He watched from the shadows of his bedroom balcony. She was there again, dancing in the moonlight. Dancing completely, utterly and mesmerizingly naked, as she had done many times before. The perspiration on her limbs reflected the glint of the full moon, and turned her into a mythical being from another world.
He had stopped wondering why she danced naked whenever the moon appeared as a large, silver ball in the sky. It was a miracle. It was his miracle alone. No one else in the surrounding houses had the same view as him, overlooking her almost secluded garden.
Her slim, lean, dancer’s body bent and flowed with effortless ease—arms and hands stretched up towards the moonlit sky, feet pointed out as she lifted her legs in turn behind her. Elegance personified.
Her breasts were not large, but looked soft and pliable. How he wished he could take them in his hands—to run his fingers over her smooth, velvety skin, gently massaging and squeezing them, as he would a peach to test its ripeness.
He wanted to run his palms down the curve of her back and meet the swell of her cheeks as they curved to meet her thighs. What mysteries and delights were to be found in the hidden cleft, that the moonlight did not reveal? What joy and pleasure was to be found in that wondrous place, that in the past he would have discovered for himself?
For he was an old man, who had once been strong and powerful—whose arms would have clasped such a body to his chest, and whose legs could have encircled hers and bound her to him. His cock, once so mighty, would have risen to the challenge, seeking out the warm, moist place it was designed to fill.
But now, at the age of ninety-one, all he had left were memories—of girls and women who had graced his bed over so many years. Lovers whose names he could no longer remember, apart from the exceptional few who had carved their initials into his heart—to be remembered in perpetuity.
He turned his attention to the naked beauty below, whose body swirled and flowed to the music he could only hear faintly. Chopin, he mused. It sounded like prelude in e minor, one of his favourite pieces. Such a soothing sound; but made erotic by the movement of the dancer beneath him, as her extended limbs glistened in the moonlight.
A miracle was occurring. That part of his body that he had thought was redundant, had stirred. He gasped gently in wonderment as sensations flowed through his groin that had been absent for so long. He reached his hand inside his silk dressing gown. No, he had not been mistaken.
Grasping his semi-hard cock, he slid his fingers along it in wonderment. This was a feeling he had never expected to meet again. He wanted to shout his joy to his private dancer. Tell her of the miracle she had performed. But he did not.
Instead he held his cock firmly within his grasp as he watched the last movements of her dance. Her previous performances had ended without acknowledgement. But tonight was different. She looked up to his balcony and gave a low curtsey, as though from a stage. Rising up she brought her hand to her mouth and blew a kiss in his direction.
She can’t see me, but she knows I’m here.
The man raised his hand, as though to catch the kiss floating in the wind. His heart was full of joy and he smiled broadly.
That is how they found him next day, when his carer, seeing him lying so still and suspecting the worst, called the doctor to tend him. Both men noticed the gentle smile still showing on his lips.
The dancer never appeared in the garden again.
Here is a link to the music: