Ladybug Waltz

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In the dream, I push through the double doors into a wide ballroom bigger than any room I’ve ever imagined before. At least, I think it’s a dream. It feels like a dream; my legs feel like they’re churning through warm water with every slow, languid step, and the sounds in the room have a distant, echoey quality. Like they’re not really happening. I hear the speech of the women in the room, but it’s like birdsong to my ears.

But if it’s a dream, I don’t know when I fell asleep. I can’t seem to remember a time when my mind didn’t have this distant, hazy feel to it. The further back I try to remember, the further back things become hazy, until it feels like I’ve lived my whole life in this strange, dreamy trance. Perhaps I have. My only guide is memory, and I know that’s not very reliable right now.

But it must be a dream. I know it must be a dream, because the woman walks up to me and takes my hand, and I know who she is. The way that you know people in dreams without being introduced. She’s my dance instructor. She’s here to teach me how to dance. I walk alongside her through the vast ballroom. Other women are already dancing, in pairs or by themselves. Many of them are naked. Somehow, this does not seem strange to me.

I hear music, but I cannot identify the tune. The beat is familiar, though, a 3/4 tempo that seems to tattoo itself into my brain after only moments. I find myself walking in 3/4 time, blinking in 3/4 time, breathing in 3/4 time. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. The music is relentless, insidious. I find myself thinking of Madeleine L’Engle and I don’t know why.

My dance instructor guides me to a pile of soft cushions that have been placed on the floor. I notice several other piles just like it, placed seemingly at random. This must be a dream, and I decide to treat it as such from now on. Because this only makes sense with dream logic. Why are some women dancing, and other women entwined in passionate embraces on the cushions on the floor? Why do so many of them seem to be gazing at nothing, their faces empty of expression? Why don’t I feel any shock at seeing women writhing in sixty-nines, moaning softly into each other’s cunts as they buck against each other’s chins in 3/4 time? How did I even get here?

So it is a dream, then. I feel a part of myself relax, as I stop wondering when I fell asleep. It no longer matters. Perhaps I fell asleep after dinner, wandering into a spare bedroom during Chantal’s endless tour of her endless mansion and letting the rich food lull me into a slumber. Perhaps I fell asleep during the dinner, letting one of Chantal’s coterie chatter aimlessly while my mind wandered so thoroughly it hasn’t come back yet. Perhaps I fell asleep while walking to the ballroom, my feet moving me while my eyes slipped shut and I walked into a dream-version of the room I entered. It no longer matters. I am asleep now, and I can let the dream guide me where illegal bahis it will.

My dance instructor smiles at me. She tells me it is time to learn the ladybug waltz.

I make a tiny frown of dismay. I am sorry, I say, but I do not know the ladybug waltz. I realize that this is a foolish thing to say; if I knew the ladybug waltz, I would not need to be taught. But I feel a sense of shame nonetheless at my ignorance of cultured ways. I feel as though I have embarrassed my hostess by coming to the party as a poor American girl instead of one of the chic and stylish French heiresses whose company I have fallen into.

My dance instructor caresses my cheek, though, and tells me, Oh, but you do know the ladybug waltz. You simply do not know that you know. It is the oldest dance in the world, ma cherie. We all know the ladybug waltz, but we forget until it is time to dance it again. Reassured, I hold out my hands to my dance instructor, waiting for her to take them and show me the steps.

She takes my hands, but instead of moving me around the room, she pulls me gently down to sit on the cushions. I do not understand, I say. How can we dance while sitting down?

The ladybug waltz is performed with the fingers, she replies. This makes perfect sense to me, the way that nonsensical words often do in dreams. I smile at her as she sets my hands in my own lap and begins to dance with me.

She places her fingers on the back of my neck, so gently that they feel almost ticklish to the touch. Then she glides them, whisper-soft over the nape of my neck, brushing at the tiny hairs at the base of my scalp. They tease and tickle their way along to the ridge of my collarbone, brushing against the seam of my dress, and I feel myself tremble in 3/4 time. Awake, I would be ashamed of my sighs. But this is Paris, and a dream of Paris at that. Things are different here.

Her fingers continue the waltz, tracing the line of my collarbone around to the hollow of my throat. I tilt my head back without even realizing it, giving her hands the full expanse of my neck to roam over. The touch is so light, so fine, and I realize that this is where the waltz got its name. Her fingers creep across my skin, as though they touch every nerve individually. I hear myself moan, and feel the faint vibrations of the sound as my throat thrums against her skin.

She brushes against my carotid artery, and I feel my own pulse, hot and red against her touch. This is part of the ladybug waltz, I realize, and I know then that I do know the dance. My body knows exactly how to breathe, how to flush, how to tremble with heat as my dance instructor caresses me, and I find myself so happy to learn from her. I know that there are steps she has yet to teach me. I cannot wait to discover them.

