What a feelin'©  by SPAC

It was never my dream to ever to be judged for my dance again.   Everyone believed that it should have come natural to me.   And I guess it does.  I'd rather dance in my mirror than dance for others.   The best night of my life was when I performed lead in the Conservatory's version of 'Cats'.   I was heralded with offers, and presented roses.  At sixteen, I was a prima.   And then I walked away.  Today, I dance for myself, for my own personal enjoyment.  Oh yeah, I teach those with a passion to see their dream.  Mine died, when daddy died.   Several years ago, I danced for them-Alex and Nick, my parents and it were for the last time.   

*

The dream hasn't died.  It never was.   But I teach to elevate those who have the passion, to make it happen and need a coach to take them to the next level.

"That's it Kelly, very nice.   Point...Chucky...spin, hold it...hold it...yes!"

Their faces beamed.   She always gave encouraging words.

"You all were wonderful today.   That will be all.   Don't forget your Pointe shoes Tyra.  Well done Arcadian.   "Thanks Ms. Hurley."

"Oh...Arcadian..."

"Yes, Ms. Hurley."

"I wanted to tell you, that I think you rock!  You may not have won the million dollar prize, but if one million people voted and sent you a dollar, you'd still be underpaid.   So here's a 10.   My votes should count for something.  Right?"

"Ms. Hurley, you don't have to...I'm so over it."

"I know.  But, you're better than that show.  And a show is only as good as its rig.   And AGT is rigged!  See you on Thursday?"

"You bet...thanks Ms. Hurley, for everything."

**

Her mother Alexandria 'Alex' Owens-Hurley the famed legendary dancer is the current Director of Contemporary Dance at Juilliard.  Recognized as the visionary who married ballet, jazz, and street dance-she was once known as the shit choreographer of the school.  Just a mere six months until the end of her tenure, Alex is unaware that she is about to be unseated by a formidible foe, a student she pushed a little harder than his rigid ego would allow.

Every day, as she's done for the last seven years Alex enters the studio at 6:05 a.m. puts on his favorite music and shadow dances, as his ghost takes her into his arms and holds her close...spinning her lifeless until she falls into a heaping sweaty pile, coiled in fetal form against the studio floor.   At 7:30 a.m. Alana arrives to clean every thing up.

Alana aka Nikki was a former student of Juilliard.  She was the first to recognize that her mom wasn't quite mom.  But she's seen this behavior for so long that it's deemed normal to her.  

The bitchy ogre mom becomes for a moment in time-sublime, as she dances with the mental effigy of her late husband-that's the beast Alana hopes to tame.   So she allows Alex this ritual dance as long as no one knows that the glue has long since dried even though the edges remain loosely layered together.  

By the way, Alana loved to dance...once.   But the passion no longer propels her.  She wants more than to just dance, fearing it and love turns minds to mush when they no longer 'work' for you.

Pressure is on.  Alana has to hold it all together and shield her mother from shame and ridicule while keeping her own set of plates spinning in time.

Everyone needs a release.

Christian LeBorteaux is a free spirited French-Canadian who has nothing to love, nothing to care for except himself.   His job was Lead Instructor of Contemporary Dance.    His ambition-Directorship.  And one person stands in his way.   Alex is assigned the seat, but it's Alana who secretly governs the throne.    Nikki was willing to do anything to keep that seat for her mother, at least until her tenure ended.    At the end of the year she'd retire, with no public humiliation for her drunken stupor fits that always played to her detriment.    Christian was ready for play, and he could name the price to play to his dick's desire.   Her beautiful, sexy daughter Nikki who danced at the Zanzibar-would fulfill his fantasy and keep his ambition shelved until the end of the season.  

He wanted it now.   He wanted to be the youngest ever appointed to the position.    But far more, he wanted to humiliate Alex because she flunked him out of Contemporary Dance, told him he needed to hang with the street kids and learn the trade.   His F spelled no summer in France.   He'd have to repeat the class and prepare a piece for her personal dissection.

