Half a Sex Shop: Kim

Author's Notes:

This is the first of the one-offs that I mentioned at the end of Sex Shop Pt. 2. For these side stories the main characters will not be any of the four previously introduced (Kendra, Tom, Genie, Felix) though they may be present and depending on the story more or less involved. The stories are about individuals who come into the shop or are affected by Genie's ass. (Sorry, I couldn't resist; I'm too immature to be writing this stuff.)

I am working on the next chronological part of Sex Shop with Kendra and Tom. However, to this point, most of my writing is either stream-of-consciousness or whatever I come up with while walking my dog. I'm trying to plan a bit more for Kendra and Tom, as I think they deserve it.

---------------

"How long does it take to fix a dumb tire," I mumbled to myself. I had been driving along I-70, trying to get home, when my tire blew out. Cursing liberally, I had pulled over to the side, then spent the next half-hour cursing while I put the spare tire on and threw an occasional thank-you to my dad, who swore all his daughters needed to be able to change their own tires. He said there was no sense waiting for someone to help you, and you couldn't trust that just because someone stopped meant they knew what they were doing. He also slipped a few comments in about how lug wrenches could majorly fuck up someone with little effort in self-defense.

I sighed to myself. The tire shop in this small town had said it would take a couple hours to get to my car, what with their current workload and a couple guys out. I had already wasted as much time as I could eating lunch at a greasy diner and really didn't want to just sit on my phone at the shop for another hour. So here I was wandering their main street, hoping for something that would pass the time.

I spotted what had to be one of the oddest store signs I have ever seen. One half was an old-school movie theater marquee that proclaimed "Mary's Antiques"; it looked like someone had chopped the rest of the marquee off. Slightly overlapping the sign was an atrociously pink neon sign reading "And EXTRAS". Obviously not relying on subtlety or curiosity what these extras might be, the neon sign showed the lower half of, presumably, a woman, legs in the air, ankles crossed, thong not covering any of the ample cheeks, sensuous lines of her back cutting off just before an adolescent might hope to see a boob.

Well, I wanted something to pass the time. Whatever this place was, it had to be more enjoyable than smelling tires. Or if not, at least I tried.

As I opened the door, I was surprised to feel what smelled like an ocean breeze whip by me. It couldn't have wholly been my imagination as I felt my hair flow behind me before settling. I was prevented from thinking about it more as my cane snagged on the leg of a chaise that was right next to the door. A yelp forced its way past my lips as I felt my leg, now unexpectedly, bereft of its support, crumple. I saw the floor rushing up towards me, and as I had fallen slightly sideways, my ribs bounced off the hard, wooden back of the chaise on the way down.

Rather than my head hitting the bare, stained tile, I felt my head suddenly cushioned and my vision obscured by something purple.

"I got you."

The voice was right above me, but I was still trying to catch up with what felt like far more than could possibly have been crammed into just a few seconds. I raised a hand to whatever had cushioned my fall and started to push.

"Hehe, most people ask first, but I won't tell if you don't." I heard the same voice giggling just above me.

Whatever the purple fabric was, it was extremely soft and warm. It almost felt like bamboo fabric, but not quite. That was about the same time I realized there were arms hooked under my shoulders, and they were pulling me up as I pushed my head away from the pillow. Or not a pillow.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. I just fell and. Thank you." I stammered out while trying to separate myself from the woman who had caught my head with her boobs. I could feel myself blushing hard enough my face was burning, and I wanted desperately to be anywhere else but there. It's embarrassing to have someone catch you from falling, and some unintentional body contact was a given. I had breasts too. I just normally didn't massage and stroke a stranger's trying to figure out what they were.

I was standing upright now and separated from my rescuer fully. She was a blonde woman with an innocent happiness to her smile. She was holding my cane out to me and didn't seem at all perturbed at my groping.

"Thank you", I said, taking my cane back. I could already tell that while she had saved me from actual injury that my leg and ribs were going to hurt tomorrow.

"Of course. I'm sorry you fell. I'll move the chaise out of the way so it doesn't happen to anyone else."

I appreciated her making it sound like it could have happened to anyone. But inside, I hated myself yet again. 33 years old and using a cane daily just to get around, but not just that, using it poorly enough to fall over practically nothing.

The woman gave me an extremely wide and kind smile like she knew what I was thinking. I felt myself perk up just a little seeing it. How could anyone not be at least a little happy when every gesture of hers was infused with childlike innocence and glee?

"If you need anything, let us know. Kendra will be happy to help." She waved towards the side of the store where I could just make out a counter and cash register through haphazard piles of what must pass for antiques here. I nodded my head and smiled back, but I really didn't want to spend more time there. I thought for a moment about just walking right out the door, but that seemed rude, even for how embarrassed I was. I resolved to wander just for a few minutes to be polite.

Almost immediately, I realized I would not be buying anything. The vast majority of items were anything but antiques. I wondered if this place frequented garage sales and thrift shops for their inventory. Cracked plastic mirrors, mismatched silverware that was definitely not silver, a gold magnifying glass that didn't actually magnify- none of this was worth anything. I sped up my pace a little, feeling less and less like I had to be polite. I should have guessed from the sign out front that the antiques were not the main priority. Obviously, the money maker here was the sex shop.

I did pause briefly, looking in the women's clothing section. Improbably, there were some used pointe shoes, which brought back a rush of memories. There was even a tutu. I moved on swiftly, convinced this had all been a bad idea. I was hurrying towards the door when I brushed against a clock. Before I realized what was happening, my momentum carried me forward, and my sleeve, which had snagged on some type of door on the clock, pulled it open.

The doors opened, and a ballerina danced out. Literally danced out. I paused in shock. I turned fully back to the clock to see if I had broken anything. Compared to everything else in the shop, the clock was an oddity. I had never seen anything like it. This was gleaming bronze that shone like new. Two armored figures on each side faced each other, each holding a sword aloft that crossed above the clock face. One held roses in the other hand, while a book was clasped tightly by the other figure. The clock face itself was white but had been painted to show a beautiful background of grassy hills. The doors sitting just below the face appeared impossibly small to hold the beautiful ballerina that now twirled in front of me.

I was entranced as, after far too short a time, the platform where she danced retracted, and the doors shut. I stood still, just looking at the clock. It was like nothing else I owned, was far too ornate for my style, and yet I wanted it. I couldn't see a price tag, so I decided I would just take it to the counter and ask. Picking up the clock, I was surprised both by the instant warmth I felt and also the weight. I was half-expecting it to turn out to be painted plastic, but this felt like solid metal.

I set the clock on the counter and was distracted by the cash register. That thing must be worth more than everything else in the shop combined. Or at least it was older than everything else in the shop. How long ago did they stop making wooden cash registers? Before I had more than just that brief thought, I was interrupted by a woman's voice.

"Did you find everything you needed?"

Needed? I looked at the clock. This wasn't a need. "Yes, I think so", I heard myself respond.

"Perfect." The woman, different from the one who had saved me before- so I assumed this was Kendra- smiled and pulled a lever on the side of the cash register. She then wrote for a moment in a book next to the register.

"Hmm, what would you call this?" she asked.

"I don't know, ballet clock, I guess?" I said, slightly confused why she was asking me what her merchandise was.

"Perfect. Ballet clock it is." I saw her write that down, hit two buttons on the register, pulled the lever again, and then looked up at me happily. "Enjoy your new life." She turned around and walked into the backroom out of sight without another word. That seemed weird and like something was missing, but I couldn't figure out why.

It was only as I was back on the road after a solid hour of driving that I realized what was wrong. I had stolen the clock. Not only had I never asked how much it was, but the lady never even asked for money. She just wrote in the book and then walked off. I looked at the clock in the passenger seat, I was tempted to turn around and pay for it. Then I decided I would call them tomorrow, apologize, and I could give them my credit card number over the phone. I nodded and got back to the monotony of driving in a straight unwavering line that was I-70. By the time I arrived home a little after midnight, I had forgotten about my theft.

---------------

"Nope, nothing exciting for me this weekend. I told you that I had to go to Kansas for a family thing." I was sitting in the breakroom at work, talking with several of the other medical billers. "So hour after hour of driving through nothing, smiling at family I don't know, then I blew a tire on the way back. I didn't even get home until midnight."

I shared my tidbit about the weird antique shop with the naked lady sign, but as I didn't actually go into the sex shop half no one lingered on it. Jen told us about every little thing her seven kids did and wanted to show us pictures documenting every 30 seconds. Liz, as always, said she spent the day with her husband doing chores. Ty went to the gym and played basketball. Only Heather had exciting gossip, and she waited to tell me until we were back at our desks. To the group, she just said she went out with friends.

