Disclaimer: Only the plot is mine.
Vee stance, Salutation, Sink, Salutation. The surety of each move, the rhythm of Etna's body strong with itself. Vee stance, Salutation, Sink, Salutation. Through the open window of the chapel, crab apple rises on the breeze, wafts in reminding that it is May. Early May. Etna watches Flonne, the instructor dressed in black, her body fluid, each move water pouring from a vase. She circles around Etna, Laharl, and the Prinny Squad. Circles around them, five eager, awkward students. Etna's dance card is empty. Flonne circles around and calls the steps, watching as They move through the beginning level.
Etna, at the beginning level. Two years later from Flonne. She seeks the balance in her body, her life. Marvels at her two hands, open-palmed, before her. Fingers tight and fingers splayed. In Tai Chi Ch'uan, it is the Yin and Yang. The duality of life. The wanting and not wanting. And the body in relation. Flonne starts at the front of the room, facing the wall, her back to her students. At her neck, her blonde hair is tied into a long braid. Vee stance.
(Flonne in her white dress, after a shower and her hair in a cascade)
Her hair is not sweaty, although she removes her over shirt and stands before them in black. Sculpted biceps emerge from her short sleeves, pale and gorgeous in the light.
Outside, the city traffic, a siren in the distance, the wonder of a mockingbird in this city. (I live in this city now.) Inside, the choir practices in the room beneath them, chords rise through the marble floor, gyrate in the air as Etna swings her hips. Her legs are firm from rollerblading, her weight balanced. Horse. And her hips sway with gyration, vibration. She notices that Flonne notices her hips in gyration. She averts her gaze quickly, but not before Etna recognizes the look in her dark eyes. Duality. She feels it in her own sometimes, her body sticky with sweat, passing younger dykes on the corner, by the train station. She rollerblades the bike path to pass by, her hips swaying above well-defined legs. Looks them full in the eyes; she doesn't look away. She doesn't look away from Flonne now although she wants her to. Etna can tell. The Yin to her Yang.
Flonne wears silver bands on both hands. Her middle fingers are crooked, Etna notices, when she stands before her to adjust her arms. She avoids her eyes until she is through touching her. When her hands drop and Etna's arms are correctly positioned, she looks at her before turning to Laharl. Meets her eyes. Salutation. This goes on for weeks, but each week, Etna notices, she lingers bit longer, praising her grace. Flonne's hand adjusts her wrist, slips lightly up her bare arm. The Yin and Yang between them. The wanting and the not wanting. Flonne meets Etna's gaze silently, holds it as she moves away. The mockingbird. The siren. The choir. The look in Etna's eyes. She tells her she may not be able to make class next week, she has late business back in the Netherworld. (I live in the city now)
"Come," Flonne says. "Come late and I'll stay after class with you; we'll make up what you missed."
(I miss you. I miss the pain of your hands squeezing the flesh of my shoulders, the wall pressing hard against my back as your knee pushes my legs wide. Still I miss you, Flonne)
Late and in Netherworld clothes: T'ai Chi in a miniskirt and fishnets. Jacket and boots tossed to the corner. Seperate, Withdraw, Push, Drop. Seperate, Withdraw, Push, Drop. There is only a class of three now. Laharl, Jenny and Etna. And instructor Flonne. Jenny stands in front of Etna, and she copies her movements. Fluidity is something only inside of her now. Flonne goes to her (open), demonstrates what she wants Etna to do.
"Do it for me," she says. Scent of sandalwood between them, her hands on Etna's waist, squaring her hips, her shoulders. A current runs through her at Flonne's touch; her nipples pierce the lace of her bra, strain through her black tube top. Etna focuses on the piano in the corner, the vase of irises on top, knowing if their eyes meet she will stumble. She startles herself (beginning level.
"You need to work on the new steps," Flonne says. And the others close the door behind them as they leave. She demonstrates once more for Etna. This time, their eyes do not leave each other, even when their bodies turn away. This time when she feels Flonne's hands against her skin, she does not try to control her quickening breath. The wanting. The not wanting. They stand in the center of the room; ahead the piano with its narrow strip of mirror sends their midriffs back. Etna sees her fingers on her waist, crooked fingers, black cotton peeking from behind black nylon. Flonne presses herself against her, her breasts on Etna's back, her taught nipples matching. In the piano mirror, intsructor's hands across student's torso. And tighter. Tighter. Deep breathing.
"Don't forget to breathe," Flonne's tongue flicks her left ear. Lingering chills. Warm breath.
