Elle Dante\'s \'Broken Heart\'
#21 of The world of the Spirit of '67
Miss Dante makes another performance, more pornography than character development, though you'll find a bit of both. The others in the series shouldn't be neccesary reading for you to enjoy this, if you're new to my work.
For those F-Solo purists, do note that a sex toy which resembles a man is involved in this little story.
"Do you ever wonder what it's like to want something?" The soft voice, piped through into the Spirit of '67s main clubroom, brought the conversations amongst the brightly lit tables to a halt. The lighting faded, while spotlights on statues of nude bodies lining the walls only brightened, throwing hard male lines and feminine curves in shadows across the walls. The last of the drink orders were slowly fulfilled by costumed waitresses, while the last of the patrons stepped in to seat themselves. A flashing marquee beneath the centre stage blanked, its surface returning to that of cool marble. The curtains closing off the stages rustled as if blown by air. "Ladies and gentlemen," the voice huskily whispered, every slight wet parting of her lips audible. "My name is Elle Dante. I'm not big on audience interaction, like some of the other girls here." A chuckle. "You can send tips to the waitresses, so look, and just wish you could touch me. Wish hard, because that way you can follow along with what it means to want something." "I want lots of things," she continued while the waitresses daintily picked up empty glasses, shadows in the relative gloom. "I want to be noticed, adored. I want men to lust after me, for women to wonder just what it is about me that they don't have. Secretly wonder what it'd be like for him if he actually kissed me." The spotlights throwing naked shadows on the walls dimmed, and all light was focused on the stages. One of the curtains on the far right stage, one of three, parted to reveal a typical office cubicle with cheap prints of holiday photographs on summery beaches pinned to the walls. The woman who stepped in from the sides, Elle, was wearing a businesswoman's jacket and short skirt in grey-green, sharply defined against her tan yellow fur, her skirt just short enough to show hints of the near-white fur lining her inner thighs with every other step. Her striped tail, short and stiff, slipped through the skirt's folds, while her pointed ears escaped the businesslike bun her long red hair was gathered into. Her face was canid-like, but not quite, a streak of white just beneath her chin, light patches around her eyes with the slight pure white of a shading dye. Her voice carried, artificially boosted, as she whispered, "I want to be noticed." She settled onto the seat before the desk, sliding up the screen, ducking her shoulders down, watching meaningless information go by, as if she were focused on it, and nothing else. "I want to stand up and kiss the cute guy who fixes the hard copy printers and runs the information hub at the office," she breathed, glancing over her shoulder, off stage. "I want to know that he thinks I'm beautiful." She turned back to the display, head bowed, and she slumped back in her seat. "I want to go to exotic places," she said, pushing the chair back so she sat beside the photos, picking one up off the wall. The smart paper lit slightly, and a projector began to play over the club wall beside the stage, showing an expanded version of the image. A beach, sunshine and palm trees, totally empty. Her fingers, gently touching the image's frame, were picked up and shown on the wall display. Her blackish fingernails, almost clawish, ran along the sand, and the smart paper responded by showing footprints in the sand, a shadowy couple, male and female, huddled close together as they walked. "I want him to take me there, somewhere inside my fantasy," she whispered, while the figures slipped towards the trees and slipped down beside them, faces blending together as they kissed. Suddenly she perked her ears, sitting up straight, and the image vanished. She pinned it back to the wall, glancing paranoidly over her shoulder. "But that's not the IT Guy. Even if he's cute." "He could touch me," she acknowledged with a tip of her head, slumping back in her chair, tail poking over the back underneath the back rest. She leaned her head back slowly, folds of her jacket slipping artfully down to frame her breasts, pushing at the fabric as she arched her back out with a roll of her shoulders. "He could probably touch me like he wants me, because he does." She lifted her own hand, sliding her fingertips down the centre of her neck, across the buttons of her shirt with a rustle of fabric. "Maybe he'd look at me the way I want." She popped the first button on her shirt, glancing back off stage thoughtfully. "He's a little scared of me, though." She bit her lip. "I'm a fur. He's a human. Some guys are into that for its own sake, but some find it strange." Elle's ears lifted again, and she turned back to the screen, ducking her head a little. She pulled her chair up, sat in it more comfortably, more professionally. "But I bet he's got a girlfriend, a cute guy like him. Why should I ruin that for him? He probably hasn't even noticed me," she sighed, typing on the desk's smart surface for text entry, the pads of her fingertips brushing over the smooth surface in rapid little taps. "Beauty's a strange thing," she mused, tapping the desk one last time before standing, sliding the chair under the desk and leaving the screen to slip back into the table surface. "You ever seen those girls?" She asked, glancing out into the audience, leaning on the chair. "You know the kind. The pretty girls, the ones every man wants. The ones who are all flounce and pretty faces and smooth sculpted bodies made by cosmetic surgeons who are more like artists? The kind people pay to see on a stage?" She