"Ok, who was it this weekend?" I asked wearily once Heather and I were alone again. Heather grinned. Apparently, it had been a couple who were looking for a third. She had been getting to know them for a couple of weeks and had finally agreed to sleep with them. I shook my head. Heather went through bed warmers every few months, but her bed had been supposedly empty for the past two months. Now I knew why. At least she hadn't gone to their house the first time she met them.

"So, are you their unicorn now or just a fun weekend?" If I had asked anyone else that question, it would have come across as judgmental, but with Heather, it was just something I had to know. The 28-year-old was determined to try everything possible in regard to sex and relationships. She was willing to try anything at least once, and she said usually more than that. Just because the first time wasn't good didn't mean it would always be bad. Thankfully, despite her aggressive curiosity, it seemed like she did try somewhat not to become another murder or STD statistic.

"I don't know. They are super nice but also in their 40s. I mean, I hadn't had a threesome in a while, and it was so different with a couple. It was like I was a toy to them. They enjoyed watching me make their partner feel better, but I was definitely not on the same wavelength as them. You know they've been together for years." She shrugged. "We talked a lot yesterday afterward, but I'm not sure they were really ready for a full-time, and I don't know how I feel about it after the sex."

"Well, if you go back, will you at least send me their names and address? I don't want to have to be interviewed a bunch by the cops when you go missing and then deep-dive your dating apps. I'll just point to the swinger couple, and then its case closed." I was joking, but also a little serious. I liked Heather and didn't like that the rest of her friends seemed to let her wander off with whatever man or woman looked interesting to her.

"Sure. Maybe they would be up for a foursome."

I almost threw a pencil at her. "Not going there, Heather. Besides, having a fifth wheel cane is the wrong kind of wood, don't you think?"

Heather was grinning and leaned in closer to me. "I don't think Brent thinks so. He came by Friday afternoon again, but you missed him since you left early."

"I'm sure you were able to flirt plenty for the both of us to keep him happy."

"Kim, look at me."

Her voice had gone serious, so I sighed and spun my chair around to look at her. Not like I really wanted to deal with this rejection letter from Medicare anyway.

"That's almost three months he has been dropping by. You know it's not chance. I mean, when do you ever see any other doctor in this part of the hospital?"

"Exactly. Three months is a lot longer than you normally make guys work. He is obviously your type, right? Plus, come on, isn't it the cliche dream to marry a nice doctor and be a trophy wife?" I spun my chair back around and picked up the letter again. Looked like someone used the wrong charge code; easy enough to fix.

I felt my chair spin roughly around again. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"He is gorgeous. Kim and I would sleep with him in a heartbeat if he asked, but he stayed about 30 seconds after I told him you had left for the weekend and were out of town. Can't you at least bring yourself to talk to him? I asked a couple of the nurses on his floor, and they all love him to death. They say he's super sweet and kind, asks how they are, actually remembers their names, he even buys lunch sometimes." She was looking at me with a mix of pity and frustration.

"Cool. Then he's probably banging at least one of them. Good for them." My voice was cold even to my own ears. Heather's face had shifted and now had nothing except frustration in it. We had a brief staring contest before she sighed and turned back to her work.

I turned my own chair around and went back to the mindless work of dealing with the American Healthcare System. This is not at all what I had ever pictured myself doing. Actually, the thought of sitting at a desk all day would have made me want to puke for most of my life. It still did, if I was honest, but at this point, I couldn't really do much else. Not a lot of jobs for a cripple even if I was still supposed to be in the best years of my life. I looked over at my cane resting next to my desk. Wrong fucking wood didn't cover it. Wrong everything. I hated the look of it, the feel in my hand, the looks I got from other people.

Heather didn't get it. I knew Brent was actually the perfect dream doctor. Tall, dark, handsome, smart, kind, and funny. He was literally the cliche dream. Only problem was I had realized that dreams weren't for me. It hurt too much when you woke up.

---------------

I woke to the chiming of a clock. It was pitch black in my room, and this had never happened before. I stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was happening. I didn't own anything that would chime. Oh wait, the antique store clock. What had I called it to the lady? Ballet clock? Yeah, that was new, but I hadn't heard it chime any of the other hours since I came home from work.

I grabbed my phone from beside me. Midnight. Of course, the antique store sex shop would sell a clock that only chimes at midnight. I was just about to try and get back to sleep when I heard another sound. That was not a chime. It didn't stop either. I felt blood drain from my face as I recognized it after only a few seconds. That was impossible. It was midnight. In my house.

