GarnettRose
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 5, 2024
- Messages
- 189
- Points
- 43
One of my absolute favorite things is to be taken dancing. Not the dancing found in a club, I have nothing against it, but there is something so lonely about dancing in one place, alone, while a hoard of people writhes around me. Much like tickling, the kind of dancing I adore can only be done with a partner. I am enamored with Salsa, Rumba, Lindy hop, East and West Coast Swing, Waltzing, and anything that takes me spinning around the room in the arms of another.
I like dancing for several reasons. With my disability causing me to be dizzy so often, dancing with a partner allows for constant support and a gentle movement that invigorates without exhausting me. It's a thrill to be able to spin again, under the observation of a caring partner. It does not matter if the dance is slow or fast, with intimate partners or strangers, so long as the music is flowing and my feet are moving, I am in bliss. I fell in love with my partner in the blare of a dance club, and I fall deeper for him every time he takes me in his arms once again (even if he dances with the stiffness of a penguin at times).
Dancing is intimate, it is fun, and for a lee like myself, it can be a maddening tease. There is a joke among my local dancing circle that it’s the lead's job to guide and the follow's job to make the lead look good, and I do my best. With a flourish of my hips to a Latin beat, or a bounce in my step as Jazz, like silk to the senses, plays in the background, I perform for my partner regardless of what prying eyes may witness. With a good lead, I can embellish, because their firm hands on the most ticklish parts of my body guide me through the steps.
Even the best of follows are not mind readers. In a flowing social dance, the couple communicates through touch. The firm pushes and grasps of the lead, and the answering movements of the follow turn simple steps into an ensnaring performance. As a lee, this push and pull against my sensitive skin is the worst kind of denial. I am constantly in situations where I wish another would reach out and pay attention to my worst spots. Even with my partners tormenting me day in and day out, it is an experience I crave constantly. Sensual dances are the absolute worst offenders.
Every dance leads a partner differently, Lindy Hop leaves the lead's hand on the shoulder blade, and waltzes utilize the upper shoulders and hands, but dances like Bachata are a special torment for me. In a single song, I can find my ribs, hips, underarms, and sides all firmly grasped as I dance as close as is possible for two people fully clothed. It leaves me blushing every time and craving something I cannot ask for. When I am at home, my partner takes advantage of this frequently. It is not uncommon for dancing to be full of laughter, but when we dance that laughter is brought on by force rather than simple enjoyment.
Tonight was a rush. In a dance class followed by a long string of faceless partners, dancing until the early hours of the morning, I felt your eyes homed in on me all night long. Dancing with new partners is supposed to strengthen my skills, but all it has done is make me flushed from head to toe as their hands have grabbed the hot spots on my sides. They hold, they guide, and my lips stay locked in the hopes that errant laughter doesn’t spill out.
I really shouldn’t have worn a crop top tonight, but a quiet part of me begged for this to happen. Every time a stray giggle slips out of my painted lips, I can feel your smirk across the room. In the times that we meet again on the dance floor, your legs between mine, and our chests flush with one another, I find myself grateful for the deafening music. It really would embarrass me if someone were to catch me laughing as your fingers rhythmically tap against my ribs.
In my struggles to escape your teasing touch, I can only hope that it appears to all others that I am simply following the steps, my body trembling in anticipation.
“Oh dear, you’re not being a good follow for me now are you darling? Pay attention, a new song is starting.”, you whisper in my ear as the sound of a soft Spanish guitar fills the crowded room. Our dance is just beginning, my hands wrapped around your neck. My hips sway back and forth, adding grace to your every step, and bringing attention to my foolishly bare belly. I really shouldn’t have worn a crop top tonight. But like I said, I love your attention.
As the sound of drums emerges, a call for our gentle swaying to stop and for the practiced steps to begin, I choke back a laugh as your hands graze my sides and trail down my arms, firmly grasping my hands. Sweat clings to my skin as we move side to side. Each repetition of steps adds a new flourish or twirl. My eyes widen as you grab me by my wrists, lifting them above my head for the briefest of moments. You could break me right now. Expose my secrets to every person in this crowded room.
I sigh in relief as you twirl me 180 degrees. Your hands are still holding mine, only now they are wrapped around my torso as my back is flush with your chest. As our hands break, you quietly flutter your fingers against my exposed waist.
“Ahahah Sihihihir, n-not hehehere,” I laugh, keeping my voice as quiet as possible as your fingers spider along my belly, turning me back towards you. My arms are once again wrapped around you. I lean in close, my soft laughter playing in your ears like a personal symphony. I can do my best to protest, but you know how much I enjoy this. My torment hid in plain sight.
We are close enough now that no one notices as your hands travel up my torso, towards my underarms. I should be terrified, but the music deafens all noise, and your questing fingers do not look altogether different from the guiding hands of a bachata lead instructing me where and how to move my upper body as we dance in an embrace.
“S-Sir, y-you can’t, not h-here,” I stutter, panicked at the thought of being caught. These little agonies are nothing compared to the full-scale torture you place me under at home, but even so, I feel deliciously exposed by your touches.
Your eyes crinkle as you grin at me.
“You know the word that will stop all of this darling…and I’m not hearing it,”
My eyes fall to the ground, staring at my feet as I bite my lip in embarrassment. You’re right, I don’t want this to stop. Even worse, a part of me would welcome the electric touches against my waist from any number of my partners tonight, even if I could never admit to that.
I am in agony. I want to keep going. I don’t want to be caught. But more than anything, I wish you were tickling me as hard as I really need it right now. That sort of play will have to wait until we get home, but I never have been the most patient of lees. As the song comes to a close, I drag you by the hand towards the exit. This is all your fault, making me crave it so hard that I feel like I am buzzing out of my skin. If I cannot have what I need on the dance floor, then perhaps I need to take you home to get the kind of attention to my weak points that I really need. The kind of devilish attention that cannot be found on a dance floor.