smiled a little, and let it fade. She glanced down at herself. Idly plucked at the button of her shirt she'd picked open, closed it. "I'm not one of those girls. Or at least, I don't feel like one of those girls." She sighed, and stepped offstage, leaving the office scene to dim, though her voice continued to be played out loud. "I feel like that girl you'll never notice, because she's just like all the other girls. I have a hundred and sixty seven sisters, we all look alike, because we were built to." She laughed. "I've had men break up with me and I see them in the arms of one of my sisters weeks later." An uncomfortable silence. "Sometimes I've slept with a man because he was with one of my sisters." The moist sound of her throat working wordlessly a moment, a shameful whisper, "because he might think I'm beautiful, too. Like he thought she was beautiful." "After work, what then? Go home to my empty bed, my empty house, my empty little life?" A laugh. "I don't think so. I go dancing." The curtains on the far end of the club parted with a click, and the spotlights shined in on it. The left stage was adorned simply, a bare concrete floor, a frame full of a dance club's lights, flashing on one by one. The rolling sound of music started up as Elle stepped on stage again, her hair down, the jacket missing, the buttons on her shirt open and so loose that flashes of her black bra could be seen as she started dancing, hops and slithering gyrations as though this faux club was packed, there was no room to move, to dance. She edged back, rubbing her shoulders back in rolling movements, her hair dancing with each throw of her head, and she bumped into what might seem like a wall. Albeit a very liquid wall, a panel of smart memory plastic, the kind used in the new and very expensive morphable kids toys. "He's there," she whispered, her voice loud over the music, glancing back at the memory plastic. The panel deformed, a vague male shape, dancing with short sweeps of his hips. The plastic's surface glistened like oil as the plastic extruded like a bas-relief carving, the dancing man stepping back and forth beside Elle, his limbs joined to his body. "Not the IT Guy from work, but he'll do," she whispered, smiling coquettishly as she cozied up to the faux dancer. "Him, the guy who's smiling at me. The guy who's a little drunk, just like me, who's out for a good time, just like me, the guy who can't keep his hands off me," she laughed, the faux dancer's black hand closing over her thigh and dragging the hem of her skirt up, high enough to reveal the black stripes on the fur of her thigh, the line of her panties. She ground against the faux dancer's hand, winking back at the smart plastic panel. "I don't have to worry about a damn thing. I can't get pregnant, my genes are too fucked up. I can't catch anything off him, my biochemistry's too different." Her smile was broad, in the multicoloured light. "I don't need to leave for work until nine tomorrow, and I don't let myself get into serious relationships. So when he doesn't ask, 'your place or mine', I ask it, because I know what I want." The curtains closed slowly as Elle ground back against the faux dancer, her tail bumping between his knees, pulling his hand up over her breast. "I want him to think he's the luckiest guy in the world. I want him to beg to touch me." The spotlight moved slowly, as if tracking Elle through the walls, leading slowly, slowly towards the centre stage. "I want to be fucked. Not any old way, you understand. I'm very particular. I want him to pay attention to me, and only me. I don't want him thinking about a prettier girl, because I am the prettier girl." The curtains on the he centre stage opened, revealing a featureless white stage. Elle stepped onto it, wearing a black lacy bra so sheer one could follow the curve of her breasts, the tawny white fur and her dark tan nipples made grey behind flowery lace patterns. She ran a hand down her white-furred stomach to the band of her panties, pushing her fingertips underneath, slightly hazed by a weave just as sheer as the bra. She leaned forward, digging her hand past reddish pubic curls dyed into her fur, shoving out the seat of her underwear and curling her fingers around it, revealing perhaps a little more to the audience near the front, before pulling it up tightly. She leaned back, tail perking a little as she thrust her hips out towards the audience, sheer fabric pulled so taut that tufts of the white fur of her genital lips poked out, the cloth folds wedging into her cleft. "I'll be the fantasy," she whispered with a grin, pulling her hand back and slipping to sit on the stage floor. "The queen and empress of his lust," she explained, as the floor itself began to rise, the bright white surface another smart plastic, surface throwing oiled rainbows as it lifted her up into a somewhat thronelike shape. "He can love whoever he wants to," she whispered a little darkly, the white of the stage and plastic ebbing towards pink. "He can have his childhood sweetheart. But he can't help wanting me, can't help wanting to lick my breasts," she chuckled, glancing back at a lifting hand from her still-forming throne. She twisted her shoulders so the audience could see the way it plucked at the back of her bra, finally slipped the tab open with a snap, more arms lifting to pull away the straps across her shoulders. She thrust out her suddenly bared breasts at the audience, pushing forward as the bra was dragged back off her arms, wedging around her stomach. She wriggled forward on hands and knees, blinking green eyes out at everyone, but she was restrained by the bra, the smart plastic hands pulling it back like a set of reins. She glanced over her shoulders as the hands were joined by a male torso, licking her lips. "I'm not picky. Maybe it's the guy from the dance club, maybe it's the IT