Nothing ever mattered much to him, other than knocking Alex Hurley out from her Director seat, and until he saw her dance.   Not any particular dance, just a simple pirouette to an old 80's tune.   He'd go to heaven the second after she gave him his final dance.   With her he could be magical again.   His pulled hamstring would spring into life again.    But Alana Hurley only dances for herself, not to be critiqued by others and certainly not for bargain.  

"You're very good."  He stood over her as she leaned on the bar top, tapping it lightly with her finger tips, and waiting for her tray to be filled by Micky Maroney, the club owner.  

"Yeah...so."

"...yeah...so.   Why do you piss it all away down here in the Zanzibar?  You should be dancing, really dancing."

"Times up!"   She slams the proverbial door in his face.   She seemed to be enthralled, lost in it.   She was a natural, probably slept in her Danskin.    She picked up the tray and pranced off, her hips swaying to the beat of the music while Babe the Blue Fox waxed the pole on the stage just a few feet away.   Men were clawing their jocks, praying she'd flash them her box.    She was known to do it on random nights.   He should have been over there in the corner, sitting in the round circle with the rest of the kindergartners.   Nikki wasn't reading any bedtime stories, so he could just go fuck off.

***

For three weeks he'd return like clock work to watch her dance, entranced by her spins, dazzled by her graceful flips, and then the dry humps at night and in private thoughts he'd spill into his greased palm wishing for a slice of her cake.   She wasn't buying whatever it was he was selling.    She wanted to save her mother some humility; she truly didn't want to have her shamed.    It would have been a fucked up way to end such an ornamented career.    After all her life partner was gone, and only the shell of her now remained.   

She knows she can dance.   She's been hearing it all of her life, at least since she first slid her three year old feet into her mom's slippers.    He wanted a private one.    He wanted her to feel the pain of his humiliation then.    He knew her heart wasn't into the grind, not this one anyway.   But he had more money than he could wrap his ass in.   The right price and he could own her puss, to keep her mother in the seat, he'd settle for a taste.    She couldn't stand the sight of him and that was his power over her.

She had grown up in studios, traveled the globe.   Her father's prized possession since the day she was born and likely she was until the night he clenched his chest, and died in her arms.  

"Look at me daddy!"  She'd practice her spins, always the light in his eye.   He always kept one on her mother and the other one on her.   His princesses were born to inherit the dance.    You can't hide from your destiny.    Alana learned that as soon as she packed her dance gear and dropped it off at a studio three weeks after she marked the box please take them and make them a good home.    She answered an ad for a waitperson at a local bar to pay for school and keep her independence free from the demanding tones of her mothers brow beats.   "Your father wouldn't want to see you hang your slippers.   What a horrible way to honor his love."   She wasn't dancing no matter what.    She worked for tips and her ass belonged to Micky now, the club proprietor.   When his prize winning stripper Two-Lips slipped off the stage and busted her crown, Micky demanded Nikki take to the stage worried the patrons would tear the place apart.  Anything for Micky, anything she'd do for the guy who gave her one shot that cost him hundreds of dollars in broken bar ware.    In one night she closed her bar tab.

"Put on the music."  She cooed playfully to Rex the deejay.   "Just do it.  Trust me.   It'll be ok."

The music piped out slowly from the speakers in the north right and left sections of the hall, spiraling up to an orgasmic crescendo.   The rear entry patrons could smell the lure of the sex purring in the air.   And Alana became Darling Nikki as the banging ax of Prince and the Revolution echoed her official theme song, and she never felt more alive than on that very night when her feet touched down, seducing the black lacquered stage.   Dressed in show pumps, netted stockings and satin Dazey Duke shorts, with a tied-at-the-hip shirt, the tips poured in and she was crowned the queen of the dance.   She sold herself for just one night to save her friend and his life, and like that she was drawn back into the satin slippers she had long kissed goodbye.

