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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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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.

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