I feel her gently trace the line of my throat up, then along my chin to the swell of my lips. My mouth opens as if to receive communion, and I taste the salt illegal bahis siteleri of her skin as she slides one finger between my lips and lets me suck on it. She slides it in and out, slick with saliva, and it feels like a premonition as I take it into my warm, wet mouth. Then she withdraws it, and I feel a trail of drying moisture as she traces along my flesh once more.

Her fingers walk along to the back of my neck again, finding my zipper. One hand pulls it down with practiced skill, the other greets every centimeter of new flesh as it is exposed. Only when the cool air hits my warm flesh do I realize just how aroused I am. Only when the dress falls free from my breasts and puddles in my lap do I understand just how badly I wanted that.

Her fingers caress the base of my spine, and I buck forwards involuntarily, causing my breasts to jut towards my teacher and sway for long moments. Her eyes light up, but I already understand the ladybug waltz well enough to know that she will not touch them, not yet. Her fingers move in 3/4 time, but the waltz has a different tempo, and we are still moving too slow for that. The knowledge makes the buds of my nipples tighten and stiffen.

Her fingers curl back around the swell of my hips, pushing fabric aside everywhere they touch. I feel her hands gently, always oh so gently that it maddens me brushing at my stomach, circling my belly button, running up my sides just at the swell where my breasts meet my ribcage. I want to grab her hands and press them tightly to me, but my only steps in this dance are to tremble and whimper and moan.

She leans in and kisses me, hard and fast and over before I know it. The kiss is like a dagger, striking swiftly in underneath my defenses and leaving me helpless. I feel my legs coming apart of their own accord, the skirt sliding up my thighs deliciously as I spread them wider. No, as they spread themselves. I am no longer in control of any part of myself. I am dancing the ladybug waltz.

She kisses me again, the kiss distracting me from her hands as they move to my breasts, the feather-light touch of her fingers on my nipples distracting me from her tongue as it slips into my mouth. Everything is distracting me from something else, now. I am in a state of utter distraction, driven to it by my teacher’s expert fingers and her expert mouth. I cannot breathe, I breathe too fast. I feel as though I can no longer support myself, but her touches seem too light to be holding me up.

She breaks the kiss and stares into my eyes, holding me with her gaze. The ladybug waltz is best when danced by two, she whispers to me, and although I am too aroused to think, my fingers understand her words. They reach up and whisper along her arms, softer than a feather, softer than the whisker of a kitten, soft as the touch of a ladybug on the skin. Her eyes burn with lust now, but she does not break rhythm for even a moment.

She runs her fingernails canlı bahis siteleri down over my breasts, scraping a trail over the nipples that causes me to gasp sharply as she slowly traces down my belly. For a moment, I feel them through cloth instead of skin as she scratches gently over the layers of bunched fabric around my waist that are all that is left of my modesty, then I feel them brushing against my thighs. They work gently around the circumference of my leg to the sensitive (so sensitive) skin next to my pussy.

My own fingers are not idle. They cannot be, they are dancing the ladybug waltz. I have had no practice, but my teacher is right, my fingers know all on their own without my mind’s involvement. She shrugs herself out of her strapless dress, exposing herself to my eyes and my fingers. I am not sure which caresses her more thoroughly.

She leans forward as I lean back. I will never know which happened first; we are dancing in perfect synchronicity now, both of us lost in the ladybug waltz but I am so much more lost than she. The cushions press against my back like a lover as she peels aside the damp and sticky fabric of my panties to find the treasure within. I moan as the ladybug crawls up into my folds. I buck my hips up and down in 3/4 time. Moan-two-three, yes-two-three, fuck-two-three, gasp-two-three.

She is more practiced than her student; she never wore any panties for me to remove. I slide my fingers into her pussy and gasp at the feverish heat of her slick cunt. She is so warm, so wet. I wonder if I would taste her, or if she is like food in a dream, never quite tasting of anything. I want so badly to find out, but I understand that there will be time. The way you understand things in dreams.

My orgasm comes upon me like a thief, stealing away my breath and leaving me so blissfully violated. My teacher’s fingers find my clit, brushing against it again and again and again, and without my even thinking, my own fingers touch hers the same way at the same time. We grind against each other, cumming in the rhythm of the ladybug waltz. It is the oldest dance in the world, and now that I remember, I dance it perfectly.

Only after I relax into the warmth of the afterglow do I remember just how loudly I was screaming. I do not mind, though. It is a dream, and there is no shame in dreams. My teacher kisses me and tells me that, and I wonder if she was always Chantal and I did not recognize her, or if she became Chantal the way that people sometimes change identities in dreams. I kiss her back, happy to see a familiar face in this dreamworld.

She tells me that it is time to sleep deeper now, sleep dreamlessly. She tells me I do not need to remember my dream upon waking. We all know how to dance the ladybug waltz, and part of the dancing is the forgetting how to dance until it is time to perform it again. The knowledge can sleep in my mind, Chantal says. Until she reminds me. Until she whispers in my ear, ladybug waltz. Then we will dance together again.

The last thing I remember hearing before I slide into deeper sleep is her promise to me. Next time, she whispers, I will be allowed to taste her.

THE END

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