In the mirror, Etna watches her hands glide over the fabric of her breasts, watched and felt her nipples pinched, straining through the nylon. Gasping, she collapses against Flonne. In the mirror, her left hand disappears. She is searching for something. Etna feels her skirt rise, Flonne's knee between hers from behind. Horse. Lift and Open. Ankle. Wrist and reach. Her hand against Etna, searching. She feels her lips flit across her neck, biting, sucking her flesh. In the mirror, Flonne's right hand slips under her tube top and pushes the black bra aside. Fingers moving beneath fabric. Etna's nipple on fire. Her knees forgetting their strength. The mockingbird's incessant courtship call. And the choir.
Etna turns away from the mirror.
(This road away from you begun)
She turns to her instructor (acting unlike any angel she could remember), learning. Leaning into Flonne; presses her mouth over hers, encircles her body. Who is gasping now? Etna's hands snake under her T-sirt. Her fingers define bones of Flonne's back. Trace the bones slowly. Then hard.
"The door is unlocked," Flonne says, her fingers pushing aside the crotch of her student's panties.
"Lock it." Etna's hips rise to her.
"No," she says. "I can't. Even if I could, the sextons have a key"
Flonne's finger inside her, thrusting. The scent of sex, sandalwood, sweat, crab apples. The taste of their lips.
"Take me in the bathroom," Etna pleads, and they walk, backward with Flonne's finger inside her, the endless distance to the door: one animal, four legs.
Block and Grab, Press, Roll Separate. Block and Grab, Press, Roll Separate. The tumblers click in the lock and Flonne turns to her. Etna knows the look in her eyes. She knows the same look is in her own, although she cannot see the mirror. Flonne lifts the tube top over her head and she is before her in her black lace bra. Her mouth moves to Etna's. The lace forced away, exposing her right breast. Flonne's lips claim territory from Etna's lips to her nipple. Her teeth send sharp gusts of pleasure-pain. The duality.
(My breasts untouched until...I live in this city now)
Flonne's hands yank, Etna's skirt lifts, her thighs push wide. Both hands. Breathing. Breathing. Sandalwood. Sex. She is searching. Her mouth on Etna's nipple. Their eyes still locked. Her hips are gyrating, and she can tell Flonne likes it, although she is not watching. Etna's legs are wide but she does not enter her. She rubs her, pressing, rubbing, parting. Flonne pours liquid fire ito her body.
"Please," Etna moans, her hands pulling, wrapping, pushing Flonne's arm against her. Begging, please.
Flonne cups Etna's cunt, moving the flat of her wrist against her student/lover's clit. She is open and wet and empty. She steps back, lifts Etna's skirt to look.
"Hey," her hand moves to the virgin tattoo on Etna's hip. "Black heart," she smiles at her discovery.
The counter is cold against her ass. Flonne's tongue is insistent, again. Etna feels her pelvis, black jeans rubbing between her legs. She lifts Flonne's T-shirt over her head, freeing the nipples beneath. Silver hoops. Etna's hands open palms against Flonne's flesh. Fingers splayed. Tug and oh. Press, Roll, Seperate. Gasp and gasp. Flonne's hand to her cunt again.
"Please," Etna begs.
"Please what?" Flonne whispers back. Ohh and fuck.
"Please fuck me, now." (I live in this city now)
Flonne's mouth into her's. Her tongue. Her fingers in Etna's cunt, to the knuckles.
Her hand is hard. Hard and then nothing. Empty ache. Flonne slips her fingers to her lips, sucking and tasting Etna. Slip one into Etna's mouth.
"Should I stop?"
NO and NO and NO. Flonne rewards her with her hand. "Shhhssshh," she cautions, "The sextons will hear us."
"Oh Hell," Etna gasps, the Yang to her Yin. "Oh Hell, how many?" She wants to know. Lift and open. Wrist and reach. Three, Flonne tells her. "Please." She rewards Etna with another finger. Her mouth so dry, her tongue barely moving across her lips, her body empty, aching, searching. Still not enough.
Wrist and reach. Wrist and reach.
And in that moment, Flonne gives Etna everything of herself.
Push, Drop...Single whip, Adjust. Push, Drop...Single whip, Adjust. Beginning level.
The surety of each move:
water pouring from a vase Etna's hips gyrating Flonne's hand seeking the wanting the not wanting sandalwood sex...the rhythm of their bodies in relation strong.
All of herself in that moment. Enough.