Author: Anonymous

About:

The Dancing School, is grim but with no elements of tragedy at all. It is a tale of ultimate justice having been done, largely administered by the rod and the whip, and with sensual overtones to ever blow. One is gratified to see the vicious Laura and even more vicious Cynthia receive their comeuppance at the hands of their former victims -- though the awakening of the latent sadism in these victims is fraught with danger, for where do these excesses lead? Down the same path Laura and Cynthia trod... and with probably the same results. We hope not to meet these people on the street on a dark night.

Excerpt:

“YOU DIRTY SLUTS!”

The shrill voice rang through the small room where seven pairs of girls danced together on a well-waxed floor. They were all very well-dressed young women in their early teens, obviously school-girls. They were a part of the afternoon ballroom dancing class and it was the head mistress, Cynthia Rosten, who suddenly screamed, making all the girls turn their heads and stare openmouthed, for the lovely, austere headmistress had never lost her temper, much less used such violent language.

“What you are doing!”

Cynthia, tall, graceful, with a cold, steellike beauty advanced toward two of the girls. They looked guiltless, but nevertheless afraid as Miss Rosten strode toward them with anger. She reached out and pulled a handful of long, auburn hair, jerking the girl, Beth, backwards violently, so that she whimpered in complaint.

“I wasn't doing anything wrong, was I?” she asked tearfully.

Miss Rosten stared contemptuously at the young girl with the creamy-white face, her green eyes wide and startled, her full lips pursed in a scared little pout. The girl wore the school uniform of white sweater and navy skirt; her delightful little figure was shown off very well in this uniform, for her plump breasts stretched the wool of her sweater out into two charming hills, and her wide, round hips fitted nicely into the tight skirt.

“Oh, you weren't, were you? And how about you, Janice? I suppose you weren't doing anything, either?”

Janice's dumb grown eyes were expressionless. She was NOT as frightened as Beth, but merely confused.

“Gee, Miss Rosten, weren't we doing the right step?”

“Hah! Your innocence is beguiling, my dear. I want to know which one of you it is that's encouraging this class dancing. You're both women, you're not dancing with a man, and it is degenerate to dance that closely, pressing up against each other and probably trying to stimulate each other's bodies!”

At this point both girls blushed deeply, catching the significance of her reproaches. She was accusing them of unnatural vice.

“Oh, no!” Janice exploded excitedly.

Janice was lean as a racehorse, with the exception of a pair of large, pointed breasts. Her face was pretty enough, with its tanned complexion and freckles, but it was her legs and breasts that called attention to her as a woman.

“Why, we weren't dancing close at all!” she screamed.