0 comments/ 29294 views/ 2 favorites An Improper Position By: ladytellmemore It was one of the most elaborate costume parties she'd ever been invited to and it made her nervous in ways she hadn't felt since junior high. She was no stranger to costume parties, elegance, "foofaraw." But this was, as her bombastic friend Shaniquah would say, "a whole notha level." Shanie had flown out from Atlanta to meet her just for this; she thought it might be fun to attend with a girlfriend. Before this, she'd been to a couple of pretty exclusive Victorian tea parties. The corsets, long swishing skirts, lacy collars, that had been done to death last year. So this year the couture party to have was the "Louis XVI Gala," styled after the lavish fashion of Marie Antoinette. Which meant the kind of costume you'd see in a period film, a towering white wig (custom-made, of course), soft little shoes with pointed toes and kitten heels, and of course, the massive, tightly-bodiced dress with layers of undergarments, petticoats, bloomers, pounds and pounds of material, with more lace, satin, brocade and jacquard than a wedding dress. No couture-loving girl could resist the challenge, and Brigitte was probably the first in the city to take it on so wholeheartedly. She stayed out of the sun for weeks aiming for that creamy white "aristocrat" complexion. She hired her dear friend Kitty, a talented costumer, plus two hourly seamstresses, to create her party dress. After weeks of research, sketches, fittings, trips to trim and fabric stores, and watching more period films than she had in her entire life (just to brush up, of course), she finally had the costume to make a real splash at the party. By the day of the party, she was practically a method-actress she was so immersed in the Edwardian aesthetic. She was practically born for the role, with her delicate bone structure and 5'4" frame, her ivory complexion, and her wide blue doll's eyes and her delicate pink mouth. She looked like a blue-blooded aristocrat accidentally born into the wrong century, with her elegant mannerism and regal posture. She even had little, delicately placed, natural moles in just the right places on her cheek and on her decollete', so artfully placed that they looked like make-up. The party was going to be held at a sprawling historic manor outside of the city, starting with an art showing and cocktail hour, and followed by one of the most anticipated dance parties of the year. She could hardly imagine how she would dance in that dress but it would have to be done. Her friend Doan was the headlining DJ and it was his big debut, she had to show her support... he was wonderful. He was expecting her, as was everyone who was anyone. After what seemed like endless preparations, getting her tall, white wig pinned in place, the makeup done just so, and Kitty helping her into the layers and layers of undergarments and lastly, sewing her into her tight bodice in the traditional way (so she could barely breathe), she was loaded into a hired car and headed out to the party. The venue was held by the DC Historical Society at an ambassador's grand estate in Maryland, which was only hired out for major gala events such as this; she'd seen parts of it on two occasions, but this was the first party big enough to rent the entire venue at once. In a line of taxis and limos, she watched as the whose-who's of DC society unloaded at the foyer. There were a lot of important people: lots of budding artists, a couple of statesman and their wives, debutantes and trust-fund babies galore, and every so often some eccentric person she'd never seen before. It was safe to assume that nobody was a nobody here, it was always best to give everyone the utmost respect just in case they were ... "really important." She learned that the hard way once last New Years eve, by scolding a man who cut in front of her in line at the open bar only to later discover he owned the place. Just as she was pulling herself out of the towncar, trying to make it look graceful despite the massive dress, she noticed a particularly unusual guest getting out of a cream-colored towncar, which was clearly his own livery. What made him so unusual was not even the car, but himself. Unlike the usual guests to these sorts of events, he was one of the darkest-skinned people she had ever seen ... probably not a local, more likely a foreign dignitary from Africa, or maybe somewhere even more exotic... what would have been called a "Moor" in Edwardian society. The thought made her feel a little guilty even for thinking of it... but after all, she was at an Edwardian theme party, and surely he knew he was a little unusual He was tall and incredibly elegant, and his coal-black skin was offset by burning white eyes and his cream-colored coattails. He had on a subtle black wig with the traditional side curls, a long, fitted cream coat, dark brown breeches with matching socks and spats, and even in this tailored Edwardian costume, she could see he was very nicely muscled and too athletic for the part. His shoulders bulged even under his shirt's billowing white sleeves, and his legs looked stronger than a horse's. He looked like he didn't belong in clothing at all, kind of the way one of Michelangelo's sculptures would look if you tried to put clothes on it... and it was made out of gleaming ebony instead of white marble; thinking this, here in this proper, public setting, made her blush crimson. Worse, finding herself staring eye to eye with him, she tore away and hurried into the reception area, pecking friends on cheeks, exclaiming excitement as each one appeared, losing herself in the early stages of the party... and she forgot about the strange, dark man she'd seen at the entrance. She spent most of the early evening on the elbow of her DJ friend Doan, a longtime pal she had briefly dated in college only to confirm that they were really best as friends. He was easy-going, bright, and fun to walk around with, but there was no attraction. She liked being with him though, it was safe. Since she had stopped dating Adrian when he moved to New York, she'd lost interest in the whole dating scene and instead immersed herself in her work, her friends, and music. Adrian had crushed her heart without her knowing it and now men were dangerous things, not to be toyed with as she had in the past. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd wanted to kiss one, and recently she'd started to wonder if she was done with them for good. It wasn't a dramatic loss in her life, but still, one that had sort of closed off that part of her, like an unused wing in a castle. Fleetingly as the night came on and the drinks grew stronger, she wished she had a real date, one with intrigue, maybe even sex. Her friends all had theirs... flirty, attractive guys who were willing to dress up like fruitcakes if it mean they'd get some later. She laughed to herself knowing she could have made similar arrangements. But she could see through the act, underneath the bargains were really quite simple, and she wanted none of the deals offered. By 10:30 it was time for Doan to spin and he passed her on to her chattering friends, all of whom were well into their third and fourth drinks. Brigitte's massive dress proved too heavy and hot to dance in for more than a few minutes, and soon she wandered off the dancefloor, and swiped a fresh, extra-cold cosmo off the open bar. After all, it was probably the only time all year she'd get to see the whole place. Looking for a good vantage point to hear Doan's set and watch the dancefloor, she sauntered up to a little balcony on the side of the ballroom, which opened onto a grand, brightly lit veranda overlooking the grounds. She had found a really good vantage point and so she settled on the stone railing, her petticoats crunching beneath her like a pillow. Doan's signature progressive house mix was slowly drawing the entire party to the ballroom and soon it was crowded with the elite of the city, all smiling, laughing, toasting drinks and waving to each other. She felt alone, detached, a little like a doll in a glass case... and she felt oddly "watched." She was always being watched, someone to be watched, but this was different. She felt eyes boring into her in a new way. Casually scanning the ballroom she found them, bright white and set in a dark face, piercing, unblinking. She nodded acknowledgement, tried to return the gaze with friendly smile, but it didn't work. He had a stone face, unsmiling, provoking. The music faded in her head, she felt like she was caught in a vacuum, lost, disappearing. So caught in his gaze, it was only with minimal curiosity that she wondered if she had accidentally swiped someone else's drink by accident down at the bar; perhaps it was laced with something more exotic. To break the spell she hopped off the rail and, hoisting up those immense skirts so she could move quickly, and she headed for the ladies' lounge down at the far end of the west wing. Doan would understand why she left later. This dark-skinned guy could be some sort of spook. The kitten heels didn't help, and at every doorway she had to turn sideways just to fit the dress through. The west wing was longer than she thought, easily an entire block from end to end, and she was getting out of breath under the heavy dress and the suffocating bodice. That cosmo was making her head fuzzy too, and everything was a little blurry. People were everywhere, she reassured herself, nothing was going on. She was just nervous, she told herself. As she passed down a massive marbled hallway between the art salon and the lounge, the people vanished, she was alone. And there he was, standing calmly on the side of the hallway next to a stairwell, as if he'd been there for hours. He smiled this time; she had to act natural, what if he was someone important and she was being rude? Hiding her apprehension and hoping her overly strong cosmo was not showing, she threw on her best high-society smirk, casually walked up to him and introduced herself, presenting her ladylike, lace-gloved hand just like she'd seen the actresses in the period-films do. "How do you do? I don't believe we've met. I'm Brigitte." Her heart was racing. Up close, he was even taller than she thought, and he smelled wonderful, an earthy mix of vanilla and spice and musk. He cordially bowed slightly, shook her hand and returned the civilized introductions... but it felt awkward and scripted. She hardly noticed what he was saying in his low, clipped accent. Was his name John? Charles? Why am I so nervous? she wondered. Her small lace-covered hand in his solid black one felt so weightless and frail, like a lace doily on a thick ebony table. She pulled away, indicating where she was headed, hiding the urge to run. He seemed to understand, he backed down one stair as he rested an elbow on the balustrade and knowingly nodded her on her way. What a strange thing! she thought, hurrying into the ladies lounge. She felt his iron gaze pinioning her shoulderblades as she closed the loungeroom