I threw back the thin sheet covering me, grabbed my phone in case I needed the police, and then my hated cane. At least the cane might be useful if someone had broken into my house. I shook my head. This wasn't the sound of a break-in, but it was terrifying in a completely different way.

I tried to carefully and quietly make my way towards my stairs. The closer I got, the louder the sounds got. It got my attention when it was just string instruments. As I moved down the hall, it moved into the sounds I knew too well. From pensive, it paused, and then the brass joined in as the mood swelled and the music became full of promise. This couldn't be happening.

At the top of my stairs I couldn't see anything. Even peering over the railing looking back towards the front room and kitchen where the sound was coming from, all I could see was pitch black. I stood unmoving, rooted to the spot with fear. I knew this song. I knew the tempo. The feel of it. The emotions it was meant to evoke. When I heard it temper yet again and become softly whimsical, I finally got the courage to start moving.

I tried to move as quickly as I could down the stairs, which was not quickly at all, especially in the dark. Even half-way down, as I peered over the railing, it was perfectly pitch black. Unnaturally so. It was like being in a cave underground, I couldn't even see my hand as I pushed it past the railing.

Finally, I got to the bottom of the stairs. I wasn't sure what was going to happen as I set my foot down where I knew the floor was, but I still could not see anything beyond the stairs. My foot found the floor, thankfully. Only when I had both feet planted on the floor and my hand left the rail, the blackness was suddenly gone.

What I was seeing was not my front room, not my kitchen, not even my house. It was a study. An actual study. Walls of bookshelves. A globe in a brass stand, dirty from use. A massive, ornate, dark wood desk dominates the room. Dust motes shining in the sunbeams stabbing through tall windows. I knew this place. I knew the music.

I sank to my knees. No. No. No. This wasn't. Where was the music coming from? I found myself trying to peer around nonexistent corners, trying to find a light shining through the floor. I knew it had to be there, that sliver of light where the stage ended and music poured forth. There had to be a symphony playing. I, of course, found nothing.

A man entered the study. I didn't see where he came from. I knew he had been off-stage, but somehow tonight he was just suddenly there, in the study. I felt the blood drain from my face. I knew those clothes, that face, the movements.

He didn't look at me, didn't acknowledge my existence at all, but his movements broke me from my stupor. I fled. I all but ran upstairs back to my room. The music kept playing. It hounded my unsteady steps up the stairs. Biting and tugging at me. I slammed the door of my bedroom shut, but that didn't deter my attacker.

The sounds followed me. Flowing around me, taunting in their familiarity. I buried my head under my sheet and clamped my pillow around my ears. I was crying and begging for something, someone, anyone to make it stop. It didn't. Don Quixote, for all his chivalry, would not stop. I suppose that made me the monster.

---------------

At some point, exhaustion overtook me, and I woke to the hated sound of my alarm. I debated calling in sick as I felt like shit. Actually, that's not the right description. I felt like I had come down from a panic attack. I was shaky, my nerves felt ultra sensitive and raw, and my head felt sore and bruised like I had been hit with a baseball bat yesterday. Looking at myself in the mirror, I tried to convince myself that the haunted look in my eyes was just my imagination.

I was almost 30 minutes later than usual when I got to work. We didn't have a set time that we had to start work, but you knew pretty much when each person would get to work. Jen and Heather took one look at my face and hustled me away from my desk. They all but stuffed me in an empty conference room and shut the door.

"Kim, what happened?" Jen had adopted her best mother voice.

"Just woke up late and got stuck in traffic." I shrugged in what I hoped was a what-can-you-do kind of gesture. Totally normal to sleep in on a Tuesday.

"Is that why you only have mascara on one eye and your shirt is the same one from yesterday but is also inside out based on the tag showing?" Heather's voice was much less motherly and more teasing. "Was there a fun reason you woke up late?"

"Heather, shut your damn mouth!" I stared in shock at Jen. Jen, who tried not to say stupid because she didn't want her kids hearing that word from her, just swore. She was looking at Heather like she was about ready to snap her in half.

"Kim, are you ok? You look like something bad happened. If you need to go home, it's fine. We all need mental health days." Jen was my supervisor and so the role of group mom suited her. Right now, it was just annoying. I was fine. Ok, maybe I had spent nearly an hour searching my house for any sign of what happened last night. Then I tried to figure out how I might have inadvertently ingested drugs because that was way too vivid for a normal dream.

