                                 -< The Dance >-

[I wrote this for a friend, and is posted by permission.  Sorry that
it has to be posted anonymously, but better than not at all ...]
 
The night air was pleasant, cool and slightly moist against your
skin, but it brought you no peace.  As you leaned out over the
balcony, surveying the reflecting pools and gardens of the
estate stretching out into the moonlight, you tried to relax,
enjoy the panorama, and ignore the sound of the music, laughter,
and dancing in the ballroom down the hall from the study whose
window you had flung open.  Flung open at the end of a mad
flight from the ball, trying to escape that which you most
desired and, yet, by which you were most terrified.
 
The party had begun pleasantly enough.  You had come unescorted,
determined you have a good time regardless of who had or had not
come with you.  There were enough unattached men, or just
outrageous flirts, to more than fill a casual night.  Perhaps
you would meet someone interesting, or particularly attractive,
you had thought, but put the subject from your mind: no
expectations except for diversion.
 
Then, two hours or so after the first dancing had begun, she had
entered the room.  It was between dances, and the crowd was busy
with angling through the floor, looking for someone to ask for
the next dance, or making themselves obvious to the person they
wished would ask them.  When the dark figured had filled the
doorway, many had turned to look.  Most had given a quick,
appreciative glance, and then returned to their partners.  You
had not; although you were across the room, you stopped and
stared as if turned to stone.
 
She was tall, at least six feet.  She was dressed in black, in a
perfect coachman's uniform.  She wore tight pants fit into
calf-high boots, shiny and well-polished.  Her vest, cut to give
her a tight V-figure, was closed with a double row of bright
silver buttons.  Those, and her white cravat, were the only
thing which were not black, black to the point of absorbing the
light around her.  Her hands and fingers were long and delicate
as she casually tapped the palm of one hand with a riding crop.
Her features were strong, aristocratic, not feminine except in
their beauty.  Her close-cropped hair was nearly completely
concealed by a coachman's top hat.  But her eyes drew you most
of all.  Large, intense, as dark as her clothing, they held to
the promise of lust, passion, power and even cruelty
 
The band struck up a waltz on a slightly off note, shocking you
back to reality.  You dimly were aware of your partner taking
your hand and leading you onto the dance floor, and the movement
gradually brought you to earth.  Occasionally as the dance
progressed, you would glimpse her dancing with women (and always
leading).  But after every dance, she was someplace else, asking
someone else to dance; you could never seem to get near to her.
Finally, the impression of her first appearance faded, and the
evening continued.
 
Until, at the end of a particularly energetic polka, you dropped
a ring you had been adjusting on your hand.  Dipping to pick it
up, you stood up straight only to find yourself staring into her
eyes; through the movement of the crowd, she had ended up not
two feet from where you had stooped.  The moment lasted an
eternity.  You drank in the sight of her, the smell of her; her
eyes had paralyzed you as if you were a deer caught in a car's
headlights.  Your mind was a blank; you wanted nothing except to
look at her, give yourself to her.  You could feel your knees
grow weak.  You wanted to throw yourself at her feet, beg her to
do anything she wished to you, just acknowledge you, accept you
 
And, again, she turned away, but this time with the most
delicate and private of smiles; a smile that was kind and cruel,
loving and harsh all at once.  And you could bear it no longer;
as swiftly as you could you hastened out of the room, down the
long carpeted hall, across the cold wood floor of the study to
the window, casting it open and deeply drinking the night air,
feeling tears of joy? shame? rage? well up on your face.
 
Just as you had regained your composure and was ready to return
to the party, you heard the sharp click of a heel coming down on
the floor at the doorway behind you.  You turned, slowly,
knowing that it couldn't be her, both hoping and fearing that it
was.  And, of course, it was: she was wearing her hat and
carrying her riding crop, dressed as if ready to depart.  She
continued to walk up to you as you stood motionless, your mouth
dry and heart pounding so loud you were afraid it might drowned
out the band.  She stopped her confident stride only three feet
from you, and then (with an ironic smile) doffed her hat in a
graceful bow.
 