door behind her. Just in the nick of time, inside the ladies's lounge, Shanie jumped in her face, loud as ever, and late as usual, scolding her about not saving her much of that cosmo and demanding to know what she'd missed at the party. It jolted Brigitte out of her blur. She mumbled a response as she tumbled into a reclining chair. The bodice of her dress felt like a steel band around her lungs, and her throat was dry. "Doan's set is almost over, you should go see him" she managed to say, trying to hide her shaken state and checking her wig, which was hot and a little heavy. Nobody could know how unsettled she was, not even her friends. Shaniquah was talking, she couldn't hear what, and then she was gone, and Brigitte was alone in the lounge again. Without thinking, she quaffed the last few sips of that wretched cosmo, only to regret it, it really was too strong and her mind shuddered under a wave of alcohol... and something else maybe. She felt restless and at the same time exhausted, the lights in the room seemed blinding and yet the room itself seemed to be going dim. Her dress swirled around her in the chair like a monstrous, rustling cloud, and where were her feet? Were her shoes still on? Voices were coming close to the lounge door now, and suddenly a huge cluster of women burst in, squawking about someone's horrible cologne and complaining that there weren't any canapés. The chatter was more than she could stand, she needed to get out and find somewhere quiet and dark for a minute until she could get her head together. As she somehow managed to wrench herself out of the chair, her body came back to life, now with a whole new layer of sensations. Whatever was in that cosmo, it was starting to feel pretty good; she could feel the blood rushing to her feet, all of a sudden she was coursing with energy and... something else... she felt incredibly sexy. Something she hadn't felt in a very long time. The smell of her own perfume was turning her on. Everything was sexy. It occurred to her that maybe she really was high. Or just feeling better after too many cosmos in a very tight corset; it was hard to tell. She felt so good she kind of didn't care either way. As she left the chattering ladies' lounge and the tall filigreed door swung closed behind her, she could feel the deep thumping music coming from the ballroom, it was so loud now she could feel it vibrate through the floor. The hallway was empty, darker than the lounge, the house lights had been dimmed, and she liked it there, so she took her time walking down it, her hands fondling the smooth, cool satin of her dress, her breath now short and fast with a wicked sort of excitement. She smelled cigarette smoke and noticed a dark shadow on her left, saw the telltale red ember of a cigarette. She didn't smoke but she liked the smell, it was kind of naughty and dangerous, like the smell of burning diesel. Now she didn't feel so unsure of herself but her heart was racing in a different way, she felt like her entire body was humming now, and somewhere down there under that massive dress, something stirred between her legs like hot coal that had been nudged into flame. She got closer to the cigarette and realized why its owner was so dark. It was her mystery man. The rushing, sighing heat in her pelvis was building pleasantly, she felt sort like she was floating on it. She kicked off her soft leather shoes, heard them scutter on the cool marble floor, ignored them. As her energy coursed through her, she felt the music pounding on her feet through the cold floor, she swayed, started to dance delicately in the dark, a mildly possessed porcelain doll, locking her eyes on what she imagined was his dark face, biting her lip, tilting her head, and smiling a devilish little smile. She was enjoying this game now, it kind of turned her on that she had his attention in such an improper way, messing with his head, tempting him, maybe even freaking him out a little. The figure shifted, the cigarette extinguished on the balustrade and a few red ashes fell to the cold floor before turning dark. And in a second his arm wrapped around as he gracefully led her waltzing around the hall, his dark eyes fixed on her with unwavering concentration. The door to the ladies' lounge suddenly opened, and before she could react a strong arm pulled her out of the hallway and before the emerging gaggle of cackling women could even notice, she was being carried quickly down that stairwell where she'd seen him earlier. The contrast between the elegant party around them and this almost barbaric new twist was more than her brain could handle, it was so out of place, so inappropriate, so rude, and yet... she liked it, even the danger of it. His long arms wrapped around her like pythons, hard as steel, telling her without words there was no point in resisting. She could barely breathe in his effortless grip, butterflies were dancing in her stomach, the dim stairwell below was empty except for them. On her feet in the lower landing now, she caught her breath, backing away from this monster. Two large fingers, reached easily out of the dark, deftly found her chin, opened her lips, rested on her tongue, invaded her soft mouth. She was terrified, horrified at first, but the soft smell of tobacco held her, entranced her, those warm fingers felt so good there, her mouth wrapped around them, sucking on them, tasting them, feeling the rough spots, the smooth pads of the fingertips, the knuckles, a tinge of salt. She couldn't remember the last time