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From: Selena Jardine <selenajardine@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Hunt Ball
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Date: Sat, 19 Mar 2005 23:10:02 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This story appears here by kind permission of Ruthie's Club
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) where it appeared first,
illustrated by Sergio Castro.

Comments and feedback eagerly accepted and promptly
responded to, as usual, at selenajardine at yahoo dot com.

* * *


Hunt Ball
by Selena Jardine


Celia Kim is coming down the stairs.

It is her first Virginia Hunt Ball, though she has been
riding to hounds since she was eight. She is glowing with
the exercise and the vigorous scrubbing it takes to remove
the mud and sweat of a long, rainy romp over the fields.
Her straight, black hair swings as she turns her head to
look around her, and her white dress slips from step to
step as she descends the wide oak staircase towards the
music and the dancers. It is old-fashioned music, to begin
with, the Strauss waltzes and the Debussy. Later, there
will be some swing, some ragtime, some Glenn Miller stuff,
to pacify the tapping toes of all the retired attendees of
ballroom dance classes. But for now, the band is creating
the fantasy of the young: to dance the first waltz with the
prince, or the princess, whichever the case may be.

These are the young men and women -- the American princes
and princesses, as it were -- for whom Celia has been
destined ever since she was a tiny girl. She knows them all
by sight, and they know her. It is an atmosphere in which
she feels completely at home. But she maintains a certain
reserve at all times, a distance that keeps her from
disappearing completely beneath those waters of privilege
and comfort. She wonders on occasion whether any of her
fellow debutantes, or any of their escorts, do the same.
She doubts it. They seem as unselfconscious as a bunch of
rabbits, and as vulnerable to predators.

With each step she descends, she goes deeper.


Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her

Celia is young, right on the uncertain cusp between
seventeen and eighteen. She is in her senior year of high
school, old enough to drive, not old enough to drink or
vote or fuck a grownup or go to war. She looks slightly
younger even than she is, because she has a small frame and
baby-smooth skin, but her eyes are cool. They reserve
judgment. They are the eyes of Today's Youth, as presented
by earnest in-depth news reporters. Generation Y, or Y and
a half.

Celia is Korean. That is to say, her father is the
successful, reserved son of successful, silent Korean
immigrants, and her mother is a tall, freckled,
broad-shouldered Irishwoman who sings in the shower. She
has never understood how her parents came to marry. Her
best guess is that for a short period they really were the
last two people on earth.

Celia inherited her height from her mother, but she is slim
as a wand, with glossy, straight black hair, and her skin
turns a lovely golden-brown in the sun. She plays soccer
with a ferocity that is not apparent in most of her other
pursuits, and her body is lithe and strong because of it.
She wears a sports bra when she plays, for form's sake, but
her breasts are high and small, and there is no bra
apparent under the white gown she is wearing to the Hunt
Ball tonight.

Celia is wealthy. Her wealth breathes from her razor-cut
hair, and her Vera Wang dress, and the fact that she smells
of lemons and soap, rather than of expensive scent. She is
therefore powerful. Power may eventually corrupt, but Celia
is fresh-faced still. With power and wealth, youth and
beauty, can the observer suspect that she is still an
innocent? You can see just by looking at her that she knows
how to hunt more than just foxes.


Things You Can Find Out If You Ask Her

Celia's best friend is Jeannie, a vicious soccer and
lacrosse player with a mop of blonde hair. The girls have
big plans: world, watch out! Hollywood movies make it
appear that the daughters of the wealthy are spoiled and
frivolous, and that they giggle. This is profoundly untrue.
The daughters of the wealthy have been trained for their
proper place, which is world domination. They have creases
between their eyes before they are twenty-five, and they
know where the world's oil reserves are located and what
the difference is between a legal aide and a paralegal.

Jeannie's boyfriend, Brett, is much more laid-back than
either of the girls, and wants to take a year off between
high school and college. His parents, corporate legal
experts, are horrified at their sweet and lazy son, and
have more than once considered taking his car away. But
what would they do with it, plastered over as it is with
bumper stickers, and smelling as it does of beer? Better to
pack him off to college, they think, and let him grow out
of it there. Jeannie rolls her eyes and counsels Brett to
shave for his college interview.

Celia has a boyfriend, too. His name is Stephen Wilcox (of
the Hampshire Wilcoxes), and he wants to go to Yale
undergraduate and Harvard Law, but the look in Celia's eye
when she says so means that she is composing a regretful
speech in her mind. Stephen is nice enough, but Jeannie has
never liked him. He's oily, Jeannie says. Shiny, Celia
retorts, clean and shiny, but there are spots of high color
on her cheeks.