One last dance? she asked, eyes smiling and deep, velvet over
steel.
 
Yes, you said, so softly you were sure no one else could hear.
But from your body, your face, you knew what you were saying to
her: Yes.  Please.  Anything.  I beg you.
 
Putting the crop aside, her right hand slid into place on your
back as your left hands clasped; the band begun as if cued.
Across the wood floor, no one else around, the band sounding
muffled and distant, the two of you glided in a waltz.  Your
eyes were held by hers; you could barely breathe, overwhelmed by
emotion.  Your body felt weak, but her hand made it impossible
to fall.  And you could feel yourself growing aroused; your
nipples were erect (from the cold of the window, you told
yourself), and you feel the undefined tingling between your legs
of impending excitement.
 
The dance was over after what seemed like an instant; she spun
you at the finale, bowing deeply as she still held your left
hand.  Again, your eyes met, and her face lost any expression.
You stood, gasping for breath, wondering what would happen.
Then, without haste but with terrible determination, she pulled
you to her, her arms clasped around you, and lowered her mouth
to yours.
 
In your surprise, you could do nothing but open your lips to
her.  Your mouths touched, and the touch was electric.  Her
tongue slid in without resistance, meeting yours, probing,
searching.  Her body pressed against yours, and through your
dress and corset you could feel hers, hard and trim.  One arm
was wrapped around your waist, the other stroking your hair.
You clutched at her back, devoid of thought, writhing in her
grasp.  When she finally raised her head, your eyes were closed,
panting.  No mere hint of arousal now: you could feel the
moisture between your legs, demanding, begging for more.  After
an instant she retrieved her crop, and led you up the
staircase.  You followed behind her by one pace, meek, afraid
but far too lost in desire to resist anything.  Up the stairs,
down a hall, through a door, another hall, until you were lost
in the maze-like mansion, until finally you reach a door for
which she produces a key.  (Who is this woman, you think, who
has keys to a house she does not live in.)
 
Swiftly, you are both through the door.  A bedroom lay within,
spare by the late Victorian standards of the house: a
four-poster bed, two chairs, a shuttered window, a washstand and
basin, a dresser.  She turned and regarded you, her eyes boring
into you, stripping your soul bare.
 
With trembling hands, you started to undress, although nothing
was spoken.  Part of you wondered what in the world you had
done, what were you doing, why were you so willingly submitting
to this strange woman.  But the desire within you overwhelmed
any ability to think, to resist, and your hands reached up the
buttons on your blouse.  One by one, they were undone, until it
fell in a pool to the ground.  Then your skirt, and petticoat,
and the chemise, and you stand before her in your corset and
bloomers, your hands clasped behind you, your head bowed in
submission.  Why am I standing this way? You stopped to think
for a moment, but another voice within you answered: Because
this is the way slaves stand for their master.  The thought was
shocking, what, I am her slave? you though, but it was thrilling
as well.  Then, you realized the truth: Yes, I am her slave, you
thought, and the thought made you happier than you knew you
could be.
 
After examining you for a long moment, she reached out to you,
but with her riding crop, not her hand.  The touch of it on your
cheek brought a gasp from you, as the cold leather stroked your
skin.  The leather was soft, smooth, more like a lover's touch
than hard hide, as she caressed you.  First the face, then the
neck, along the line of your arms, then down over the corset to
your legs.  First the calves, then the thighs, then (to your
agony and delight) to the space between your legs.  With a sure,
steady hand, she stroked you there, as you writhed and squirmed
with delight and lust.  Your could feel yourself running down
the insides of your thighs as she teased, prodded, and caressed
you.  Then, with a swift motion, she pulled you to her, grasping
the crop in both hands, using it like a bar to pull your body to
hers.  Then, after a deep, wet, searching kiss, she pushed you
down to your knees before her.  You looked up at her, loving,
adoring, asking with your eyes for her to command you.  You
stroked he
 
