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In a quaint old fashioned way summer is the ball season in Greg’s home town. I suppose you might say it starts uncontroversially with the graduation balls of the several schools in town for their HSC students. Nothing new in that I hear you say, the big city schools do that too.
The difference is that my experience of the big city events it that they are student only functions. Essentially the students get together for a graduation party. They may or may not include boyfriends/ girlfriends and if like me you went to an all-girls school, you might find them merged with that of the local boys’ school, but in the end they are all about the students.
My one was merged with that of the local boys’ school and partners weren’t allowed. That sort of suited me since I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time and it meant I’d at least be able to find dance partners amongst the boys there. I did the whole thing with a new dress and the shared hired limo, but like many of these things my feeling at the end of the night was closer to one of disappointment than excitement; being sober when everyone else is drunk out of their mind will do that to you.
In Greg’s town – and I get the impression this is common in the country – the graduation balls are orientated to the students attending with their parents. So you sit in tables of 6, 9 or some other number divisible by three. There’s a red carpet arrival for the students where their friends, relos, and the students from the lower grades and other schools all come to watch the students arrive and, in the case of the girls, admire their gowns.
Instead of just boring old limos, the students arrive in all sort of modes of transport, from on horseback and by carriage to – in the case of the daughter of a local well know fruit wholesaler family – on a pallet on a forklift. In short it’s a big fun look at me night for the whole town community, not just the year 12 students of that school. I went with Greg to the red carpet entrance of Jenna’s ball and found it all quite touching and exciting.
There was another aspect of these Graduation Balls that carried into the other balls held in the town. The night started with a parent/ student waltz, where daughters asked their fathers and sons their mothers for the initial waltz. A bit like for a bridal waltz, this was taken seriously enough that students were given instructions on how to waltz and they were offered to the parents too – although because of the history of the events and the popularity of the other balls, many parents would have already had the skill.
But the really big event was the Anniversary Ball, held on 26th January, Australia’s National Holiday. It seems to have been something that’s survived the years relatively unscathed; in that it’s still attended by a large number of people across a wide age range – including younger people. Even the format is traditional, in that the music caters to the traditional old time ballroom dances; which means that learning to dance is a fairly common thing in the town.
And then a couple of weeks after that there’s a “Farewell Fancy Dress Ball” targeted to the university students who are visiting for the holidays and heading back to the big cities to continue or start their studies
I did modern dancing as an activity. I was a reasonably competent dancer but had no training in the ballroom and Latin styles, so when Greg suggested we go to the Anniversary küçükçekmece escort Day Ball I was quite happy to go with him and get some lessons. Greg had been though all this before but was happy to get an update. Still my dancing background made me a sufficiently fast learner that we could have a reasonable evening of it; especially if they played lots of waltzes and jives.
I thought about whether I should just get my father to pick up my graduation ballgown from home on one of his trips to the city to make sure work was under control. I might have thought I looked pretty good in it at the time, but frankly decided it was a bit staid for what I wanted now. Instead I ordered online one that had a halter style top, was nearly backless, deep-veed and close fitting at the front and had a light very floaty silky, satin skirt that complimented the dancing nicely while draping quite sexily over my butt and crutch. It was a very reasonable price (which for me means you read cheap!) and since Greg just about blew out the fly on his pants when I first tried it on for him it was money well spent.
And that’s another strange effect Greg has had on me. I’ve always known the visual power of the female body. I have always been willing to dress attractively and accept the attention that brought. But I seem to have acquired an extra degree of tartiness (to put it at its most pejorative) since I meet Greg. Probably because on the one hand I like the impact of its effect on him while on the other he gives me the sense of security that lets me wear that stuff and he feels secure enough not to be threatened by any outside attention it beings.
I love dancing, so I was surprised just how much I’d been missing out on by not learning the older style dances earlier. I found jiving or rock and rolling was a fantastic way of cutting lose and really letting go on the dance floor. Between the lessons and the additional practice we did at home by the night of the ball we were letting rip at the fastest tempos we could find.
But what really rocked my socks compared to my past experiences were the really traditional ballroom styles; and especially the waltz. I wondered how this sort of dancing was possibly allowed back in the 19th century when I understood it first started and dancing it with Greg was always enough to get me heated up somewhat.
I don’t suppose many young people have ever really danced like this; I certainly hadn’t before. It’s bad enough (or should I say fun enough) that you dance in fully body contact with your partner; my right nipple firmly pushed into his chest somewhere near his left one and stomachs touching. But more than that his right leg spent all of its time between mine; generally brushing on my crutch with every step. To compound matters, you dance with a rise and fall motion; so as you count 1,2,3 you actually dip down a little bit on the counts of 1 and 2 and then rise up on to your toes on the count of three.
I suppose as we were learning I couldn’t help but notice this meant his thigh effectively gave me a clit massage with every step and a harder one with every third step; especially if my rise wasn’t perfectly timed with his. At first it was only a fairly light contact because when you start out learning you tend to stand just a little apart so you don’t stand on each other’s toes if you mis-step. Then as you get more confident kurtköy escort you come a little closer and the contact gets more constant. Still the lessons tend to be fairly stop start and often the clothes you’re wearing to the practice classes don’t convey all that well the sensation of the contact. Even so I spent most lessons going through different stages of arousal depending on how much time we spent practicing the waltz.
Then comes the night of the ball itself. We were at a table with Kate and Jenna and their dates for the night and a couple of mutual friends of Greg and Kate. Greg’s parents were at another table as were his aunt and uncle.