guy from work, maybe it's you if you knock on my stage door when I'm done up here and smile at me right." She let herself be drawn back, the male form threw the bra aside and raked its fingers down her sides, eliciting a groan of approval. The background went a deep red shade, while the memory plastic remained a fleshy pink. She lifted her tail slowly, edging back on her hands and knees as the memory plastic fingers caught at her panties, began tugging them down her thighs. Elle bit her lip in anticipation, and glanced back at the audience. "Incidentally, this thing is going to go on the market in about six months. Mail order from the Euphoric Whispers catalogue. One this big'll cost you a good few million nudies, though. They're not really meant to be loaned out to kooky little strippers either..." She winked with a grin. "But I can smile right too, sometimes." The male form pushed up behind her. Her grin faded, and her eyes shut, jaw slowly hanging slack. The smart plastic thrust forward, and she leaned back with whispered little groans in time to ever so faint squelches. "I want him to fuck me, like I'm his dream girl," she groaned, tail high and flat against the male form's chest, shuddering at every thrust. "Just like all the others did." Her hips slammed back against the male form, and the form began to change, leaning back. Plastic hands clasped her shoulders and pulled her back, the audience only able to see, for a brief moment, the hint of a phallus pulling away from her, the way the fur around her vaginal lips was ruffled and somewhat damp. For a moment she shivered as she was carried back, more and more hands forming to cradle her body, a look of innocence and vulnerability coming across her face. "Sometimes I don't remember their names," she admitted. She was lifted on a surface of memory plastic, hands rimming it, holding it down as her legs were pulled apart. She relaxed backwards, her shoulders and arms limp as her hips were lifted forward, the soft line between her legs slightly widened as her legs parted, until soft pink flesh was only just visible. Held down and exposed, she breathed slowly and content. "When I think about how many men that is, I have to think in terms of averages. Fifty two weeks in a year. Some weeks its one or two guys, some its none. Sometimes it's regularly with one guy for awhile, sometimes not... I figure thirty a year," she wheezed. Hands lifted and slid across her white inner thighs, the thumbs pressing down on her soft genitals and pulling them wide apart, slick pink flesh and dark quivering depths between the lips visible for heartbeats. Then the suggestion of a head lifted from the memory plastic, pushed forward between her legs, and Elle writhed against the hands holding her down. The memory plastic twisted, rotating Elle until the profile of her squirming body faced the audience, her knees now clamped over this faux head. Her breath came in yipping gasps, eyes only partway shut, pupils appearing for brief sideways glances at the audience between luxuriating gasps and moans. The head lifted slowly away, and the surface holding her lifted up, began to pull her body in mimed thrusts and jerks as though she were under a lover thrusting at her, and she kept with the act, moaning and cooing encouraging sounds. "I don't want to think about how many men that is by now. I don't want to think about how many of them have forgotten me by now," she wheezed. "I can't stop myself," she admitted as her body was pulled this way and that, made to writhe in a miming of sex. The memory plastic stage began to pull away from her, hands releasing her and melting back into the surface. It helped tilt her forward, and she clawed at the rising impression of a male torso, pulling herself onto it, legs straddled over the bas relief man lifting from the bed. "But I don't want to stop myself." She glanced down to situate herself on the faux male's hips, begin to rise and fall against this fake lover. "I don't wanna worry about nothing except how good it feels," she whined, leaning back a little to straddle her plastic lover, her breasts rolling with each bounce of his forceful hips. A projector played onto the stage, then, throwing her shadow harshly against the deep red wall beside that of the faux lover. As she rode him, tail bouncing and with whimpering little sounds upon her lips, a bright patch in the centre of the shadow opened, in the shape of a heart. "Don't wanna worry about tomorrow," she almost plead. "Just want to have fun for tonight," Elle whispered. She drew her shoulders back, shuddering upon the memory plastic man, breath coming in gasps. And in the midst of her orgasm, the heart broke, and the stage's lighting dimmed, so that lit pieces of Elle's heart scattered across the stage. "I don't know his name. He doesn't love me, just lusts for me," she whispered as the male form sank back into the surface, leaving her crouching on a bed-like surface of memory plastic. "I don't care, really I don't." She sprawled naked across the bed, catching the small patches of light that were her heart, gathering them up carefully, the projected pieces of light following her hands as she swept them across the stage. She caught them all, and looked up at the audience as the lights came up, making them disappear. She mimed pushing the pieces of her heart into the pliable memory plastic surface and smoothed it over. "It doesn't matter." She smiled slowly. "Sex and lust's all I want. Isn't it?" She leaned forward, crawling forward on her hands and knees, arms pushing her breasts together as she crawled. Her voice was sultry as she whispered, "because I'm not one of those girls. You know the kind. The ones you fall in love with." "No," she winked. "I'm the kind you want to fuck." The lights snapped off, there was the rustle of curtains, and slowly the club room's lighting returned.