"Look, I just had a rough night, ok. I guess I rushed out a little faster than I thought and was more than a little distracted. I'll clean up and maybe grab an extra strong coffee. Thanks for checking in though, especially since it's more obvious than I thought."

I tried to immerse myself in work, but it was not like this was a thrilling job or even one I liked. It paid the bills, but I don't think anyone has ever said they have a passion for reviewing insurance rejections when the hospital billed for services. Heather kept trying to talk to me throughout the day, and I answered as normally as possible, but I think it was obvious my mind was elsewhere.

At 4:00pm, Jen came around to all the offices and told everyone to go home early. She made up some bullshit about the hospital trying to show employees they cared and didn't want anyone burning out. I didn't buy it. She had pulled me aside twice today to talk, and each time I said I was fine, she told me it was fine if I needed to go home. Clearly, she thought something serious was up, which I guess was fair. I had been here for two years, and I had only been late once before. That time, I had texted and called Jen to let her know beforehand exactly what was happening and when I would be in.

I didn't have a choice when she kicked us all out of the office early, but I really didn't want to go home. I had been trying to convince myself that last night either never happened or had been a really vivid dream, but I didn't believe it. It had been too real, and my reaction to it had been exactly as bad as it had always been in person. The nightmares had faded over the years and didn't have the same terror anymore.

I resisted going home as long as possible. I did all of my errands that I had been putting off, but finally, at 6:30pm, I was out of things to do and ended up at home. I ordered takeout, made a big pitcher of sangria, curled up on my couch, and planned to fall asleep watching something stupid on Netflix. My plan worked perfectly. By 8:00pm, I was greatly enjoying a con man tricking various rich socialites out of their money in ridiculous ways, helped greatly by most of the pitcher of sangria mysteriously vanishing.

DING... DING... I woke to the sound of a bell chiming. I looked around in the dark and saw I had indeed fallen asleep on my couch, and now the same chime as last night had woken me. I spared a brief thought that with how much I had drunk, I definitely should not have woken up to something as soft as a clock chime, and I certainly should be feeling something in my head. Unfortunately, I was clear-headed, and as I turned, the clock itself was gleaming in the darkness.

I could make out every detail. The ballerina dancing, the clock hands both pointing straight up, the painted grass blowing the breeze, the armored figures jumping over the face and sheathing their swords. Wait. I felt my eyes go wide as I realized what I was seeing. Then, I noticed that while the clock was perfectly in focus, the area directly around it was not. It was... shimmering.

The clock chimed for the 12th time, and as the sound echoed out, I saw the shimmering ripple and expand. I flinched and shut my eyes when it hit me, but I felt nothing, yet now I was standing just where I had been lying before. I opened my eyes, keeping them down just to look back at my couch. No couch. I felt my throat start to constrict.

I heard the same symphony begin playing as last night, and I looked up. Same study. My house was gone. I pinched my thigh, and I definitely felt that. The symphony swelled, and suddenly, I felt movement behind me. I whirled around and saw him again. Just like the night before. He moved powerfully towards me and I tried to jump back, losing my footing and landing painfully on my butt. The man didn't pause, and I laid there for a moment before it was too much.

I could feel the panic building the same as the night before. I had to get out of there. This wasn't real. It wasn't real. It had never happened. This couldn't happen. I couldn't see my cane, and I couldn't think. I started crawling towards the stairs, the one part of my house that seemed to still exist. Tears were streaming fully and freely down my cheeks. I ended up in my bed just as before, crying and wishing for the torment to end. Just as before, the symphony of Don Quixote refused to listen to my pleas and continued its beautiful journey.

---------------

I tried to get out of my house as early as possible the next day. Then I had to kill time at the coffee shop, drinking three large espressos so that I didn't arrive at work unusually early. Jen cornered me again and asked if I was ok. I just nodded shakily, not wanting to talk. She had to go to a meeting, or I think I would have been interrogated more.

Heather did not have a meeting and refused to let me work until I gave her something. I told her that over the weekend, some family had brought up that they had seen Don Quixote ballet recently and how I used to dance. It just triggered some old memories, and I was having trouble falling asleep. It had happened before, and it just would take a little time for me to get over it.

"Did they know what happened to you?" She asked with a significant glance first to my leg and then my cane. "Surely your family knows not to bring that up."

I just shrugged. It was a made-up story. My close family certainly knew the story of my injury and that I preferred not to talk about it. But it was believable that extended family might not be as clued in to family trauma.

