LA PETITE DANSEUSE

Last night she’d had the dream again. The one where the statue had come to life. The little dancer, no longer barely nine inches tall, but as tall as a real woman. The dancer had embraced her, wrapped her warm, naked arms around her and kissed her cheek. A gentle, cool, fleeting kiss. The dancer had taken her into her arms and they had danced together.

Surely the dancer was granting her permission?
Surely it was time?
She’d spent the day preparing herself. Contemplating the dream.

She knelt on the rug, gazing with rapt attention at the small statue. Her juices surged and gushed, dribbling between her thighs. She parted her thighs, wriggling her fingers beneath her panties, dipping her fingers between her labia lips. She scooped up the sticky fluid and brought it to her mouth. She lapped at her fingers, like a cat, relishing the savoury taste.

Her lips moved in wordless obeisance. Her clitoris throbbed, a small beating heart. She murmured a prayer, pleading for the statue’s acquiescence, fearing a small voice in her head, would tell her.
“Not yet…”
Or worse still, would whisper.
“No…never…”
Perhaps she had known it would always come to this. That one day the primal need would be irresistible and she would consume the little dancer.

Soft, flickering candles, lit the tranquil expression on the little dancer’s face. She’d placed a posy of primroses at her feet. Oblations for the goddess. She could stare at the little dancer for hours, drinking in her lines of harmony. She was perfection. One long, slender foot placed firmly forward, the other, balancing her body in the ballet position four. Her arms behind her, her small hands linked, her head and neck thrust forward. The dancer was alert and tense, but relaxed too. She looked as if she could hold the pose for hours, or raise herself into a graceful pirouette at any moment. Monsieur Degas had sculpted her tenderly, with loving care. His clever fingers, carving the first dancer, from a lump of ugly wax. Later, after his death, the bronze casts were made.

She stood, and took off her clothes. She didn’t rush. She had all night. What she was about to do was both sacred and profane.
When she was naked, she stood in front of her long cheval mirror and looked down critically, at her body. How different she was from the dancer. How large her breasts were, compared to the gamine shape of the statue. Her sensitive, aching nipples were hard peaks. She twisted them with her fingers, and moaned as a volt of electricity surged down to her clitoris. She turned, sideways on to the mirror, observing her figure in profile. Her belly was full and rounded, her buttocks wobbled when she moved. She struck up the same pose as the dancer. She was a poor comparison. She turned back to the statue. She licked her dry lips.

The odour of her sex juices filled the room. She was in a high state of arousal, her heart was beating fast. Her womb contracted violently in a spasm, her whole labia was swollen and pulsating. Her clitoris was poking out between her labia lips. She lowered her arm and touched it with her index finger. She let out a low moan, quivering, and her knees almost buckled. It took all of her self control not to ram her fingers into her slippery cunt. It would take a bit of time to get her whole hand in, but why not? She’d fisted herself before.

It seemed a long time ago, that she’d first seen La Petite Danseuse. She remembered the day well. She and Mark had wandered the bustling streets of Paris for hours, before finding themselves on the left bank of the River Seine, and stumbling into the grandeur of the Musee d’Orsay.
It was there that she had seen her. A lonely, yet serene, bronze cast figure. She’d felt as if she were gazing on something holy. She remembered how she’d shaken off Mark’s arm, and walked slowly, blushing and trembling, towards the glass cabinet, as if obeying a sacred command. She knew that the small statue was demanding her presence. She’d felt a profundity, and wanted to babble and fall to her knees, but some semblance of sanity held her and she stood still, quiet and reverential. There was a dull ache in her womb; her nipples were erect and tingling.
She could sense Mark standing behind her. She prayed he wouldn’t touch her and break the spell. She had no idea how long she’d stood there. But at some point she’d realised she was cold. She’d turned to face Mark and looked into his worried face. He’d told her she was pale. He’d taken her icy hands, into the warmth of his and she’d fallen into his arms, glad of his comforting strength. She’d felt frail and Mark had taken her to a street café, where he’d made her drink scalding, bitter, black coffee and insisted that she eat. He’d fed her sticky apricot pastries. The men on the table next to them talked in French, the language sounding exotic and lyrical. The men had smoked Gauloises; the heady fragrance perfuming the air.
They’d gone back to the tiny flat they’d rented for the weekend and she’d tried to explain to Mark what had happened to her, when she’d gazed upon the statue. How she’d felt mesmerized, as if she’d fallen into a mystical trance. As if a holy, numinous spirit had consumed her. But her words were as inadequate as if she were to try to explain a colour no one had ever seen, or a explain the lilt of a sonata to a deaf man.
They’d made love later, shivering in the chilly flat, laughing at the sagging mattress on the creaking bed. She hadn’t come. She never did, but she’d pretended she had, and Mark had seemed happy and fulfilled afterwards. He hadn’t realised. They never realised.

