Samesex/aftdance.ff
                                          After the Dance
               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 end 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.

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  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
               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.
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