It was the lift of a bare foot which drew his eye. He sat fifth row, center, fading into that time of indeterminate age where a man’s hands have grown soft. If he were to look in the mirror tomorrow morning, his hair would be white, although this evening, under the theatre’s house lights, it appears to be blonde as his son’s. For now, he sits with his legs crossed, right over left, hands folded together, patient with the performance. He even had a smile on his face, a pleasant one, Mrs. Louis Strauss would comment the next day to her friend, Mrs. Franklin Smythe-Jones.
His wife, The Hon. Mrs. John Baptist, Mabel to her friends, begged him to attend the fete for members of the Ballet Russes – two young people scratching for food and shelter as dancers. No, Mr. Baptist, not the Isadorables, they trained with Diaghilev’s troupe. They’re Russians, dear, from Paris. It seemed highly irregular to him, but Mabel followed “rages” and would beg, or plead, until his head ached and he allowed they be pursued. It led, of course, to tedious ‘entertainment’ and nights away from his club, but it kept his home quiet. Of course, even before the exhibition there’d been the tiresome round of piano and voice recitals by debuting daughters whose parents supported the club’s theatre.
John, as a Patron of the Arts, nodded his head in time, steady as a metronome; as bank president and Assemblyman, he wore his beneficent smile. Still, the glaze of boredom trailed from the crown of his head and pooled at his shoulders where it hardened and stiffened his neck. He was bound by the young woman’s endless arpeggio – tuneless and trite – to the wooden seat with its sternly straight back. His wife, sighed and smiled, whispered to a friend at her left, rustling like silk leaves.
When eternity finally ended he was almost too exhausted to clap. Eve’s parents had paid for the debutante’s six months of singing lessons, it hadn’t helped a whit that he could tell. She was followed by Frances Morton’s muddied ‘Claire de Lune’ and Esther Bardley’s painful ‘Magical Flute’.
Mabel refused to leave his side during intermission so he could not have his cigar, nor could he discuss the newest wave of Spanish peninsulares on the sugar and tobacco prospects he held in Cuba. His evening wear was confining, the fashionable collar too tall, his waist-coat felt too tight. He was growing stout as befitted Newark’s finest. He wanted to finger his collar like a schoolboy when the chimes struck. Mabel swatted his hand even though it was in his pocket. A good wife, her checks were always ahead of his intentions. She turned back to her friend, chatting and laughing on their walk back to the seats.
When the lights were extinguished the silence broke with the building strength of Rimsky-Korsakov’s conclusion to the Second Movement of Scheherazade. He found himself confused for a moment, wondering if he’d missed the first act. Center stage was lit with red gels then a white gown moved from stage right, shimmer caught by the light as thin shoulders moved in an arrogant stride, a dragging, sensuous walk. The first spark of a jewel captured his eye, drew it to the flesh of the bare foot which pointed, flexed, then took the weight of the step.
John felt his body tighten. The lagging foot came forward, pointed, the sole bare to the audience from the dancer’s turn-out. He was transfixed by the steps as the feminine body strode to center stage where she then turned sharply away from the audience. She raised her arms as she strode to the back; movement – asymmetrical, elbows bent, shoulders moving as though to shrug the offending silk from her bare arms.
At the crescendo of the Movement, a man’s naked torso lit across the stage. Posed, arrogant in its bare beauty, it silenced Newark.
The violin solo opening of the Fourth Movement pierced the shock. The woman turned to face the stage, right arm raised. The man, a golden slave, came behind Zobeide and lifted the white silk off of her as she arched back, arms trailing. He let the white silk fall to the floor. John’s balls clenched. The woman’s back was bare, her muscles gleamed and the Golden Slave lay at her feet. John grasped his hands together on his lap, watched her raise the slave to an embrace. His breath stopped when she arched back, hair pooling on the floor. The slave stretched, leaned his head across her torso and rested it below her breast.
The movement picked up, leading to its first variation crescendo, the male leapt then flew to the ground. She who had been all arabesques and attitudes, with arms long and lissome, posed in a crouch before him, her torso looking as bare as his, her arms posed, reaching out and down to her lover. The music then startled him again as instead of continuing it segued to the beginning of Movement Three. John felt his cock throb as she stretched her arms in a pinwheel, each movement a caress even as she went to her knees.
The surprise of the Young Prince’s gentle violins was not soothing. His woman stretched and arched, smooth muscles. He could see her ribs as her belly went concave. John felt his blood pound, the length of the notes drew his skin to the slave’s as the man caressed his princess. John wanted to reach out, wanted to stroke, feel the silk of her foot upon his own chest, wanted to feel it arch, her toes pointed at his own cock. He wanted her toes to rub him dry.
He could not even rustle in his chair. Mabel would notice. The wood bruised the back of his legs. He stilled, held his breath as his cock began to stretch, to move within his pants. Zobeide’s attitude lifted allongé, her Golden Slave rotated her for all to view. As she stepped back, John felt his seed rise as it hadn’t for years. He held back the smile at its rise, at the tightness growing in his scrotum.
Zobeide grasped her lover, her leg not splayed away from her body, but pulled close to that of her slave’s. Rimsky-Korsakov’s music took off into the sensual again, left the playful behind. The head of John’s cock wormed its way through to the silk covered placket of his wool pants. He clenched. The Slave pressed himself against Zobeide’s sweaty back. She moved away from him, hips swaying, arms moving like willows, when he embraced her again John felt his cock choke. The violins went staccato and Zobeide stretched in her run to return. Her body melted as she slid down his body. John felt hot.
She kissed his chest. Burning. She wrapped her arm around the Slave’s neck and licked. Tongue. John remembered the sting of sweat as it hit his tongue. She arched over him as she kissed. John buttocks clenched. Zobeide rose from the floor in pleasure he’d never seen come from Mabel. Strong. The slave leapt again and again while she writhed on the stage. John felt the judder push through his cock, wetness rubbing against the head even as he strained against thrusting. His jaw clenched. The Slave leaned over, took Zobeide. Their bodies wound around each other into a nest as the music returned to the First Movement.
Zobeide draped herself around the posing slave as she danced the end of the Princess’s pleasure. John jetted into his pants a third time. His thoughts were on her lips giving suck to his cock, pulling the last of his pleasure from him. The Golden Slave stroked her extended leg, then Zobeide draped herself against his chest and embraced him, back to front. John’s fingers moved for the first time in ten minutes, released to rub against the wool of the front of his pants.
At the last trill of the triangles and pluck of the violin chords, Mabel turned to him. Her eyes were shocked, her jaw open. She stood and turned to leave. The orchestra sat in their pit. The dancers lay on the floor. There was no applause, just nervous rustling as others stood, looking to escape as well. Mabel hissed, so scattered to be gone that she let her wrap drape to the floor, pushed herself past seated others.
Zobeide and her slave stood. Clasped hands and bowed. John put his hands together and clapped, once, twice, then stood himself and clapped for bravura.
© 2012 Nettie Kestler. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Bio: Nettie Kestler lives a comfortable life while her synapses misfire. She enjoys reading erotica and when she wants to do something else she writes her own, twisting her characters into unexpected shapes. Besides torturing innocent words, she can also be found in her garden deadheading flowers, or in the house repainting ceilings or upholstering walls. Her husband smiles and kisses the top of her head when her fingers are tapping at a keyboard because he and the dog are momentarily safe from one of her projects.