Anne watched the prima ballerina with fascination and delight as she danced her routine to the orchestra music in the darkened, crowded concert hall. Ever since her parents began taking her to the ballet when she was 7, she had loved the dancers. Their beauty, grace and seemingly weightless form inspired her dreams. She wanted more than anything else to be like the girl on stage. Just one thing hampered her dream: the girl on stage wasn't a girl, but a highly sophisticated robotic puppet, controlled by a choreographer. Decades ago, robots had replaced humans as the best dancers because of their ability to freeze into any position and hold it there and their almost infinite flexibility. Humans had become relegated to the minor parts, and eventually their weren't any human dancers left.

Anne wasn't going to let that stop her.

"Mom, I want to be a ballerina."

She laughed. "Don't be silly. Everyone knows humans can't be dancers."

"So?"

Her mother looked at her funny and brushed it off as some silly teenage yearning. It will pass.

Anne was determined to become a ballerina. She took the monorail down to the theater. It was dark deserted except for the choreographer, running through his next performance with his robotic dancers.

"Excuse me?" she said in a tiny voice.

"I'm sorry. We closed. Come back tonight for the next performance."

"But...that's not why I'm here."

"Oh?"

The choreographer stopped what he was doing and turned around. His face was old and wizened, but there was a warm light in his eyes.

"Hello there, chiquita." He smiled. "It's not often I get young people to come watch me work."

She took a deep breath. "Sir...I want to become a ballerina. Like her." She pointed to the beautiful but inert robot on stage, holding a perfect en pointe position.

The old man sighed. "That would have been music to my ears, thirty years ago. But now..." He shook his head.

"What do you mean?"

"When the puppets were first introduced, many people, including myself, thought it was silly. 'No robot can express human emotions,' we said. But they kept improving. Kept becoming...more human. Until they got better than the best humans." He faced her. "How old are you?"

"I'm 15, sir."

He nodded. "In the old days, you would have to have studied dance for at least that long to become like the puppets. And even then you would be prone to mistakes. These puppets...their perfect."

The girl turned around slowly. "Well, I'm sorry I bothered you, sir."

Anne began to walk sadly out of the theater, her dreams shattered. The old man turned back around and called to her.

"Chiquita...how badly do you want to be a dancer?"

She turned her head. "More than anything else...anything."

He paused for a moment. "Perhaps there is something I can do. You must understand, though, that if you choose to go through with this, you can never go back."

Anne's smiled grew on her face. "I'll do anything."

He nodded. "Let me finish up here."

He returned to his board. The dancers on stage slowly walked off-stage. The choreographer walked towards the stage, and motioned for Anne to follow him. back stage, Anne saw the robots she so admired. Some have assumed a standing posture, looking like statues, while others had sat themselves on the floor with their legs spread wide and head lolling to one side. They reminded her of her dolls that she used to play with when she was little. Finally, she saw the prima ballerina. She didn't look much older than Anne, and she had posed herself delicately in fourth position, head slightly cocked to one side, fingers gently splayed out. She looked for all the world like a window mannequin. Her tutu stood stiffly out, and while the choreographer wasn't looking, Anne peeked up under her costume. The robot was sexless, a smooth expanse of glossy plastic replacing the delicate folds of flesh. Anne blushed and quickly caught back up with the choreographer.

"She's so pretty."

The old man nodded. "I've had her for many years. She has brought me as much joy as a puppet can bring an old man."

He opened a door. "In here."

Inside the small room was a raised bed, a large cabinet, and a small computer. He motioned for her to get on the bed.

"You said you would do anything to become a ballerina?"

"Anything...anything at all."

He nodded slowly as placed a cloth over her face.

"Breath deeply...and try to forget who you are," he said sadly.

Anne wondered what he meant by that as the chloroform knocked her unconscious.

