Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

L’Inspecteur de Ballet


Whether professional or novice, each dancer for the Coppélia Romantic Ballet Company must pass a series of examinations. Not a single dancer can perform without my approval. I’m known as L’Inspecteur de Ballet; not because I am French, but so due to my affinity for the work of one Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec — a Realism and Postimpressionism French painter from the late 19th century. I own multiple of his canvases, mostly, of course, ballerinas. Be it by love for his work, or love of the ballerinas, I don’t know. What I do know is that I stare at the paintings just as meticulously as I inspect my dancers.

The day of the performance I suit-up to near perfection. I look as professional in my suit as do my dancers in their leotards, leggings and tutus; not a thing in disarray. I slick back my hair to do nothing more with it but place a hat atop it. After staring at myself in the mirror to complacency, I head towards the dressing room to begin examination of dancers. I normally don’t finish in time, so the lead and last of the dancers is inspected behind the curtains, up-in-stage prior to the performance.

The one time when I press the pace to a hurry is when running up the stairs to prevent the lead ballerina from going onto stage without my final inspection. From time to time I have delayed the start of a performance until thoroughly satisfied that my dancers look their best, even if they fail to perform as expected. In the past a few dancers have performed without my approval, and they’ve been momentarily relieved from their duties, consequently charged with penance. Upon its completion they have returned to stage, but a second infraction means expulsion from the company. I’ve yet to lose a dancer.

Already examined dancers wait for the completion of the final inspection lined up from the top of the staircase that leads to the stage, down to the bottom. Only I and the lead dancer are allowed behind the curtains and on stage during the inspection; I can not be disturbed unless I so call upon. Something might be out of sorts which could determine the success of the event. I can not have that!

Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901), Dancer (1895-96).Once on stage, I circularly wave my hand about in the air notifying the lighting crew that the spotlight is to be directed at us. I pace about the ballerina outside the circumference of the spotlight as not to obscure the line of sight with my shadow. I walk as slow as I do with intent. I observe all of her. From her hair down to the shoes, then up again. I do so for various minutes. Sometimes I tug at the tutu, other times run my fingers on her hair to properly align misplaced hair strands. Most often I ask for a second tutu; the lighting of some venues do not properly reflect the pattern of the tutu. If it all looks to be pristine, I draw closer for the final say. With my right hand I grab the side of her face and move it from side to side, up and down. I talk to her, ask what, or where she thinks she should be inspected. “As you wish”, I’ve come to expect from this particular ballerina.

During the “more personal” part of the inspection anything and all is reviewed. Her hands go up in the air so that I can inspect the length of her triceps as the long head leaves the elbow and hides below the rear deltoid. I also Inspect the forearm muscles as they supinate and pronate the hand. I run my hands down her flanks to the waistline where I press with my thumbs against her obliques. I like to watch her pelvis rotate forward. I repeat the process two, three times to gauge the sway of the tutu against slight motion.

At this point I take a knee in front of her, reach down to one of her ankles with both hands, slightly apply pressure and trace upwards to the crotch area with my eyes closed. I want to feel the contour of her muscular leg against my hands. Once at the crotch, the leg is shaken looking for little to no excess “after-motion”. The muscular shaking should stop quickly after I stop shaking the thigh. I do the same for the second leg. This time I am a bit faster in ascent but then, at the thigh, I slow down pressing firmly against the inner thigh. There I massage for a good amount of time while working upwards to where the top of my hand touches her crotch.

After a momentary massage of her crotch, I sweep towards her glutes with both hands, grasp them on the palm of my hands and lift. It is a test of their balance as I pull unexpectedly forward… she’s never fallen for it, not even the very first time. The feeling of each butt cheek engulfed on my palms under the tutu and over the leotard is exhilarating. I grasp firmly, then ask for the butt cheeks to clench. The hardness must be there, not in me, though it is, but in her glutes so that it perks out as it should in any and all good dancers.

Dancer Painting by Toulouse-LautrecVerifying the conditioning of the glutes over the leotard can be deceiving. That’s why I slide my hands between the leotard and the leggings to again feel the strength of her bottom. I don’t pull them out! Instead I choose to travel towards the crotch with my hands still between the leotard and the leggings. This is where the final minutes of the inspection are spent. I adjust, trace, tug until the perfect shape is achieved. I like for her to be plump, supple and tight where the the vision is reminiscent of a smiling cat.

I like to run my digitus medius down the center of her crotch to create a seducing indentation. I do so until I feel that she’s warm and moist. With this particular ballerina, I like to pull the leotard to the side of the crotch to see if the leggings show signs of moisture; and that they do! She is very quick to react to the examination. During this very procedure I notice that the leggings aren’t tight enough, they are bulging. I grab the extra fabric and tear it causing a rip down from the crotch to the inner left knee. I look behind me and ask for another pair of leggings; quickly too.

In the meantime I have her remove the leggings. I spread her legs to the sides and continue to run my digitus tertius smearing the wet in her throughout the area. By now she’s got both her hands on my shoulders and her eyes closed. I lean lower, bring the digit to my mouth and taste it. As radiant as she is on the dance floor, she’s even more so… desirably intoxicating to my mouth. I lean even lower to bring my tongue within touching distance of her. My tongue contours to her anticipating the moisture that strikes with lust.

The scent discloses that I should further expand my whereabouts. I slide my hand to wet my index finger, then head back to soak the perineum. Little by little I wait for this “thing” she does when asking of me to intrude the calm of her body. She flexes her legs and stands on the tip of her toes. I adore the sight of her muscular legs… how the thighs define and her calves enunciate. I allow my index to penetrate while my tongue massages her intentions. I don’t have to move my hand. She controls the depth in which she swallows my finger. The continuous up and down stance she undertakes weakens me. Were it not for the late time, I would lower my slacks to allow her to engulf me. To allow her to completely saturate me. To feel how strong she can hold, squeeze me while inside of her.

Having the leggings delivered to me, I take a last look at her. I turn her around, slightly bend her at the waist to admire the supple of her nature. A last kiss to the saturated area, followed by a grabbing bite and I release her. It is time for the leggings and commence of the performance. I am now ensured that it will all work well.

I watch her perform, really not seeing anything but thinking of the look of her femininity up close. I can still smell her aroma, can still taste it on my finger. Oh how I can’t wait for tomorrow’s act.

Author: jibarican

2 thoughts on “L’Inspecteur de Ballet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s