She’d lost touch with Mark after that weekend. His job had been transferred to another country and she supposed it was too much trouble for both of them to keep up the contact. But they’d parted as friends and a package had arrived in the mail for her, some weeks after he’d left. He’d sent her a resin replica of La Petite Danseuse.
“Not quite the real thing,” he’d written, in his graceful handwriting. “But I know you’ll cherish her.”


She stood and lifted the statue from the shelf. She stroked the dancer’s small face, taking in the sweetness and depth. How could the critics have ridiculed her? Saying she looked as if she had a vicious character? That she was a monster of appalling ugliness?

She pressed the dancer’s face to one nipple, then the other. She sighed, the statue was warm against her skin, like a living being.

She’d never orgasmed. She’d read enough about it to know what she was aiming for. She had all the appliances. Even with a powerful vibrator, she would almost get there. The rush that should happen was less than a heartbeat away. And then she’d lose it and be left, gasping for breath, sweating and frustrated. Wanting to try again, but knowing it would be hopeless.

She kissed the top of the dancer’s head, pausing for a moment, before parting her lips and taking her into her mouth. She shuddered, swirling her tongue around her; she took her farther in, but gagged, when she hit the back of her throat. The statue was too rigid. It would be dangerous to try further.

The muscles of her womb contracted powerfully, and she fell to her knees, clutching the statue to her breasts. Her womb ached as if it was bruised. Now was the time. Her heart raced. She knelt, positioning herself in front of the mirror, so she could watch. Her cunt was open wide, like a mouth, a hole, screaming for penetration. She raised herself on her knees and placed the dancer’s head on her clitoris. She let out a cry and pressed down hard. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was white and ghostly pale. High spots of colour lit her cheekbones. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. Her mouth was full and swollen with desire and with a sigh she slid the dancer’s head into her cunt. The statue squelched inside her wetness, as she rolled the head around pressing hard against the walls of her cunt, slurping her in and out.

She withdrew the statue from her. Sticky strands of juice drooled from the head, connecting the dancer to her cunt. She took the head into her mouth again, tasting her cunt juices, gobbling furiously.
She raised herself on her knees and pushed the statue into her cunt again, slipping her in up to her shoulders. She could feel her cunt stretching to accommodate her. Deeper still and she could feel the dancer’s hands, pressing against the delicate membrane that separated her cunt from her rectum. She wondered if she might pierce herself, make her rectum and cunt into one roomy chamber. She didn’t care.

Her cunt, her body weight and the floor, fixed the dancer like a vice, like a rigid dildo. She raised and lowered herself, watching in the mirror as the figurine appeared, then disappeared inside her cunt.
The build up of the orgasm took her by surprise. Her lips drew back in a snarl. This time, yes, this time, it was going to happen. It was too powerful to lose. Her pelvis pumped and jerked in a series of spasms. She looked like a dog humping. She started to make bestial, snuffling, grunting sounds as her hips jerked backwards and forwards, in and out. A sheen of sweat glistened on her body. She could feel it trickling in her hair and between her breasts. Her cunt opened voraciously to swallow and she sank herself down jamming the statue completely inside her. The tear of pain wasn’t enough to stop her, as the head of the statue bounced, again and again on her cervix. All that she could see of her now in the mirror, was the plinth that the dancer stood on. It was acting as a plug, a stopper, preventing her cunt from swallowing the statue completely.

A primitive roar came from deep inside her, as the warmth and rush of the come exploded, from her cunt and clit to her anus. She shook her head, like an angry beast as the tingling come surged up her spine, over her face, even into the roots of her hair. She no longer had control over her body as the come rushed over her breasts and into her nipples. She snarled again, as the rush tingled down the backs of her thighs, even into her clenched toes. She screamed and felt powerful, triumphant. She continued to grind herself down on the statue. Her breasts bounced and another surge of come started. She screamed again as she touched her clit with her finger and the rush began again. She thought she was going to die of pleasure. No wonder they call it ‘the little death.’

Finally, she tumbled forwards. Exhausted she let the dancer slide from her cunt and she brought her to her mouth, licking up the mess of blood and fuck juice, cleaning her.

Little comes echoed through the night, from her clit. Her cunt still spasmed open and closed. She fell asleep on the floor that night, curled on the rug like a satisfied cat. When she woke, the statue, still sticky with the remainder of her juices, was cradled between her breasts.