This one is taken from a dream that a patient of Jung's had. Heavily modified, of course.
The long and grueling practice over, the four dancers collapsed into chairs alongside the practice area. Johann and Lila, the two who'd been choreographing their impending performace, came over to them. For an instant, Johann stood looking them over. The men, Ted and Jeremy; Ted was the taller and the heavier by far, his thickly-haired chest now covered with a sheen of sweat, his longish brown hair tousled, his familiar boyish grin on his face. Jeremy was a little shorter and much slimmer, his body that of the professional dancer; his black hair was complemented by a closely-trimmed beard.
Beside them, dressed in form-fitting and minimal leotards, were the two women. Deborah was the taller of these two; her black hair fell in a cascade around a classically-beautiful face, accentuating startling green eyes. Her legs were long and perfect, her hips generous, and her breasts fairly large. Marie was the other; she was a small woman, more slender, slighter, and smaller-breasted than Deborah. Her hair was cut short and was very black, her eyes intensely dark, her always sensually smiling mouth accented by a full and pouty lower lip.
"This practice," Johann told them, "was close to perfect. You four are as ready as you'll ever be."
"That's good," Marie commented, sipping a glass of Gatoraide. "Since the performance itself is in two days."
Johann nodded. "Yes. And that means, we have to ask you again about your dedication to this ceremony. We have to be sure; we have to hear it from each one of you, individually."
"You know we're all ready," Deborah said with a smile. "We know what's expected of us. We aren't going to let anyone down."
For this ceremony--which was held every seven years--the city had been closed down completely, all roads in were being guarded, no outsider was to be allowed in. The audience, consisting of practically all the townspeople except for those guarding the roads, was in place, waiting eagerly, watching the tiled floor, a perfect square composed of multicolored smaller squares. They breathed a collective sigh as the four dancers came out; the men took up positions in two adjacent corners, facing the center and the two women, who'd positioned themselves in the other two corners. Each of the corners had a number inlaid into the corner tile; Jeremy was standing on number one, Marie on number two, Deborah on number three and Ted on number four.
Their costumes were impressive; the men were dressed in open vests and loose trousers, the women in tied halter-style tops and skirts that were slit far up one side. When the music began they started moving alternately in and out, one couple followed by the next, each pair touching hands briefly before pirouetting and returning to their respective corners.
All of them exhibited an amazing gracefulness in all their movements, which they had obviously learned to perfection. For a long time they danced in and out toward each other. All four seemed tremendously excited, and their enthusiasm was reflected in their vigorous dance.
After a while the music changed, became a little slower, a little more sensual. With perfect synchrony, the men shrugged off their vests, and with equal precision the women divested themselves of their tops. They danced on, and when they met at the center of the square now their partners--Ted for Deborah, Jeremy for Marie--caressed their breasts briefly but tenderly before spinning away. Occasionally they crossed over, each man dancing with and touching the other's partner.
After a short delay, the pants and skirts followed the tops. Naked, they ran toward each other repeatedly, each woman stroking her partner's penis while the men divided their attention between the women's breasts and their vaginas. Minutes later, both of the men were semi-erect. Again, the occasional cross-overs took place.
Then the tone shifted. From somewhere unseen, outside the dance floor, four short swords were tossed in front of the dancers; each picked one up. When Marie and Jeremy next met each other in the center, they crossed swords briefly, as if in a stylized combat. Then, after the other couple had echoed their moves, these two moved in again. This time the girl knelt and threw her arms far back, exposing her breast to her partner's sword. He struck at her as if he meant it, but at the last moment he pulled his blow, and in the end he merely touched her lightly with the point.
Then, he offered his own chest to her. She danced in to take a spinning strike, one that missed him by a seeming miracle. As they retreated the other two moved in, and almost immediately Deborah threw herself down on her knees, bending her body backwards and awaiting Ted's stroke. His blade flashed through the air, missing her breast by no more than an inch. Then she took her turn, slicing at his exposed throat and, again, narrowly missing. For quite a long time this continued, the dancers slashing and stabbing at their partners repeatedly and dangerously, and always missing by inches.
The music rose to a fever pitch; the dancers stopped halfway back to their corners, their bodies soaked in sweat, their faces glowing. All raised their swords, and saluted each other with them before letting them hang by their sides.