she'd sucked on a man's fingers. It was nice. He was nice, even if he was a little scary, and so incredibly dark. She had never been with a black man, let alone one this dark and complex, and she wondered if it was really any different. She imagined what it looked like, his long black fingers in her small, pink mouth, his thumb curling under her delicate pale jaw. She took him by the wrist, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and pushed his fingers further into her mouth, never breaking her gaze on those blazing white eyes. The fingers delicately explored her mouth, rolling over her tongue, pressing towards the back of her throat, exploring. Stone-faced, he met her gaze, and pressing her back against the wall of the stairwell, he pulled his hand free and replaced it with his lips. He breathed with her, his heartbeat strong and rushing through her head, it was almost too much, too fast, too good. He was so completely different than any man she had ever been with, she almost didn't want to know more about him, his mystery enchanted her. His large tongue darted in her mouth, his lips full and insistent, broad hands slid over her shoulders, down her arms, behind her waist, pulling her close to him, up to him, lifting her feet off the floor. That dark face was so close to hers, his features so different from hers, his smell so spiced and enticing, an exotic import brought here solely for her pleasure. There would be no talking, only breathing, heartbeats, this was a one-time-only kind of thing. She didn't question it. Besides, things wouldn't go much further, not in that dress. It was going to take her hours to get out of it later, and so she felt safe (and a little mean) playing with this stranger. They kissed hungrily, undiscovered, as the party raged above them. He was a wonderful kisser, he had a strong and urgent mouth, his tongue toyed with her mouth, teasing her, controlling her. She explored his muscled chest under his tailcoat, her delicate hands fluttering across his thick pecs, down his hard sternum, across his marbled stomach, rested on his belt, hinting, teasing at it. His mouth left her face, trailed hungrily down her neck, nibbled behind her ear, over her collarbone, coaxing soft, ladylike gasps from her. He had her in the corner of the stairwell, propped high on the wainscoting, her feet a full 10 inches off the floor. His large hands pawed and groped at her massive dress as he held her up, looking for her real waist for purchase in all that slipping satin. Finally he gave up, resting her instead on his knee, propped against the wall like a bicycle seat. Even through the layers of petticoats and stockings, she could feel the heat of his leg as she sat on it sidesaddle, and it felt wonderful and improper, like she was violating some sort of rule in all of her finery. Centuries ago, even the most blazon courtesan wouldn't dare allow a Moore to touch her... the scandal escalated in her mind. Almost as if to further dramatize this in her mind, he somehow shoved a hand down the hard front of her bodice, it tightened around her as he moved it inside the dress, cupped her breasts, almost palming her small ribcage, and again he was kissing her, cutting off her air, overwhelming her. She was dizzy, gasping, smothered, floating, the only thing keeping her safe was this dress or she'd let him have her, all those petticoats like a chastity belt, keeping her from doing indecent things at this high-society ball for which she'd spent so much time preparing. An Improper Position But secretly she knew it was already too late. She knew her perfect makeup would already be smeared, her dress rumpled, her wig maybe even a little mussed. One tightly corseted breast now edged out of the stiff neckline of her dress, making her look even more wanton and disheveled. People would know she's had too much to drink, they would notice her absence on the dance floor, especially during Doan's set. Shaniquah would be looking for her. It was probably late, the party would now be in full swing in the ballroom. Without thinking, her hands wandered below his belt to the front of his breeches. In true Edwardian style they laced up in the front like baseball britches, or shoes, only unlike traditional women's wear of the period, it made him easier to get to, undress, pleasure. Her fingers worked at the laces mindlessly as she pulled his fingers back into her mouth. Why was she teasing him like this? It wasn't fair, there was nothing they could do right then, her dress wouldn't allow it, and she was getting truly short of breath now, her body was collapsing on his leg, and she couldn't imagine where this whole thing would be able to go next. Would I give him my number? Would we see each other later, sober and full of regrets in the full light of day? Would it be awkward then, me in my Pradas and him in his... incredibly dark, exotic skin? Would people stare? She couldn't even imagine, she realized that regardless of modern society, there was something forbidden about this, and the very thought shot lusty pangs of excitement low into her pelvis. Her fingers had a mind of their own, they somehow unlaced his pants, and she could tell he was dying to have them off. She giggled, realizing how automatic and thoughtless that had been, thinking how evil she was to play with him this way, to pretend she would let him fuck her. She was sewn into her dress for chrissakes, and she had crinoline under her dress that was like a small cage made out of boning and muslim, hardly an