The touch she dreams about.
#5 of The world of the Spirit of '67
Elle Dante shares a little something, up one one of the stages of the Spirit of '67, and remembers, just a little, how she'd always wanted to be touched by a certain special someone.
Any (respectful) feedback, suggestions and commentary you may wish to express would be very appreciated.
//: 2105, City of San Iadras, Spirit of '67 adult club/theatre.
Another night was amicably passing by in the lounge-like anteroom of the Spirit of 67's 'Littlest Theatre'.
Sometimes there would be queues of patrons awaiting a performance in the anteroom's comfortable surroundings, but not on this quiet night. The room was carefully decorated with old world ambiance, wood panelled walls and plush red carpets in the manner of old smoking rooms. Armchairs and couches littered the room, on which smoking patrons lounged comfortably.
Marble-white statuettes ringed the room, each one of the nude form of a woman, each with idealised curves and lines, each one sporting a tail, or carefully textured in fur, or an animalistic face, or all three.
Up on a raised stage in one corner a fellow played a white baby grand piano. Unlike the mostly human guests of the Spirit of '67, he was a furry, and a talented musician. His cat-like face was rapt with concentration as he played, his padded fingertips gliding over the keys, bringing to life a gentle, almost wistful melody.
Meanwhile,a young lady wearing a pair of velvet cat-ears in her hair occasionally strolled casually around the room, carrying with care a tray laden with drinks which she offered to the patrons relaxing tonight.
Pleasant minutes and perhaps even hours passed by without much comment.
At last, a tall and thin looking gentleman opened the doors of the anteroom with care. He wore a tuxedo, his greying hair had been dyed a pale blonde, and tattooed around his eyes were the markings of a cheetah. He surveyed the room carefully as he stepped inside, followed by a pair of young fellows in tuxedos. Finally he spoke to the room at large, his voice clear and strong.
"Dear Guests. In fifteen minutes the littlest theatre's anteroom will be graced with an impromptu performance by Miss Elle Dante. For the length of her performance the room will be sealed and darkened, and guests are requested to remain quiet and seated for the duration." The gentleman cleared his throat briefly. "If this will in any way intrude upon your plans for the evening, we do invite you to join us at the third floor balcony bar."
He bowed briefly, then turned and left the room. The two fellows who had followed him in, the tails of their formal jackets joined by false furry ones, only stayed long enough to move a chaise longue (A kind of long couch with just one arm-rest) up onto the front of the stage, then departed.
The young lady dispensing drinks made just one last more round, whilst the various guests enjoying the anteroom's atmosphere gradually straightened up, paid a little more attention to the stage, shifted their seats slightly. An occasional guest wandered into the lounge, took a seat and settled down. None left.
The doors of the anteroom opened briefly, to admit one last male figure which made its way up to the stage. A formally dressed and unassuming man whom wore a masquerade mask with the visage of a fox. He brought candles out of a cloth bag at his feet, lit them one by one with a small electrical lighter, and placed them out around the chaise longue on the stage.
A few moments passed before the vulpine butler finished the last of the candles, enough to illuminate the chaise longue in the anteroom's slowly dimming lights. Leaving the candles, he too made his way out of the anteroom.
Time crept along, its passing marked by the piano's music. Finally the lights of the anteroom dimmed away to nothing but shadow, sending an anticipatory hush across the room. Little by little, things quietened until all that was left was the piano's soulful melody and the candle-lit sight of the chaise longue upon the stage.
The anteroom's doors opened once, the bright lights of the hallway throwing the figure of a woman in an evening gown into silhouette, until the doors shut once more.
Footsteps led to the stage and piano as the lady crept up, half-visible in the shadowy edge of the candlelight's glow.
She whispered to the Piano player, "Thomas... play something a little more... nostalgic. Please?"
The musician, this Thomas, bowed his furred head once. The piano music ended for just a heartbeat before starting afresh. There was a certain slow hesitance to the melody at first, as though each note was testing out the air, trying to see if it belonged there, until a little confidence fell into the music.
"Thankyou," she whispered. The lady leaned forward, seemed to kiss Thomas's furred cheek in the darkness, and withdrew once more.
Bit by bit, a certain power entered the melody Thomas played, almost mournful. It was a lilting rolling of music, washing back and forth, as though finding its feet. Every so often, the notes became softer, hesitant once more, and all over again it went.
The lady stepped up onto the stage on bare paws shaped almost like feet, lifting up the hem of her aqua blue evening gown with one furred hand carefully as she moved up through the candles. She cocked her hips as she reached the chaise longue, one knee slightly bent to peek through a long slit in the side of the evening gown.
That bare knee, her bare arms and her face were all covered in short and soft yellow-brown fur. Even softer tawny-white fur trailed down from her neck, forming a perfect V against the low neckline of her dress, the curve of her breasts soft and alluring. Her face wasn't quite human, bearing slightly more in common with that of a dog. She wore her hair, long and red, up in a tight bun.
She turned her gaze, a soft green in the dim light of the candles, over the shadowed anteroom. A moment passed, and she lifted a thin pen microphone to her lips.
"My name is Elle Dante," she said huskily, "and I'd like to just ask a little something."
She trailed one hand over the woodwork and upholstery of the chaise longue, looking down at it contemplatively. "What is it," she asked, "about a lover's touch?"
Elle ran her thin fingertips over the chaise longue's cushioned velvet. "Maybe, maybe it's his hand," she whispered, her voice played out through hidden speakers, trailing her fingers across the fabric as she began to circle the chaise longue. "Holding mine."
"You'd think it's simple," she continued more clearly, standing tall while the shimmer of candlelight played out over her. "A hand is a hand, isn't it?" She looked up, as though somewhere high above an explanation might be found. She reached up, stroked her neck softy.
"But it's just not that simple." She brought up her hand, gently patted at her hair, as though checking the bun was still tight. "If my lover's hand was just another hand, his hand holding mine wouldn't make the beating of my heart get loud in my ears."
She wrapped both hands around the slim length of the pen mic, one around the other. "If his hand was just another hand, it wouldn't break my poor little heart in two when he let me go."
Elle shut her eyes, taking one deep breath. She let it all go in a long sigh. One hand holding the pen mic to her lips, she reached up to touch her forehead with the back of the other. "His kisses," she concluded, "just wouldn't make me burn inside, if his lips were just anyone's lips."
"So being touched by my lover," she whispered, opening her eyes and looking down at the candles, "isn't so simple at all."
"We'd dance together," she said, starting to sway, stepping this way and that, hands out as though slow dancing with an invisible partner to the piano music, eyes shut again, "his body against mine sending electric thrills through my body."
She drooped her head slightly, a though leaning it on her invisible partner's shoulder, one pointed ear flicking and quivering. "I don't think a lover's words are just words," she said, "because when we dance, if my lover puts his mouth to my ear, his breath hot, and whispers that he loves me, my knees would go weak, and I want him beside me, warm and strong."
"I don't think," she breathed, her dance coming to a halt, "that words can ever make you feel like that, unless they're your lover's." She pressed one hand flat over her chest and neck, rubbed softly. "My lover knows I like jewellery," she said, even though she wore none now, "because it makes me feel beautiful."
She moved back to the chaise longue, flicking out her stiff tail as she sat down, back to the audience. She trailed her free hand over her neck and shoulders caressingly. "It didn't matter if it was diamonds or glass, pearls or plastic. But all the same, he'd put a necklace around my neck," she continued, "his hands ever so gentle, his fingers caressing my neck. It could be silver, or even just nickel, just so long as I could look into his eyes and see myself there, pretty and perfect in his eyes"
She reached behind her back awkwardly with her free hand, felt around a few moments for the evening gown's zip. "Then he'd kiss me, hold me close. I'd feel like I was floating, while he holds my pretty little hand and leads me upstairs." She found it, dragged it down to reveal the tiger-stripes covering her back from just under the shoulders down, slowly pulled the shoulder straps down, one then the other, displaying her naked back in the candle-light.
"My lover would take me to his bed, make me feel comfortable as he started to strip my body nude," she said, turning her head, showing the profile of her muzzle to the audience. She reached up with one hand, began to pull the clips out of her hair, letting her long red hair slip down over her bare shoulders. "He'd rest one hand on my shoulder, and I'd shiver."
