Lesbian Clit Licking

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.

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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 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 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.