Illustrated stories written by our customers: mixed wrestling, mixed boxing, CFNM, ballbusting, kickboxing, judo, karate, catfighting, armed mixed fights (swords, epees, axes, spears, daggers, handguns, e.t.c.). All models are 18 y.o. or older, no porno images here - legal adult content only.
Custom 3D drawings and troubleshooting - contact firstname.lastname@example.org
Dancing, ballbusting, mixed fighting freestyle, 210 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), no nudity, no blood.
Dance has many moods, but mostly it is associated with gaiety (in its older sense), tuneful music, and the interaction of the sexes (or flirting, to you and me, and why not?) From the waltzes of Vienna to a “smooch” at the Christmas Party, the nature of dance is the same. Even ballet, while having a story behind it, can’t get away from the stereotype of the strong, courtly gentleman, and the graceful, nimble, lady.
But it does have a darker side. Gallery 395 is set broadly around the story of an Apache dance, a term given to the street gangs of Paris before the First World War, said to be as wild as the original Red Indian tribe of that name. When the dance was first performed, it featured a violent row between a prostitute and a pimp, which ended in him beating her up. It highlighted lifting, throwing, slapping and punching. Later productions of the dance had more “respectable” storylines, sometimes with the woman fighting back, occasionally even winning.
Then there is “West Side Story”, which features gang fights. Kicks and even stabbings are added to the choreography, as well as the moves already found in the Apache dance. Art loves to portray human depravity!
Not to be left out, Gustav Brecht and his wife Sabrine D’Orsay, the directors of the International Ballet Company, employed a renowned choreographer, Bernice Atwold, to design a “challenging scene of conflict in dance”, in collaboration with Berchtold Hansen, the musical director and conductor. As it approached opening night, speculation as to the content was overflowing in the more exclusive publications.
“We’re informed it’s such a closely-guarded secret that even Brecht and D’Orsay are unaware of what’s in store”, “The European Guide to the Arts” confided in its readers. “Traditional concepts are set to be swept aside,” gloated Britain’s “Guardian”. (“Highbrow ballet sets record for ticket prices”, noted the “Sun”.)
At last, it seemed, the opening night had arrived, and the Grand Theatre of Klansbourg, which hosted the event, was full of the great and the good. The King and Queen were in the Royal Box; Gustav Brecht and Sabrine D’Orsay were in their box on the opposite wing; Paulo Diago, of “The European Guide to the Arts” was in the front row, as were Quentin Davies, the art critic of the “Guardian”, and Len Todd, a journalist from the “Sun” who was there to “see what all the fuss is about, and whether the ticket prices are worth it.” Their wives (who tried not to look bored) were with them.
The chatter faded away, the lights dimmed, Berchtold Hansen raised his baton, the curtains opened, and the drum was struck.
There was nothing “challenging” about the start at any rate. The male dancer (Michael) was on his knees, miming his devotion to the ballerina (Olivia). True, he didn’t look as tall and broad as the average dancer, and perhaps that was why Olivia – beautiful, majestic, imperious – appeared to reject him. The audience could just see her sneer through the deliberately gloomy stage lighting.
Hansen pointed to the brass section, which played a jarring note in the hitherto gentle melody. It served as a warning, and the audience saw Olivia spin round and point threateningly at the kneeling Michael. But what a rear view! Standing on tiptoe, she thrust her magnificent bottom to one side and, it seemed, towards the audience.
“Oh, what a fine choice Olivia was!” whispered Brecht to his wife, who glared at him for a moment. (It might be high art, but it still comes back to bum and tit.)
“Oh!” murmured the audience in appreciation, as she stood on her right foot, and pointed her left leg up at a 180 degree angle, a perfect demonstration of graceful feminine strength. Michael reached out and clasped her left wrist. But she appeared to change her mind, and jumped down as if to confront him. He shot to his feet, and her left elbow flashed within an inch of his chin, making the audience wince. “Wow, this is good after all,” whispered Len Todd to his wife, Julie.
“No!” she gasped, as Olivia’s right foot shot upwards, almost grazing Michael’s face in passing. He danced out of the way when Olivia followed up with a sideways kick.