Then, abruptly, the music changed; only a soft but insistent rhythm remained. Except for swaying in time to it, the dancers didn't move. After a moment, an older man dressed in a ceremonial costume stepped up alongside the floor and tossed a tetrahedronal die onto the floor; it rolled to the center and stopped with the numbers 1, 2, and 3 exposed. The older man retrieved it carefully, showing everyone that the number four was facing down, then retreated from the stage. For a few more seconds the music played on. Then, when there was a sudden and loud drumbeat, Ted stepped forward. Without warning, he flipped his sword around and plunged it upwards into his own chest. He was strong; on his first effort he pulled the blade so far into himself the point emerged from his back. He staggered for just a moment, blood gushing, before he collapsed.
Deborah, a certain sadness in her eyes, watched him fall. The older man came again, threw the die again; this time number three faced down. When the drum boomed again, Deborah jumped forward and whirled madly around the center of the dance-floor for a few seconds before dropping lightly to one knee. Lifting her sword, she flipped it over and brought the point down so that it was resting on her right breast, just at the upper margin of her nipple, the blade making a forty-five degree angle with the dance-floor below. She turned her head left and right, studying the faces of the audience, seeing the breathless anticipation there. She smiled.
Then, holding the guards with both hands, she jerked her sword downwards and back. She looked wild, ecstatic, as the sharp steel sliced through the skin and muscle, slipping almost effortlessly into her soft breast. Her blood began bubbling out around it as she yanked on it again, burying it even deeper. She gave the sword one more jerk, then turned it loose and spread her arms wide. The blade had not emerged from her back, but it was buried deeply enough to prevent it from sagging when she released it. A broad stream of blood ran from it down across her body, pooling around her knees.
For several long seconds she managed to hold her pose, her hands opening and closing in time with the faint rhythm, her life's blood streaming out around the steel blade. Her eyes kept moving between her fallen partner and the onlookers; at no time did the expression of ecstasy leave her face. At last she crumpled to the ground; she rolled onto her side, and even as she was dying she kept moving her hands in time to the rhythm. But eventually her control faded, and her movements changed into uncoordinated violent twitchings. Finally, after a final spasm, her body became still.
The older man appeared again, the die was thrown again. While Marie and Jeremy watched, it rolled to a halt with the four facing down. The man picked it up, threw it once more; this time the two was down.
The drummer struck his instrument again, and this time Marie responded to its call. She jumped forward and made several slow turns, her trim hips moving sideways, in time with the rhythm; there was a broad smile on her face, and her dark eyes were dancing with excitement. Then, facing her waiting partner and planting her small feet far apart, she raised her sword high and holding it with one hand, turned it until the tip was directed downwards, aimed at her own chest. She let it descend slowly; as it approached her chest she held the tip with two fingers, guiding it on down until the point was resting against the center of her nipple, indenting it slightly. The angle of the blade was even higher, and she continued to hold it with one hand, by the hilt and not by the guards. Finally, with a sigh and a sudden jerk, she pierced herself with it.
As it went into her, she opened her mouth and rolled her head far back, looking if anything more ecstatic than Deborah had. The sword was as yet only a couple of inches deep, but even so a thick red line began tracking its way down across her breast and onto her stomach. Supporting her sword with her left hand, her knees bending and straightening in time with the drummer, she brought her right arm up and over in a wide arc. All this time she kept her eyes on Jeremy's, and there was a seductive smile on her face. If she was feeling pain, her expression never betrayed a hint of it.
Finally her hand reached the sword's hilt. She grabbed it and gripped it tightly, wrapping her right hand over her left; then, in contrast to the first two, she began pulling down on it with a hard and steady pressure. Slowly and evenly, the sharp steel started disappearing into her soft breast. Her self-control was absolute; she never hesitated, she never broke the rhythm she was keeping with her knees, and her smile never faded. Blood was streaming down her body and running from the corner of her mouth, but she kept right on drawing the blade into her chest. When she finally took her hands off the hilt, she too had buried it deeply enough that it stood rigidly in her breast without being held.
Her control still perfect, she sank to her knees on the dance-floor, her eyes still fixed on Jeremy's face. She too held her pose for a few seconds, but then, in a perfectly timed move, she pushed one of her slim legs out and rolled over, ending up on her back in a pool of her own blood. Her hands came up a final time, and she sensually caressed the hard blade that was piercing her; then, with another long and clearly audible sigh, she gave up her life.