Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/T/THEDANCE.TXT/__headers__.txt

Text File | 1991-04-29 | 4.6 KB | 88 lines

[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.