I suppose I was already feeling pretty warm in the groin just from how hot Greg looked in his dinner suit and the romance of dancing in close contact with him as he swept me around the floor. Then came on a sequence of waltz numbers; slow at first and then gradually building to a faster tempo.
I was prepared for – even looking forward to – Greg’s thigh brushing against my crutch and the arousal that would bring. What I wasn’t really prepared for was the fact the combination of my silk G-string and satin dress – and I’m sure just the presence that Greg had in his dinner suit and even the softer feel of its material against my dress – would magnify the effect the way it did.
And so as we waltzed around the floor, rising and falling to the three beat of the music his thigh went brush, brush, brush/ brush, brush, brush/ brush, brush, brush/ brush, brush, brush – always with just that little bit more pressure on the rise on the third beat and that little bit more enjoyment it brought.
At first it just caused my clit to be massaged against the lips that enveloped them, but as it swelled and my G-string camel toed between those lips, the contact became more direct; more pleasurable. Still, at first I just thought of it as cheeky fun; the sort of ‘playing’ Greg and I had talked about that wasn’t intended to lead anywhere. Why not enjoy the moment?
I was interested in whether it was having the same effect on Greg. Even though I wasn’t rubbing him up and down as we danced, he was after all dancing in close contact with the hottest girl on the dance floor (at least in her own temporarily delusional mind; although I’m willing to attribute that as much to the dress as the girl who was wearing it; it had been attracting compliments – and a few side-long glances – all night). Surely it must have been having some effect. I pushed my mons closer in against his crutch.
I found Greg what I might call a little warm. Not mast high; just not exactly soft either. Better than nothing I suppose.
But by tucking myself in even closer the brush, brush, brush instead became brush, brush, rub; every step coming up just that bit more firmly against my clit and that rise on the third step now having, shall we say, a definite impact.
And so we continued dancing. Brush, brush, rub/ brush, brush, rub/ brush, brush, rub/ brush, brush, rub/ brush, brush, rub.
This wasn’t building to a Meg Ryan moment. There was no groaning, no flicking my hands through my hair. To the outside would, even to Greg as he danced with me, I was probably looking fairly normal. The slightly heavier breathing might just be put down to the dancing. The broad smile and goggle eyes I was wearing as I stared relentlessly at him to the romance maltepe escort of the night and the heart wrenching love I felt for him.
But even just holding him in my vision like that had its own effect. There he was. My love; my first true love. Ennobled as he danced there looking absolutely gorgeous in his dinner suit, I watched as his eyes alternated between meeting mine and making sure we didn’t collide with other dancers. God I loved him; loved him with a passion I didn’t know was in me. And that just made me want him, like in rip off his clothes and throw him to the floor now want him.
I got naughtier. By bending my knees just a little and by being just a little bit late with my rise and fall I increased the stimulation. Brush, brush, rub became rub, rub, rub.
I had to be careful how much I did that. After all if by being just slightly out of step I threw off Greg’s timing too then I’d bring the whole dance to a stop until we counted our way back into the rhythm of the music.
Had you somehow stopped me at that point and asked me what I was doing – whether I was trying to bring myself to orgasm – I think I still could have answered in reasonable honesty that, no, I was just enjoying myself a bit. I might have been slightly concerned a spot of dampness might be showing on my dress, but even that didn’t seem too bad; to exaggerate slightly, there are times with Greg I can feel dripping wet before he even touches me. Tonight wasn’t in that category. I’m not sure why – there are times the female body confuses even me. Maybe it was because I felt I was just enjoying myself; I didn’t really intend for it to go too far and my body certainly knew it wasn’t going to end up with us having sex on the dance floor.
And so it went on for just a little longer. Rub, rub, rub.
Until suddenly I was aware if I didn’t stop it RIGHT NOW I was going to come. And by right now, I meant one, maybe two more rubs.
I didn’t stop.
As my orgasm hit I tried to keep dancing as if nothing was happening, but I couldn’t. Instead I locked my legs on Greg’s thighs, bringing us to a halt, bearing down on his thigh to extract even more pleasure. At least I didn’t cry out.
To an outsider we might have just looked as if we’d lost our step; although had my sudden clamping of his leg caused us to fall over with the abrupt halt to our forward progress, a few more eyebrows might have been raised.
The pressure on Greg’s thigh meant there was no hope of hiding it from him. His mouth came next to my ear. “Did you just go off?”
“I’m not admitting to anything, but give me a sec to finish before we start dancing again”
As the waves of the contractions washed over me, three times I clamped my legs on Greg’s thigh and released them. The pause in the middle of the dance floor was getting a bit too long to just be a couple who had fallen out of time with the music. As I finally recovered my composure, Greg counted us back into time and we danced off to the side to let us go and sit down for a while.
Fortunately the table was empty. “I thought you were rubbing yourself on my thigh”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Well I’m used to some contact while dancing a waltz; that just seemed a little harder”
I leaned in and kissed him. “Sorry”
“Why apologise. Don’t you think I get off on having my girlfriend have an orgasm? Do you want to go out and try for another?”
“It’s gone to rock and roll now, but I’m ready for another dance”
Greg stood up and offered me his hand. As I took it I looked down with as much subtly as I could muster to make sure the front of my dress wasn’t showing any damp patch. Thank goodness for the dark colour of the dress and the dimness of the light.
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