The same thing happened again that night and the next. I finally did call in sick on Friday, telling Jen I was sorry to call out on a Friday. She brushed my concerns aside; we both knew that I had been getting sloppier and slower each day that week. Any work I did that day would likely have needed to be redone anyway.

I spent the day trying to get rid of the damn clock. I could move it easily enough, but anytime I took it out of the house, it promptly disappeared. The first time it happened, I didn't notice as I had put it in a cardboard box to throw away. I found it back on the end table when I came back inside. No matter what I did, it seemed determined to haunt me, and I ran out of ideas on how to get rid of it. I thought that maybe having someone else take it would work, but I couldn't bring myself to admit to anyone why I needed it gone. I also felt guilty at the thought of cursing someone else to spend three hours every night listening to or watching the ballet performance Don Quixote.

That night I decided I would just watch the damn thing. I was already crying and panicked, trying to avoid it every night, couldn't be any worse watching it. I was wrong.

I positioned myself in a single chair in front of the clock just before midnight. It happened just like every night. The clock chimed and came to life. Then my normal life ended. The house disappeared, and the symphony began. I had never stayed past the first appearance, which was a man, so I was shocked when the first woman danced in. They were me. Every single one of them was me. Dancing, smiling, leaping. I slipped off my chair in too much shock to even cry.

I woke up in my own bed. I had no memory of walking upstairs. Nor even of the ballet beyond those first few minutes. Did I watch it all? Or had my brain shut down so much that it was blocking out what had actually happened? I shook my head trying to clear the morning fog, and that's when I realized it. Every day this week, I had felt like I was an instant from breaking. So fragile and raw, drowning from lack of sleep. But this morning I felt good, great even. I wasn't a morning person at all, but I didn't even feel like I needed my normal caffeine jumpstart.

I stood up, waiting for the normal pinch in my right leg as it protested bearing weight after being horizontal for hours. It didn't come. I looked down and pushed just a little harder. Ah, there it was. I grabbed my cane and went about my normal day. I tried not to look at the ballet clock when I was in the same room, but it was bothering me. I knew what was happening was impossible, but it obviously wasn't because it had happened every night at midnight since I brought the clock home.

That night, I again decided to watch Don Quxiote. I was prepared to see myself dance in this time, but I blushed when I saw that the costumes had changed. Dancing meant you got used to tight clothes and everyone knew what curves you had. Though, given how tight and strapped down everything was generally, curves were undersold. Tonight, the dancers, me I guess, had made up for that by making sure everything was translucent.

The choreography had changed as well. It was still ballet and still beautiful, but this was definitely no longer PG. Hands roamed sensually between partners over breasts and hips like true lovers. More than one pose was held longer than needed and seemed designed to show my body off in every way possible.

I was entranced as I watched what was part ballet and part erotic art. The music hadn't changed, but it seemed earthier. The musical movements of love and lust rang louder and certainly were more blatant when the love was all but being performed in front of me.

I again felt tears, but this time, they weren't completely out of control. At least until almost intermission, when I realized what scene was about to take place. That was when my panic attack returned. I began screaming at the dancers to stop. Screaming that it couldn't happen. I tried to stand quickly, desperate to intervene, but I couldn't touch them. They swirled and danced, leaped all around me without regard or notice for me. Ephemeral beings only there to taunt and torment me. I collapsed onto my knees, pounding my hands uselessly on the floor. I couldn't watch. I woke up in my bed.

I started dancing at the age of six. My mother thought every woman should learn how to dance and that ballet was perfect for a young girl. At first, I just liked wearing cute clothes, but I kept dancing, and it became much more than that. By the time I was in high school, I knew this was what I needed to do in life. School and most other things in life were just a distraction to get through until I could go dance.

Any dancing would do, but I lived for ballet. I felt free. I loved that dancing allowed me to be the brush, the canvas, and the paint. That my body, my movements told the stories that I couldn't find words for. That everyone was watching my every move, every movement carefully crafted and precise in its intent. It was strict and harsh to learn the discipline, but the expression of it was anything I wanted. With a change in posture, I could tell of rage or love, gliding across the stage giving hope and joy; it was intoxicating to know the audience experienced it all through me. It was a need in the same way that others needed writing or sports.

At 28, I had gotten a role in a production of Don Quixote along with my best friend, Jason. We had been dancing together since I was 17. We knew how each other moved and felt without asking. I trusted him with everything and assumed he felt the same.