(Here is a fun example of Bachata, though I promise you, neither my partner nor I are that good.)
"
"
I like dancing for several reasons. With my disability causing me to be dizzy so often, dancing with a partner allows for constant support and a gentle movement that invigorates without exhausting me. It's a thrill to be able to spin again, under the observation of a caring partner. It does not matter if the dance is slow or fast, with intimate partners or strangers, so long as the music is flowing and my feet are moving, I am in bliss. I fell in love with my partner in the blare of a dance club, and I fall deeper for him every time he takes me in his arms once again (even if he dances with the stiffness of a penguin at times).
Dancing is intimate, it is fun, and for a lee like myself, it can be a maddening tease. There is a joke among my local dancing circle that it’s the lead's job to guide and the follow's job to make the lead look good, and I do my best. With a flourish of my hips to a Latin beat, or a bounce in my step as Jazz, like silk to the senses, plays in the background, I perform for my partner regardless of what prying eyes may witness. With a good lead, I can embellish, because their firm hands on the most ticklish parts of my body guide me through the steps.
Even the best of follows are not mind readers. In a flowing social dance, the couple communicates through touch. The firm pushes and grasps of the lead, and the answering movements of the follow turn simple steps into an ensnaring performance. As a lee, this push and pull against my sensitive skin is the worst kind of denial. I am constantly in situations where I wish another would reach out and pay attention to my worst spots. Even with my partners tormenting me day in and day out, it is an experience I crave constantly. Sensual dances are the absolute worst offenders.
Every dance leads a partner differently, Lindy Hop leaves the lead's hand on the shoulder blade, and waltzes utilize the upper shoulders and hands, but dances like Bachata are a special torment for me. In a single song, I can find my ribs, hips, underarms, and sides all firmly grasped as I dance as close as is possible for two people fully clothed. It leaves me blushing every time and craving something I cannot ask for. When I am at home, my partner takes advantage of this frequently. It is not uncommon for dancing to be full of laughter, but when we dance that laughter is brought on by force rather than simple enjoyment.
Tonight was a rush. In a dance class followed by a long string of faceless partners, dancing until the early hours of the morning, I felt your eyes homed in on me all night long. Dancing with new partners is supposed to strengthen my skills, but all it has done is make me flushed from head to toe as their hands have grabbed the hot spots on my sides. They hold, they guide, and my lips stay locked in the hopes that errant laughter doesn’t spill out.
I really shouldn’t have worn a crop top tonight, but a quiet part of me begged for this to happen. Every time a stray giggle slips out of my painted lips, I can feel your smirk across the room. In the times that we meet again on the dance floor, your legs between mine, and our chests flush with one another, I find myself grateful for the deafening music. It really would embarrass me if someone were to catch me laughing as your fingers rhythmically tap against my ribs.
In my struggles to escape your teasing touch, I can only hope that it appears to all others that I am simply following the steps, my body trembling in anticipation.
“Oh dear, you’re not being a good follow for me now are you darling? Pay attention, a new song is starting.”, you whisper in my ear as the sound of a soft Spanish guitar fills the crowded room. Our dance is just beginning, my hands wrapped around your neck. My hips sway back and forth, adding grace to your every step, and bringing attention to my foolishly bare belly. I really shouldn’t have worn a crop top tonight. But like I said, I love your attention.
As the sound of drums emerges, a call for our gentle swaying to stop and for the practiced steps to begin, I choke back a laugh as your hands graze my sides and trail down my arms, firmly grasping my hands. Sweat clings to my skin as we move side to side. Each repetition of steps adds a new flourish or twirl. My eyes widen as you grab me by my wrists, lifting them above my head for the briefest of moments. You could break me right now. Expose my secrets to every person in this crowded room.
I sigh in relief as you twirl me 180 degrees. Your hands are still holding mine, only now they are wrapped around my torso as my back is flush with your chest. As our hands break, you quietly flutter your fingers against my exposed waist.
“Ahahah Sihihihir, n-not hehehere,” I laugh, keeping my voice as quiet as possible as your fingers spider along my belly, turning me back towards you. My arms are once again wrapped around you. I lean in close, my soft laughter playing in your ears like a personal symphony. I can do my best to protest, but you know how much I enjoy this. My torment hid in plain sight.
We are close enough now that no one notices as your hands travel up my torso, towards my underarms. I should be terrified, but the music deafens all noise, and your questing fingers do not look altogether different from the guiding hands of a bachata lead instructing me where and how to move my upper body as we dance in an embrace.
“S-Sir, y-you can’t, not h-here,” I stutter, panicked at the thought of being caught. These little agonies are nothing compared to the full-scale torture you place me under at home, but even so, I feel deliciously exposed by your touches.
Your eyes crinkle as you grin at me.
“You know the word that will stop all of this darling…and I’m not hearing it,”
My eyes fall to the ground, staring at my feet as I bite my lip in embarrassment. You’re right, I don’t want this to stop. Even worse, a part of me would welcome the electric touches against my waist from any number of my partners tonight, even if I could never admit to that.
I am in agony. I want to keep going. I don’t want to be caught. But more than anything, I wish you were tickling me as hard as I really need it right now. That sort of play will have to wait until we get home, but I never have been the most patient of lees. As the song comes to a close, I drag you by the hand towards the exit. This is all your fault, making me crave it so hard that I feel like I am buzzing out of my skin. If I cannot have what I need on the dance floor, then perhaps I need to take you home to get the kind of attention to my weak points that I really need. The kind of devilish attention that cannot be found on a dance floor.
(Here is a fun example of Bachata, though I promise you, neither my partner nor I are that good.)
"
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