Finally, you looked up at her imploring.  With the softest of
nods, she gave to leave to do for her what she wished  Your
hands fumbled at the clasps of her boots; she sat on the bed,
and you pulled off one, then the other.   She removes her coat
as you unbutton her vest, letting it fall.  You hands could not
be kept still as you undid her belt, then the buttons on her
pants, pulling them off as well.  She wore only a pure white
shirt and white silk shorts, but her bearing still made it
plain: I command, you serve.  Finally, as she stood again, and
you did her shirt, following each stud with a kiss on her
chest.  Her taste was indescribable: the perfume of a woman with
the musky undertones of man.  Finally, the shirt fell away, and
you licked and sucked on her hard nipples topping her small,
perfect breasts.  You could feel her breathing grow deep and
ragged, and you smiled with private victory: yes, I can excite
her.
 
Your kisses continued down her body, and you looked up at her
for leave to remove her underwear.  With a nod, it was granted,
and you slide them down her strong, long legs.  She reclined
back onto the bed, on her side, her black, black hair (still
pulled back into a tight bun) and eyes contrasting with the
alabaster of her skin.  Her body was long and trim, the
definition and muscles obvious without destroying the delicate,
fluted curve from her strong shoulders to her waist to her
hips.  The hair between her legs was trimmed to a perfect
triangle, and as she lifted one leg, you could just barely see
the glimmer of arousal between her lips.  At a motion from her,
you sat on the bed with your back towards her, and she loosened
your corset; you could tell this was something she had done many
times before.  Then, as you undid the busk and turned back
towards her, she slid just a bit farther down on the bed, spread
her legs, and lifted her hips towards you.
 
You needed no further encouragement.  You lowered your lips to
her pussy, and began to softly lick, search, hunt, trying to
find what would most please her.  She tasted musky, heavy,
metallic; you could imagine nothing more pleasing to you.  You
were worried for a moment: can I please another woman?  It has
been so long  but her gasps and moans as your tongue finds her
clitoris reassure you.  You began to lick in long, languid,
fluid motions around her hardened clit as your fingers probed
within her, looking for the spot you most cherish in yourself.
You found it, and she bucked and thrashed on the bed in the
throes of a sudden orgasm.  You went wild, her climax causing
your own body to spasm.  You lost all control, sucking, licking
one hand roving all over her body, exciting her breasts, her
ass, the other continuing its explorations inside her wet
vagina.
 
Finally, after more orgasms than you could count, she pulled you
up to her.  She stroked and caressed you, touching your breasts,
your back, your legs.  She lowered her mouth to your neck, and
with uncanny accuracy found the nerve cluster at the hairline.
She bit down, hard, pulling at the flesh with her mouth and
teeth.  An orgasm shot through you; her other hand played with
you with perfect accuracy, piling one climax on another.  Your
hands probed and stroked each other bodies without restraint,
wanting to touch everywhere once.  Her lips and tongue continued
their descent, until finally she is going down on you.  Her
tongue knew exactly where to go, and her fingers probe within
you until they find your spot.  Your climaxes lost their
distinct identity; you mind blanks out under the pressure of the
intense pleasure, you beg her to go on, to stop, to do whatever
she wishes, to use you
 
You remember little from the evening distinctly.  Vaguely, you
remember the clock striking two, then three, then four, but
there was no end to it, no desire to stop, no need to stop.  The
pleasure became a wave, the night a black cloud, events blending
into one.  You remember your final climax, a spasm which lasted
forever, as she pressed her pussy up against yours, your legs
intertwined, and her sudden orgasm triggered wave after wave of
contractions which you thought would tear you apart.  Whether
you fainted from fatigue or pleasure, you remember little after
that.  Except, near the end, as you were astride her, head
resting on her chest, gently licking a nipple, you looked up at
her and said in a whisper, under your breath, Thank you,
master.
 
You awoke in the late morning, a tray of breakfast by your
side.  You remembered that your host had invited you to stay the
night, in this very room.  (How did she know which room I would
stay in, you wonder.)   And, on the pillow beside you, a single
black rose remained, the same velvety black as her eyes.
 
Mountain View, California
 
29 November 1988