  ***

"Can I get a dance?"

Christian held a crisp fifty dollar bill between his thumb and index finger.   His blue eyes sparkled in the blackness only shared by a few red, yellow, and green halogen lights spinning from the stage ceiling.  

"Bartender?" Nikki called.

"Yeah Babe,"

"...can you change a fifty?"

"It's all for you sweetness, tell me now, how much do I get for the fifty."

"You get five minutes."  She frowned, realizing she wasn't a dancer anymore.    

"For a twenty maybe, shouldn't I get 10 at least for this?"

"Fine...ten it is."  She sighed, turned to place her serving tray on the flat counter top.   "Let's go sport coat."

Christian followed her to the Champagne Room.   She pulled aside the red curtain.   At the rear, a red plush sofa, and a floor standing portable bar that was standard procedure.    "Take a seat."   He unbuttoned the first three buttons on his shirt, licked his lips, and felt the choke of his cock pressed against the zipper of his pants.   

Alana spied his erection and knew he'd be toast in fewer than sixty seconds.   He eyed her cleavage mischievously; salivating just knowing his face would be buried in the crook of it.   The music began to grind and she did too.   

"Take your top off.   Strip.   And then dance.   I want my monies worth."  Christian protested, smiling to the impending mind bender.

Never failed, she'd get a penny pincher who wanted it all, no skimming on the ass crack flossed by a g-string.    She quickly disrobed, obliging him.   He wanted to feel the buried satin slide over his covered crotch.   Her palms rested on his thighs, his face in between her shoulder blades, he stared intermittingly down at the heart shape of her ass as she worked his Johnson 'til he choked out his explosion, about to give birth.

"Turn around.  Put them on my face."   He begged, stretching to get his cents in under the radar.

She did as he requested.  

"How much?"  He muffled a sound as he inhaled the scent of her sweet smell.   He wanted to taste one, but it wasn't in the bargain.    He hoped she spilled one and give in mercifully to his need, and her plight.   It was purely sexual now.   But if she let him, she'd never stop owing his ass.   The terms weren't set on how he'd back the fuck off her mother and let the season wane.   But she figured one dance, let him think he was running shit and she'd be free, at least until she gathered enough shit on him to smoke his ass out of the tight space he held her mother in.

"What?"  She figured he wanted a nipple in his mouth.

"How much to let me taste you, god you're so fucking beautiful."  He feathered kisses lightly on her creamy soft skin, smooth as a baby's bottom.

"I just dance sailor."   She continued to give him all she could, working the clock down to the second, stalling his prayer.

"Come on..."  He groaned, dazed and drunk in the lust.    She was sexy, though she never saw herself that way.

"Don't touch!"   She cursed him and his greedy palms.   This was a no-hands deal.   Didn't he know it?  Or did he think he'd get more for the bargain, since he was the driver in this, right?

"Let me taste, name your price.   I'll pay anything.   Just let me..." He begged.

Nikki pressed the call button the second he pulled at her g-string.   The soft thatch of curls peeked out on his touch.   She promptly tightened her fist and punched him in the face, then crashed the bottle of champagne over the top of his head.

"Muthafuckah!"  She yelled as Tiny and Shrimp gathered his pale ass and tossed him on out on the street.

"You ok."  Tiny the bigger of the two brawny men asked.

"Yeah...what the hell took you two so long?"  She frowned, pissed.   Everyone wanted to fuck Nikki or Alana--didn't matter what she called herself.   They couldn't wait for her take stage again and again.   She was making twice as many tips as all of the ladies put together.    Micky suggested it best that she not dance regularly but keep them panting.    So when she did, it was worth far more than letting his prize winner out on the regular.    It paid to have your hand on the pulse of the action down at the Zanzibar.   It made for good crowd control as well.

