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 bask 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
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