not the way we want. Got it?"

"Shit." She squeezed his nuts again. "Ow. Okay. But when this is over ..."

"Yes. That's the idea. Now let's go. I have an idea where some of our terpsichoreans are trying to cheat mama. Come on."

She made a hard dash for "The Grove," a mossy spot in the woods adjoining campus-- where many a virgin had been deflowered. Randy as bonobos, three of their couples were tangling in various creative poses on the soft turf. She put on her fiercest voice.

"All right, listen up! When I say 'no fraternization' I do not mean 'head for the woods and buck like funnies.' Come on, crew, this is important. Tomorrow night after the performance you can roister each other until you are blue in the face. But tonight I want you to stay fresh. Stay horny. Think about what you want to do to each other. Now break it up ... separately."

There was a lot of grumbling and growling and "Professor Cachonda you are a Nazi," but they all went their separate ways. Would they hook up again later? Not if the dance Nazi had anything to say about it.

__________________ * ____________________

Fit the third

The dance was a roaring success, alpha to omega. The dancers poured themselves into the performance and everyone in the audience could see, feel, and even smell the creative sexual tension in the air. What had been carefully crafted choreography became a true fertility ritual. The fights were fierce. The pairing of couples magnetic. And the final scene where Ariel took her was a masterpiece.

She could have had a simulated ritual mating act as the climax of the piece followed by a ceremonial mating dance. But she turned the ending on its head. The riotous dance happened as Ariel approached her, bound to the trees. But at the moment when he could have taken her, pressing against her splayed hips and churning in, he stopped. And dropped to his knees as though in worship as her hips writhed before his hungry mouth.

And blackout.

In rehearsal she had worn a custom made leather thong under dangling dancing strips of leather. Now she wore nothing. As the drums and cries and raucous music continued in the darkness she freed one hand and pulled Ariel's head against her very moist vulva. His 'kiss' was all she could have wanted; strong tongue finding the parts that were hurting to be anointed.

She had told the crew to hold the blackout for a full two minutes. In the dark the audience as on its feet and not a few were kissing each other with not a little lust.

She came, grinding hard and heedless against Ariel's mouth. A deep breath and she was ready for her curtain call.

With the joyous cast around them it is unlikely anyone noticed Ariel's glistening mouth.

She had waited long enough. The dance was finished. She was finished and a little drunk from the post-dance reception. Tired of faculty and patrons blowing wind up her skirt about how she was "daring and innovative" "Pushed boundaries" "broke ground in the nebulous area between academic exploration and courageous artistic expression." She knew they were hot and bothered in three or four different ways. At least three male members of the faculty, two female members, and a very wealthy female patron clearly wanted to get into her pants right away and all made noises meant to seduce her, slightly too personal stuff about how her body spoke, and connected directly with their deepest sensibilities. Academics were so good at well-filtered bullshit. They would never say, "Your dance got me so hard I almost came in my pants," or "When you were strapped to those trees I couldn't help imagining it was me with my mouth buried in your vulva." But she knew she got them by the short hairs. Now it was her turn.