Might it happen
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.
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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.)
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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.
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