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Archive-name: SpecMome/dance.ff

Archive-author: anonymous

Archive-title: Dance, The

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



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



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

throws of a sudden orgasm.  You whet 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



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,



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




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