She lifted her head again, taking a deep breath. "Then my lover's hand would slip from my shoulder, and he'd kiss me," she sighed. "My eyes would be closed, but I'd know they were my lover's lips, because I'd start to burn, burn and want his naked body against mine."
She stood then, her dress slipping down down her body, leaving her standing there nude. She turned, presenting her profile to the audience, standing with one knee bent slightly, the tiger-stripes of her back curving down over her buttocks and just to her thighs. She brought up one hand, scrunching her hair up against her head. She let go, and her red locks fell over her shoulders, down over her tawny-white breasts.
She sighed longingly, slowly draping herself over the chaise longue. She lay on her side, away from the audience, toes delicately pointed. She flicked her head, sending her hair cascading back down over her shoulders.
"He'd never, ever be content to kiss me just once," she breathed into the pen mic. "No no, he'd trail his lips down my body, and I'd start to ache between my legs..."
She rolled just a little to lay on her back, bending one leg, letting it sag aside, showing the audience her inner thigh. "My lover would tease me then, just a little," she said, lifting her free hand and trailing her fingertips down the inside of her leg. "Delicate pitterpat kisses, like raindrops in my fur. Making me wet."
"But he wouldn't tease me long. No. He'd feel the need in me, lap at me gently. Gently, as though he felt me burning up inside," she moaned, "and he wanted to cool me with his tongue."
She took a deep sniff of air, arching her back, pressing one hand down over her crotch. "But my lover's tongue is hot," she groaned, "so hot, he makes the burning in me feel like frost."
"But he caresses me with his tongue, with gentle lapping, till I melt and moan. Then he'd crawl back up my body, pressing his against mine," she whispered, dragging her hand from her crotch up her body, cupping one breast.
"Then my lover'd whisper something to me, something soft and sweet and meaningless," she trails off, dropping the pen mic beside her head as she slid her other hand down her body.
She draped one leg off the side of the chaise longue, spreading her legs, displaying the red curls of her pubic fur. "All of a sudden, I'd feel his hardness," she whispered, holding out two stiff fingers in the air, slowly dipped those two stiff fingers against her vagina, "against my softness."
"He'd tell me, that my fur felt like velvet, and that," she moaned, thrusting her fingers into herself, "that inside, I felt like fiery silk..."
"He'd ride me gently at first," she groaned huskily, dipping and pulling back her fingers, which were becoming wetter with each stroke, gleaming in the candlelight. "My lover, oh, my sweet lover," she cried. "He'd bite my hair, squeeze my body, love me faster, harder!" she yelped, grinding her hips while she bucked her hands, driving her fingers into herself.
She reached down with her second hand, spreading open her labia, lifting her hips up slightly, showing her pink wetness to the audience,even as she relentlessly stabbed her fingers into herself, over and over. "He'd see me," she moaned desperately, "a-and love me, l-love me true in the perfect, p-perfect moment he's giving me..."
She squealed suddenly, her body convulsing as she came. Her not quite human, almost animal face twisted in pleasure and desperate desire. Her body quivered and shook, her legs stiffened, leaving her moaning and panting on the chaise longue, her nude body perfect and wet in the candle-light.
She lay a few moments, sagging down further with each deep breath, eyes shut. She breathed deeply, quickly, her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
Slowly she could breath normally again, and she reached up with one, still shaky hand, to pick up the pen mic. She brought it to her mouth, and whispered, "just what is it about a lover's touch, that does that to a girl?"
She sat up slowly, reaching down to where her evening gown fell, gathering it up. She shut her eyes, and let out a deep sigh. "What is it about a lover's touch, that I dream of, night after night..."
She stood slowly, walked down off the stage and into the anteroom's darkness, her legs trembling. The anteroom's doors opened, the light of the hallways back lighting Elle, turning her once more into a silhouette.
She glanced back inside, before bringing up the pen mic one last time, "A lover's touch, which I was never given," she whispered, her voice filled with deep regret as she finally turned and left.
The anteroom's doors closed behind her.
The playing of the piano silenced.
The lights slowly rose.
And that was all.