****

He remembered her dance.   He'd seen it before.   But the face was made up before in violet and chartreuse hues, glittery lashes, and a scent he knew he'd eat off every inch of her...that and the dance slipped an invisible noose around his neck.    A little eye makeup wasn't going to keep this animal caged for long.    His fantasy was alive and standing before him, and had just seduced his senses once again.

"Don't I know you?"   He startled her as she spun out of line before the floor to ceiling mirror.   Five minutes ago she'd collected her mother from the studio floor and placed her in her office, once again-with a cup of coffee resting before her.   This was now her time, a few minutes she'd use on the way through to the nearest exit.   She didn't necessarily hate the studio anymore.   She was just perfectly okay with being the teacher in a tiny place on the other side of the tracks where humility poured into sweat from the dermises of the young children.   She considered the lads so full of life and promise, all before diet pills and diuretics became the main course.

"Oh I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to disturb..."  Who the fuck was he kidding?  He lived for the stage, and stealing it was second nature to him.

"Of course you did, that's why you did it."  She frowned, rolled her eyes at his pompous tight ass in the body shorts cut off at the knee.    He'd been flirting with her, wanted one night with her, one date.   She could even name the venue.    But he was enjoying keeping her twisting in the winds, sweating in fear.   He relished in the power he wielded over her.   He could dangle her on the ledge until the season ended if he wanted to.   

"Well, since this is my class.   I get to say who gets to stay."  In an all too familiar lustful glare, he attempted to fuck her, eyes penetrating the soft folds of her lids.   He was no closer to tasting her flesh as he was in the days earlier.    He'd connected the dots.    Darlin' Nikki and Alana were one in the same.

She was beautiful.  A flawless olive skin, a massive crinkly brown mane, and her luminous orbs beguiled him.   And yes she could dance, passionately.   So why wasn't she a dancer or an here instructor?  

Grabbing her gym bag, Alana hitched the sack onto her shoulder and prodded out of his immediate space but not escaping out from under his gleeful stare.   She had danced a little longer today than usual or rather her mother's shadow dance went way into overtime.   At any rate the daily routine was platinum.   She was out of there, to hell with this tool.

"Wait...I think you forgot something."  Christian toyed with her haste.

Alana spun around, grimacing to the pain of his voice laden with the need to retreat.   She thought she had everything.  He made her nervous.  She wanted out of there before she'd have to punch him in the face.   Yes.  She remembered him, spot-on.   She turned to head back, as students began to pillage the halls in tights and toe shoes, instruments flung on their backs like cradle boards stowing their young, and vocalists warming up their pipes.   It was music that bled in her ears and she needed to get out into to cold blistery air and die a slow painful death, then stand here under his bawdy weight.   She missed it more than she cared to admit.   But she never wanted to be judged again.

"Thank you..." she reached for the scarf, her favorite.   But he resisted her tries to pry it from his grasp.    She pulled again, her brows furrowing ready to shoot this fucker with a swift kick she'd promised to keep firmly against the floor and out of a dancer's groins some ten years ago.   Damn...for shame.   It had been that long since she competed.   

"I thought I recognized you..."  He slithered from his perfect pink lips.   She hated the way he stared, the way he brimmed as if he knew her body.    And he did.   Fuck.    She promised she'd keep her foot on the floor.   "Tell me, if you dance at such a seedy place, why you expect me to not want to taste you."

Snatched into consciousness, she let his power flow out and over her as she smiled a sinful arch upon her face.   "You want to taste?"  She asked, letting him fly free.

"You owe me, still."   He eyed the door frame then brought his gaze back to Nikki.   He could taste her essence on his lips though he'd never got close enough to her to smell the perfumed box locked tightly between her thick muscular thighs.   She may have been a dancer, the best of Zanzibar's line up, but she was as frigid as a Frigidaire.   Her pussy hadn't been fucked let alone sucked since pussy was fucked and had birthed her.

"I owe you?"  She held her stony frame.    He was really going to gamble with a gonad, so be it.   She'd take his testicle out from this distance.   Say your prayers, sucker!  

"What is the big deal?   You can't tell me you aren't a passionate woman.   Do you fuck as passionately as you dance?"  His hands clinched behind his back, drawing closer without making a single step.

"Ok...so I realize that you aren't going to stop until I let you."   Her mind lined up a strategy.   Give him what he wants until he tires of the game.  

He smiled...liking the sound of her awning being lowered.   "You are going to enjoy it."  His eyes trained over her curves and back up to her face, tracing the contours imagining her thighs tightening around his as he plunged the depths of her pussy.

"Probably.   Why are you so adamant to have me?"

"Because I am Christian Laborteaux.   And I always get what I want."

"Never been refused?"  She questioned his arrogance, playing to the clock as the whispers from the adjacent hall built to a generous yet familiar soundtrack of energies bursting to be set free.

"Never."  He shook his head, seeing his face there tasting her lips, his tongue diving inside and flicking over hers.   She didn't know what she was missing.

"First time for everything."

"You are fighting me, just to be fighting me.   The way I see it, it's a win-win for us all."   So he does want to fuck her for the price of her mother's veiled shame.

"But what if I don't cum?"  She flipped her lids, studying his face for a response.   His Cheshire grin slipped slowly away.   She was questioning his skill?   He believed himself to be a god.   No one could eat pussy better than he could.

"Baby I will eat your pussy so good, I ought to demand you pay me!"  He licked his lips, grinning shamelessly. 

"Is that so?"  Alana wished the pool filling between her legs would drain and go dry, like she needed it too.

He drew closer peering down upon her.    She smelled of Freesia and Vanilla, and his dick solid now to the lustful exchange.  All required was her to drop her tights and he'd find his way home.

"So what do you say?"  He stared searing his touch without contact.   She was falling to the possibility.   Would it be all and then he'd go away?  Would she want him to go away?   She needed to keep her hands on the control.   This slippery fuck held all of the cards.

She laughed, throaty, but thoroughly turned on by the challenge.

"Ok."

"Ok?"   Puzzled to what sounded remotely like surrender.   "You mean that."  He needed validation.    Did he hear her right?   Was she going to let him taste her, fuck her, and he'd tattoo his DNA forever into her core?

"I'm a woman of my word."  She smiled, wondering how far he'd go before this game of chicken was in the history books.   "If I say so, I'm good for it."   She purred softly holding his gaze.   She either wanted him or was doing a mighty fine job of filling the void until she had a better plan of attack.  

Students slowly filled in one at a time it seemed.   He glanced over her shoulders and back.   And she began disrobing.   His eyes tightened, his balls went in synch.   "What...what...are you doing?"  She peeled off her jacket.   A few prodigies took to the stretch bar.  

"I want it right here, right now...you want to eat my pussy, you do it here...right here."  She whispered, while continuing to kill layers of clothing  piled onto her tiny frame insulating her from the frosty bite outside.

"Not here!  Are you crazy?"  His face turned pink then to a glowing red.

"You want it, come on get it...right now."   She backed a few steps away, reaching under her skirt, hooking her thumbs under the waistband of her cable knit tights.   She was willing to go all the way, nothing to lose.   

He jerked from his anchored feet fearing she'd continue to undress before his class.    Gathering the strewn clothing under one arm he pulled her towards the office, her size eight feet barely keeping in time.

"Fucking let me go!"  She yelled.   She was winning this battle, a fight to bloody end.   He'd never ask for a pussy pie the same way again.   Her knee went up and caught him in the eggs.

"You bi...tch."  He fell forward gathering the main, praying his sperm count was still on high.

Nikki smiled proud.    For you mom!   She wasn't about going down without a fight.   If he wanted it, she'd get his vow in writing first.    She'd lived with the humans for another day since likely tomorrow she'd have to lay with this arrogant animal or keep him waiting until the clock ran out, and the season ended.

THE END