Julie sighed with relief when the scene reverted to what she called the “lovey-dovey stuff”. For Olivia now danced joyously while Michael held her waist, before they both danced in a conventional way, pirouetting, stretching and so on. “I could clap!” she delightedly whispered, as Michael lifted Oliva, who then landed in a classical ballerina style, leaning back elegantly, and pointing her slender right foot … before slamming it into Michael’s groin.
“WHAT?” demanded Brecht, as Michael sank to his knees, while Olivia appeared to gloat (on tiptoe) over his discomfort, before jumping over him when he lay down.
But perhaps it was all right. Perhaps it was just brilliant choreography and skilful lighting after all. Because Michael stood up, and they continued to dance, to general relief. And how they did! She appeared to glide over him, as he held her waist above his head. It was delightful stuff, and they now mirrored each other’s movements. They faced, their left legs overlapping; up came Olivia’s left elbow again – and this time it really did catch his chin.
She kicked once more, and it sent Michael sprawling. Audience members exchanged anxious glances as she menaced him while he was down. She kicked again as he was on his way up, and he slumped back down once more.
“Why is Hansen repeating the last 32 bars?” Sabrine D’Orsay demanded of her husband, who just shrugged helplessly.
Poor Hansen! He alone in the auditorium knew about the row between Olivia and Michael before “curtain up”. Indeed he, Bernice Atwold, and the stage hands had struggled to keep them apart. He hoped they had calmed it down, and he now desperately got the orchestra to repeat a passage of music, to give Michael time to recover and get to his feet. Hopefully they would be professional enough to remember to dance-fight, and not really fight from now on.
So far so good: Michael caught up with the music, kneeling, and pointed at Olivia in the way that she had pointed at him earlier. She stood with her fists upraised, as they had rehearsed. But he shouldn’t be taking a run at her! Now what? She leant out of his way, flicked out her right foot, and he tumbled back down. “Fight within a fight” Len Todd thought, for tomorrow’s headline.
Olivia pointed disdainfully down at him, as he rose and seemed to implore her once more, reverting to dance again. In fact they both did, even in time to the music (Hansen thought bitterly). Until she kicked him in the chest, that is. Some audience members turned away at the ominous look on Olivia’s face when Michael tried to get up - and those that hadn’t wished they had, because the ballerina kicked the dancer in the balls for a second time. She now danced oh-so-gracefully, peering down at him lying in the foetal position, and clutching his groin. She lowered herself on him, in time to close with the particular passage of music the orchestra was playing.
To general relief, the musical tone changed. Michael, now kneeling, held Olivia by the waist while she arched her back above him. Even he had to admit how lovely her breasts looked. As he held her above him, his hand briefly hovered over one.
“I’ll get him for that,” Olivia told herself. She slithered round him like a snake, slipped her thighs – very much her upper thighs – either side of his face, and gripped. Her head scissors forced him onto his back, with his face locked against her sex; and many in the audience wondered if they were watching ballet or wrestling (or pornography, come to that). Michael gasped and spluttered before eventually fainting.
Olivia released him and stood facing the audience, scowling, very much the dominatrix that she was supposed to be for the ballet, but without causing actual pain.
The mood music changed again, and she danced over him mockingly as he gradually came round. He started to get up; she kicked him back down before moving away from him and towards the audience. Behind her, Michael rose, this time unmolested, and made defiant gestures at her, before joining her.
Incredibly, they started dancing again. The audience were perplexed, and still couldn’t decide whether they were watching the most convincing dramatic dance they had ever experienced, or a barely-disguised fight. Only Hansen knew (and D’Orsay, Brecht, and Todd guessed). So now they matched the exuberant music with acrobatic dancing, very much in traditional keeping. They even got “lovey-dovey” briefly …
“No!” moaned Brecht, chewing his fist, as Michael held Olivia high above him, with his left hand gripping her ankle, and his right cupping her under her sex. “You wait!” thought Olivia, impatient to dole out the punishment again. But first there must be a little more gliding above him, the light flickering most voluptuously over her upturned bottom, and distracting every man in the audience.
