18+ Rated Dreams
The Dance

I was in my early twenties and a soldier in World War II, serving in Europe. We were on pass and a half dozen of us headed to a small village embedded in the hillside near a large lake. We heard music coming from a large square building overlooking the lake. We stepped up to the screen door and observed. It appeared to be a ballroom, perhaps also serving as a church, for there were pews, at least ten of them, lined along one side. There were older couples dancing, but when it came to younger folk, it was mostly woman with woman. I imagine their husbands were soldiers in the war as well.

Many of the women appeared older than I, thirties or forties. We ducked inside and took seats in the pews to watch. We had donned civilian clothing for our pass in the hopes of not standing out, but we obviously still did. Why would six young men suddenly appear at a small dance hall in rural Europe unless they were soldiers? Anyways-we listened to a few rounds of old time music and watched them dance. There was none of the new Hot Swing dancing going on in this community, obviously very conservative and tight to traditions. They probably scorned the trendy Hot Swing taking place in the larger cities as unnatural and too loose for women with the capabilities to make their own bread by scratch, if you know what I mean.

It was announced that the next dance would be for their guests. I immediately understood it to be for us. My reaction was to slump down in the pew. I saw several older women make their way in our direction, and I looked at the soldier next to me just in time to see a woman in her forties grab him by the collar and pull him to the dance floor. Perhaps I wasn’t of their taste or the withdrawn look on my face made them avoid me, but the first rush of women managed to pass me up. That is when I saw her. She moved along the back aisle toward me. A simple, dusty sack of flower-colored dress hung just below her knees, her long shins a light Caucasian. As I looked her up and down, I noticed the smooth way she moved, and how her knees bobbed neatly beneath the thin layer of cloth. She was probably one of the youngest in the group, late twenties with sandy blond hair that hung just below the neck line. She made eye contact, but did not offer a smile. I did not know if she was heading for me or just passing by. She looked annoyed, or at the least, indifferent. But she leaned in, gave me a tug, and we were off to the dance floor.

The look I gave her must have asked, why me. She whispered in my ear, “Because you looked the best to tickle. You do want to tickle?”

“Sure,” I replied, guessing what she meant by tickle. My left arm went out and my right hand went behind her back and I pressed myself tight against her. I felt her breasts compress against my chest. I thought to loosen my grip, but she held me in, so I held her even tighter as we spun around the dance floor. I led, at first, and we passed thru several rooms. One was a kitchen and I noticed several older ladies lined along a table cutting sandwiches into bite-sized hors d'oeuvres. For a second, I forgot about her and wondered how good those sandwich bites were probably going to taste. Then she took over lead.

We danced in and out of two back rooms as others were as well, and as we passed a back door, she quickly glanced around, then ushered me out the door with a shove. We ran down a set of stone stairs and along a path to what appeared to be a bath house near the lake. We ducked inside and plopped down on a long sitting bench. She watched the door and listened for anyone on our back trail. When she was sure no one had followed, she turned and kissed me.

It was a sloppy and unbalanced kiss, so I cut it short and went to taste her neck. She turned her back to me, and I kissed at her neck from behind as I worked her dress off, then her brassiere. I leaned around to her front and found her right breast, a smaller cup with a very light and crisp nipple. I kissed it, then swung her around. She fell back onto her elbows; her long body lying before me on the wooden bench. She held herself their rigidly as if thinking it over; her body tense as if hesitant. I countered her look with a warm smile, a loving smile and I meant it. Then I leaned in and kissed her on the belly. She laid the rest of the way back. I tried to read her story from her eyes and imagined that it had probably been some time since she had been with a man. Perhaps her man had died in the war.

I felt her legs shake lightly against mine. I  leaned in and gave a light kiss to the inside of each leg as well. She reached for me. I brought my lips to hers and accepted her kisses. I watched her as we kissed. Her eyes remained closed, but the movement in her eyelids said there were a lot of thoughts going on inside her. I wondered what hard times she had been through. . .

This dream is related to other World War II dreams I have had in the past forty years (such as the rooftop battle, and the battle of the tree line). The woman in the dream bears a close resemblance to a young Norwegian gal who tried to teach me to Swing Dance in 2010, maybe just aged by a few years. This young Norwegian was a physical therapist and well conditioned, enough to dance at least two young men red faced through the night until she came to ask me to dance. She chatted cheerfully in a cute and slightly nasal and Norwegian twang. But after only two or three dances, the night had come to an end. Her last words to me, I recall, went something like this, “The good nights always come to an end much too fast.” At that point, I bid her good night and went on my way.

On This Page

The Dance

I don't believe in reincarnation, rather I believe that spirit energies are particles, like atoms, that make up all space, and at any time, vivid images of lives past, present or future can show up in our dreams or in our lives.
More from Russ Victorian available for E-book readers on:

Available in EBook
​by Russ Victorian