Anne felt like she was floating. She looked around the room and saw her body. But it wasn't. It was covered in shiny chrome. Every muscle was well defined. Her young breasts rose pertly from her chest, and her virgin sex had been sculpted in metal. She looked at her face. It, too, was plated in chrome down to the smallest detail, even the dimples in her cheeks and the slight upturn of her nose. Her head had been shaved, and was now a shiny dome. My hair! She felt a phantom tear fall down her cheek, but knew she was past the point of no return. The choreographer walked to the foot of the bed carrying something flesh-colored. She started to work it over her feet, and Anne realized it was her new skin. She could fell the tight skin being worked over her phantom body, squeezing her into a new shape. Anne felt her toes being squeezed especially hard, and noticed that her body didn't have any. Just a blank swipe of rubbery skin. The choreographer worked the skin suit up over her hips and waist, and Anne felt her waist being squeezed tight, like a corset. That was when see realized she wasn't breathing anymore. The rubber was especially tight in her crotch, and the material worked itself in between the folds of her pussy, which sent little shivers of pleasure up Anne's spine, and she started to caress her herself. Hey...wait a minute. She looked at her body. She was sexless! That's not fair! The choreographer slid her chrome arms into the gloved suit, each finger ending in a delicate pink fingernail. he smoothed out the wrinkles, and pulled the suit's mask up over her head. Anne felt breathing tubes enter her nose and something rubber enter her mouth. Her view was now distorted, like she was looking through a glass marble. She looked down at her face. It was hers, but heavily made up, She wasn't even allowed to wear make-up yet. Her eyes seemed bigger, her cheekbones higher, and her lips fuller. Sort of an idealized view of herself. He turned her body over and sealed the seam in back. He reached over and took a dark haired wig, fashioned into a tight bun, and glued it to the top of her bald, rubber head. The choreographer went over to the computer and picked up a curved triangular thing with wires coming out of the back. He strapped it to her blank crotch, and pressed a button on the computer. Anne felt programming slowly filling her head. The data flow was stimulating her sex, and Anne could fell herself getting warm and wet. She tried to squirm around in the tight phantom rubber suit, but found she couldn't move. The data flow continued, and the pressing heat continued to build. It became too much for her young body to handle, and she shuddered with her first orgasm. The shocks started at her crotch and spread throughout her body, filling it with warmth. The data flow, didn't stop, and the orgasms started coming more often, eventually melting her mind with pleasure.

The computer announced that the download had completed. The choreographer aimed a remote at the new robot and commanded it to stand. Anne felt her body move, but of not her own will. That realization brought her strange comfort. At least I'll be taken care of. She also felt a bit diminished, like her awareness of her surroundings was lessened. The choreographer commanded his robot to do a few simple movements. She executed them perfectly, and he proceeded to dress her in a frilly tutu and ballet pink pointe shoes.

Anne realized something was wrong. She couldn't see very well anymore. Everything was sort of a blur, and all she could feel was her own jumble of teenage emotions and the ever-present warmth from her crotch. She focused on it, and was rewarded with little thrills. Maybe this won't be so bad.

The choreographer commanded his robot to join the others, and they all returned to the stage. He picked up where he left off, writing in a duo between Anne and the prima ballerina. I...I'm dancing! Anne was happier than she even had been before. She'd archived her dream.

That night, the theater was packed. Anne danced beautifully, her consciousness reduced just to happiness and sexual warmth. She was too thrilled to noticed her parents weren't in attendance. After the performance, all the robots were retired behind the stage. One of the stage hands ran up to the choreographer.

"Gepetto, did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

He paused. "A couple of the benefactors committed suicide after their daughter ran away." He showed Gepetto the picture. It was of Anne and her parents at a summer picnic.

"Dear God..." Gepetto looked at the picture, then at his new ballerina. Anne didn't her him. She couldn't hear anything anymore. She was posed delicately, like a ballerina should be, a slight smile across her lips. Anne was gone, and only the ballerina remained.

Space provided by Baylor University, Waco, TX. Mail comments regarding content to the author, Matthew_Minton@baylor.edu Mail comments regarding technical problems or inappropriate material to webmaster@baylor.edu Last revised: January 15, 1998 01:47 PM URL:http://www.baylor.edu/~Matthew_Minton/stories/dancer.html