It was an afternoon while we were practicing. The performances had been going well, but there was always room for improvement. It wasn't a rehearsal, just a small group of us. I saw Jason talking with a stagehand, and then he came over to me. He wanted to practice a series of grand jetes that culminated in him catching and holding me.

It started fine, we had practiced this a hundred times. But as I took the last leap, instead of moving in to catch me, he stepped back and a trapdoor opened in the stage. I was already in the air and had no ability to change anything, but I could already tell that I was going to land only partially in the newly opened pit. Jason must have realized the same thing at the last second, too late, but he tried to intervene. I landed and immediately felt bones snapping and joints moving in ways they should not. Then Jason came down on me as he tried too late to catch me.

The ER doctor said that sometimes, everything just comes down wrong, and catastrophes happen. It was not helped by the fact that my bones were apparently showing extreme stress from spending all of my time dancing. My right ankle was little more than powdered shards, both the tibia and fibia broke in multiple places, my knee was also fractured in multiple places, and the soft tissue damage was extensive. There was no way to know for sure how much was the fall itself and how much was Jason landing on me, but I blamed him for both.

I screamed at him for days. At first, he swore he had nothing to do with the door opening and it was just a coincidence. Then, when it became obvious that no one believed that story as the stagehand admitted Jason had asked him to help with a prank, he changed his story. It was just a prank gone wrong. A tiny little bit of fun to help everyone relax in the midst of an extremely grueling performance that was wearing on all of us mentally and physically.

Both he and his helper were cut. Prank or not, it had been extremely dangerous, as evidenced by its outcome. That anyone, let alone two very knowledgable and experienced people, would even think of doing it was unforgivable. Everyone in the production was disgusted and horrified by their actions.

I had spent 11 years trusting Jason. It was implicit, and I never questioned he would protect me. He threw all of that away trying to get a laugh at my expense. My dancing career was over; the odds of me walking unaided without pain were slim, and dancing was not even a possibility. My dreams since I was 6 were shattered. Everything I had worked for, everything I had ever wanted, was ripped away because of a single person's actions. It took months before I would stop crying when I thought about it. I still couldn't bring myself to go to a club that had dancing, much less any sort of performance. I also couldn't bring myself to date anyone. Before, I had been too busy with my career for anything serious. Now, I couldn't bring myself to open up enough to even begin trusting someone. Certainly not enough to have a relationship.

---------------

The next week, each night was the same. For whatever reason I found that if I forced myself to watch the damn nightmare I would wake up in my bed feeling like I had the best night's sleep of my life. I was energized and happy upon waking compared to broken and distraught if I ran away or hid from it.

Each night, I positioned myself in my lone chair. Ready to see a beautiful production that seemed produced entirely for my audience of one. I had even gotten used to seeing myself as each of the ballerinas. Had I been asked to describe the men, all I could have said was that each was handsome. No features I could remember, no differences noted though I knew they were there. But each was handsome.

The costumes and movements had each grown progressively more erotic. It was Wednesday night when I saw the first ballerina dance on stage without a top. She was followed swiftly by others. That Friday, many of the ballerinas were nude or nearly so except for their shoes. The movements of the dancers themselves had also become much more carnal. Hands casually grasped intimate parts of my body, sensuously slid over my skin, kisses were real and passionate, it was slowly becoming intoxicating to watch my body starring so erotically and the lust that it seemed to inspire in the men.

I still had never made it past the pivotal point where I knew that I would be injured. By the next Friday, I no longer had panic attacks, but I still could not watch. Each time, I would close my eyes, praying for it to end. Each time, I would awaken in my bed, not knowing what had happened. But each night, the tears were less and less; the full-on panic attacks had subsided, thankfully.

In addition, my leg seemed to be getting stronger. I could now wake up and do most of my morning routine without grabbing the cane. I still took it to work, and my leg was tired by the end of the day, but not to the extent it had been before. My leg no longer crumpled under me without support as it had that day at the antique store. It was odd, to say the least. But I had given up trying to fight whatever this was. Midnight ballets in your house were not normal; why should my leg, seemingly healing itself, be any weirder?

Another week passed, and I now looked forward to my personal ballet. If ballet now included full penetrative sex. All the dancers wore only their shoes, and most scenes included at least some of them having sex. It didn't make sense, but each night, I was lost in the beauty of it. I watched myself be worshiped. By now, I was no longer confining myself to the chair. I wandered freely, lustfully watching myself perform erotic moves and sensuous leaps. Pirouettes that showed my breasts and ass to the audience. Plies that repeatedly impaled me on the male dancer behind me. When the cupid dance began, I found myself passed from man to man, kissing my neck, worshipping my legs, flitting from among them a vixen of lust desired by all.