Celia is a virgin.

She has applied to Santa Clara University, the University
of Virginia, Yale, Princeton, Harvard, and Stanford. Her
father, business-minded, would like to see her go Ivy
League. Even if she decides on some other career, he says,
she will be better off with the prestigious name at her
service. Her mother says that she would simply like her to
be happy, but Celia thinks that this also means Ivy League.
She herself has no real preference, as long as she can
still play soccer. Since all the colleges she has applied
to have excellent women's teams, she is satisfied.


Things No One Knows About Her

When Celia was small and heard for the first time about
adoption, she assumed that her mother, with her curly red
hair and her wide, generous mouth, had been adopted. For
several weeks she treated her mother with enormous
tenderness, wanting to make her feel part of the family.
When at last she realized her mistake, she flushed red with
shame. She has felt ever since as if her mother somehow
refused a generous gesture for no reason.

Celia's friends gave her a vibrator for her sixteenth
birthday. She accepted it with much blushing laughter, and
gave them to understand that it would be a nice replacement
for her old, worn-out previous model. In fact, she had
never seen one before in her life. At sixteen, she
masturbated the same way she'd been doing for years: lying
on her stomach in the dark, her mind full of smoky images,
her breathing quickening into the pillow, one finger
rubbing and rubbing her clit until she came to a silent,
shivering climax. The vibrator, in contrast, seemed noisy,
risky, and even a little frightening. *Complicated* was the
word she finally came up with. She has never used it,
though it now figures largely in her fantasies.

Celia does not like the feeling of penetration. It makes
her feel vulnerable, and she is unaccustomed to feeling
vulnerable. She chose Stephen Wilcox (of the Hampshire
Wilcoxes) as a boyfriend because she thought he was
unlikely to try to have sex with her, or anyway with much
force or power of persuasion. She was right. Stephen has
been a perfect, clean, shiny gentleman. She thinks he will
not be a very good lawyer. Public Defense, probably.

Celia has a plan tonight.

She hasn't told Jeannie or Brett or (God forbid) her
parents. She has told Stephen part of the plan. Only what
he had to know. Just enough to tantalize. Eyes only.

She plans, fresh from the hunt, her muscles loose and warm,
to slip out of the French doors of the ballroom while the
band is playing something fast and jazzy. Her parents love
that stuff. They'll never notice her go. She has asked
Stephen to join her out there in the dark.

She thinks about the way she will kneel. She'll have to be
careful of her dress. Thinks about how she will take his
penis in her mouth. She's never done it before, not to a
Wilcox penis (the Hampshire Wilcox penises), but Jeannie
has talked about it so often she feels she knows the
technique by heart. Her heart beats in her throat at the
thought of Stephen's whimpers. Of his attempts to keep
quiet. Of the way she will tease him. Of the little flashes
at the corners of his vision, and the way he will want to
beg but will be nervous of discovery if he does. It makes
her want to laugh.

She'll swallow, of course. She's never been picky about
things like that. She drinks power shakes for soccer;
what's this in comparison? And then she'll dump him. It's
not you, it's me. On to bigger and better things. A clean
and shiny goodbye.

Celia can already taste the power on her tongue, and it is
sweet.


Things Even She No Longer Remembers

When the Women's World Cup Final played at the Rose Bowl in
1999, Celia watched it alone. Her team was having a party
at Coach Green's house, but Celia begged off and stayed
home, her parents out for the evening. She sat in the dark
on that July night, glued to the television, pink tank top
and boxers, condensation slipping down her glass of Coke,
the house empty around her. So no one got to hear her
triumph and despair as the game built in tension. No one
was there to be surprised when, during the penalty
shootout, she became quiet and still, utterly focused, as
if her will alone could keep the Chinese team from scoring.
No one could see her as she slipped her hand into the
waistband of her thin panties, or as her fingers began to
move, slowly at first and then faster. No one ever knew
that when Brandi Chastain made the fifth and final penalty
kick, winning the World Cup Final, and tore off her jersey
in triumph in front of millions of viewers, Celia Kim's
head snapped back in pleasure and she came, hard, her
fingers on her slippery clit, her eyes on Brandi's tanned
belly and smooth white sports bra.

 

Celia looks forward to college. She thinks there will be a
great deal to learn there.



		
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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