Down she came, facing away from him, with her left leg over his left shoulder, and her right foot poised. Yes, it caught him in the balls again; it wasn’t a full-blooded kick, but it was enough to bring him to his knees. She had him in a choke hold, legs astride him and pointing that glorious bottom at the audience. (Brecht mopped his brow with his handkerchief.) Swapping to one hand around his throat, she brought down on his back, playing up to the sombre tones of the music.
Michael was helpless, and as the music lightened in mood, Olivia danced a little celebratory gig around his prostrate form. But he recognised his musical cue, and he was enough of a professional to get back up and join her in dance. He held her and upended her, his hand straying to her buttocks, and squeezing.
“I really wouldn’t do that, mate,” thought Todd. “I mean, I know every bloke here wants to do the same, but I’d show a bit more respect for the lady’s temper, I really would.”
But perhaps he was wrong. There they were, dancing in perfect symmetry. Perhaps, thought Hansen, they’d get away with it after all. Approaching what he called the “home stretch” in the music, he conducted with “joie de vivre”, believing they had managed to con the audience. Olivia, in front, was Michael in a diminutive (and far, far nicer) form. They had rehearsed this thing over and over, and they danced as one, though she had her back to him. Then:
“Fuck it!” Hansen declared, loudly enough for the strings on his left and the percussionist on his right to hear, while Todd nodded as if to say, “Told you so.” Olivia had brought her left heel hooking up into Michael’s balls. He crumpled down to his knees, and once again she daintily danced around him in mocking celebration. It got worse, because as he rose she (naturally, with great elegance) back-kicked, and he tumbled over on his back all over again.
The music approached the crescendo. Michael, seemingly intent on revenge, leapt up and grabbed Olivia from behind, lifting her and swinging her, so she swept over the stage, inches from the surface. She clung on, and appeared to ride him “piggy back” style as he ran, trying to shake her off. Then they mirrored one another again, this time with Olivia behind.
“You don’t learn, do you?” thought Todd, when she turned to face him, jumped, and he caught her, a hand on each buttock this time. But no, it seemed to revert to pure ballet again, with lifts, stretches and pirouettes galore.
“Just a few more bars to go,” thought Hansen, willing the orchestra on, hoping yet to convince the audience that it had all been part of the planned performance. The acrobatics and gyrations built up speed as the orchestra increased its tempo. Michael held the lovely, pliant form aloft; then she plunged down, and seemed to lead him, pointing toes and fingers, and extending her limbs seemingly beyond possibility.
The percussionist whacked away with the cartwheels for the climax; then came the final three chords: “pom”, “pom” and – Olivia kicked Michael hard in the balls on the last “pom”. He sank down for the last time, and she pointed down at him, her back to the audience. Then she turned and acknowledged the applause in a victory pose, though many wondered what exactly they were applauding.
The curtains closed. This was the moment Hansen was dreading above all else – the curtain calls. He was trembling when they parted, but no; there were Olivia and Michael beaming smiles at the audience, who roared, shouted, and stamped their appreciation. (“I love Sally!” thought Hansen, for he recognised Ian, the stagehand, strongly resembling Michael, thanks to Sally, the makeup lady.)
“Producer! Choreographer!” yelled the audience, demanding to see Bernice. Hansen groaned, because after the confrontation between Olivia and Michael, she had locked herself in her dressing room and got drunk. But no – he recognised Jackie, the cleaning lady, in a long, flowing dress. She was embraced by Olivia, who steered her into a curtesy, holding her almost in a half nelson to make sure she got it right.
“Speech! Speech!” shouted the audience. But here, Hansen saved the day. The old pro faced the audience, and began, “Ladies and gentlemen – may I?”
“Yes!” they roared.
“Well, our dear Bernice has been shouting commands all day to our wonderful dancers [applause], above the din that this orchestra makes [laughter]. I regret to tell you that she has quite lost her voice. But has it been worth it?” he appealed to them.
“Yes!” they shouted, hurling flowers on stage for the ballerina and the cleaning lady.
“My dear,” began Brecht to his wife, tears of emotion streaming down his face, “I have never been prouder of our company than tonight. This was their best performance – in more ways than one - that they have ever given! But I don’t think we should renew Olivia’s or Michael’s contracts.”
“I should think not, indeed!” Sabrine D’Orsay snorted.