The next night, I didn't bother with a chair. I was waiting with impatience for it to begin. The clock chimed, and the music began swelling as it had the past month. I began my usual wander, only to bump into a dancer's hand, outstretched towards me. I stared at it before looking up at the face. Handsome, still, the features were clear, but I could not find the words to describe them. I tentatively took his hand.

We danced. Five years shackled to the ground with halting steps faded away in that instant. I moved freely, without pain, without thought. No care for small objects that would snag on a cane. No desperate search for flat and level ground. I floated across everything, graceful and laughing as I used to.

My clothes had fallen away, replaced with only pointed shoes. I danced as I had years ago. But now, as I moved gracefully across the stage, I felt hands on me. As dancers lifted me into the air, I felt them caress me. Lips lovingly worshipped across my shoulders. I spun to another and grasped his hair tightly behind me. Forcing lips up my neck.

Fingers stroked the tops of my breasts, drawing gasps and moans that could not be covered by the symphony. Others moved across my thighs, caressing and grasping my now unblemished calves. I watched myself dance as men moved close to the ballerinas that were also me and kissed them roughly. Caressed between their legs and brought them delightfully screaming to orgasm.

Somehow, the music swelled around, the moans and gasps only adding to it. It felt right. Then it stopped. I looked around, and I paused. This was not how the ballet went, but all of them were frozen. Then a spotlight appeared on a dancer across the stage from me. I had been so caught up in dancing again and the sheer eroticism that I hadn't realized what moment it was. It was my fall.

I squared my shoulders. I would not run from this. I was dancing again when I never thought I would get the chance. I had spent five years running from even the hint of dancing for fear that I would collapse. This freedom, this chance, this whatever it was would not be taken from me by fear. I stepped forward.

The world unfroze. Men and women writhed around in lustful and lacivious embraces. Their pleasure was freely shown; it was intoxicating. I took the leaps, each far higher than I could do in real life. Each time I landed with an echoing crash of drums. The third leap was the highest, and I looked down. For a second, I thought the handsome features of the man waiting to catch me changed. For a brief second, it looked like Jason. Then I landed securely in his arms, legs perfectly stretched out, cradled safely, and I felt him enter me.

---------------

I woke the next morning refreshed and crying. I remembered last night vividly. It was more than I had ever dreamed would be possible for me. Dancing again had felt like I was finally alive again, whereas before I had been little more than an animated husk shambling around.

I remembered the moment where I thought I was once again leaping towards Jason and the terror it should have inspired. But all I remembered was the feeling of security as they gathered me into their arms. I still hated Jason in real life, but I felt like I had finally gotten the closure to move past that.

The day moved thankfully quickly along as I took care of chores around the house. I danced again that night. More than danced. I performed the entire ballet as I had years before. Still graceful and beautiful. Still x-rated, as only this dream could be. As the curtain fell, I knew with certainty that my clock would never chime at midnight again.

Monday, I swept into to work without a care. Until I was met with gasps and screams. Then I had to hurriedly make up a story of years of physical therapy that had just recently been coupled with some new injection that was finally giving me freedom. But, in the story I told my co-workers, it had definitely taken longer than a month and the injections certainly had not been in my vagina. I smirked as I thought of what they would say if I told them a month of watching a porn ballet had healed me.

Brent came by on Wednesday, and I, for once, was as excited as the rest of the girls by the handsome doctor dropping by to chat. He stopped to talk to several of the women, but I caught glances my way right from the start. Finally, he came into Heather and I's area.

"Hey Brent", I said without waiting. I intended to say what I needed to before I lost my nerve. "Want to go on a date Friday night?"

My heart was in my throat as I said the words, and his face was stunned. Then a smile broke out.

"Yeah! I'd love to! Did you have something in mind?"

"Let's go dancing."

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End Notes:

This was quite a bit longer than I expected. I thought it would end in the 3-5k range. Still, I hope you enjoyed it. The side stories will vary, with some of them being very heavy on sex, some very much story as the above, there may be happy endings, or probably some darker tones as well. For this first one, I wanted to highlight some good that Genie is doing.

Going to mention again, I'm very new to creative writing. At the time of posting, this is my fifth finished installment, and I've been writing for about a month. So please vote whether you like or hate it and comment so I know what I can do better.