easy-access sort of getup. Under this armor, she was really feeling emboldened, and she went for his ear, gently teething its edges and whispering into it. "I want you to fuck me now, can you do that for me?" she whispered, giggling wickedly and feeling a little bit heartless and dirty at the same time. She drew back to look into his dark face, and suddenly, effortlessly and without a word, he had her on the floor, crushing her crinoline and all of its layers under him, he was pushing her shoulders into the floor, almost threatening. Large hands were now up her dress, under all the petticoats, discovering all the impenetrable barriers. Now he'll give up, she thought, We'll part ways, both with our own little fantasies to take home. The steady beat from the ballroom carried up through the cold floor, through her iron-tight bodice, into her back. A part of her really wanted him to fuck her right then and there, to have her in every way possible, to school her in all his dark exotic cravings, to use her as his naughty little fuck toy. Thank god for that dress, she was sure this would end soon and she would go home with most of her dignity. And then she heard a ripping sound. Something she had not thought of. Her petticoats tied around her waist, under the dress, like thin little cotton belts. They would have been too numerous and intricate to untie in the heat of the moment, but she'd never thought they'd be this easy to simply rip off. He was still kissing her, moving her legs aside, heaving his long, lithe body on top of her but she realized he was not even bothering with the petticoats. He was tearing her bloomers off as easily as one might tear paper towels from the roll, his powerful hands were easily stripping her under her dress, getting access to her in ways she'd never thought he could. Suddenly she felt his warm hands on her bare legs, sliding up her thighs, now gently rolling off her stockings. His jacket had come off and she could fee the heat radiating off his shoulders, he was unstoppable now. Next his hands tackled the top of her stiff bodice, and here she thought maybe she was safe, but instead of trying to get her dress open, he simply yanked and pulled at the neckline until he could free her ivory shoulders, folding it forcefully down below her breasts, and they spilled out free, soft and creamy into his dark, massive, waiting hands... perfect little 32Cs that looked fleshy on her delicate frame. His mouth descended on her beadlike nipples, sucking, biting, and kissing, as one long arm reached up under her skirts to her now naked cunt, fingering her clit and flicking it until she buzzed and writhed underneath him. Now there was no resisting him, or this moment; under his wordless touch she gave over completely to this intense desire. She sat up, pushing both of them up with her arms, kissing him hungrily. Leaving her lace gloves on, she loosened his belt fully, opened his pants, giving his cock the room it needed. Even in the dark she could see it was big, and that did not surprise her. This would not be her first experience with a big man, and she knew how good that could feel sometimes, kind of overwhelming, filling her up and overpowering her small cunt, relentlessly beating intense, screaming, messy orgasms out of it like a boxer. That he was so dark and quiet, however, added a new layer of excitement to it. And in this setting, so scandalous, she realized how badly she wanted him, even if just for the novelty. With her lace gloved hands she coaxed the dark cock rising from his unlaced breeches, rubbing in that special way that she had learned, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. Teasing, after all, was her specialty. He coaxed her mouth onto it, and eagerly, she tasted him, marveling at how more the same than different he tasted, and still lavishing her eyes on its exotic darkness as she slid it down her throat. It felt wonderful in her mouth, smooth and hot, pulsing with heat, communicating with her in a different way than the rest of him. She had to be careful though, not to satisfy him enough in this way, she had to tease him, leave him wanting more. She pulled off reluctantly, leaving him wanting. Again she sat tall and kissed his dark ears and neck, sensing his shortened breath, his hunger, but this time there was no teasing. "So, are you going to fuck me with that big black cock or what?" she whispered. She could feel his pulse quicken as he grunted forward, pushing her back down to the floor. Hands lifted her pale legs wide, long black fingers now unhesitatingly probed her pink cunt, the fit was tight on his fingers even, and he drew sighs and shudders from her, loosening her, preparing her. She loved this feeling, of being stretched. Sometimes it felt wonderful to be fucked deep in that way, cored, impaled. Sometimes it was all she wanted, to feel the roughness of a man's dick ripping into her again and again, hot and rough and throbbing with animal lust; but the thought of this now, in the midst of this party, dressed as she was...the contrast, the impropriety, his blackness against her whiteness, his bigness against her smallness -- it was almost too much. What was going on under her skirts felt like another world, she could not see it but she could feel it. He was surprisingly gentle and she felt strangely safe, somehow she had expected him to be less skilled. The long, thick fingers pulled out and then one swirled wet and slippery around her ass, slipping in easily, gently reminding her to relax, entering and retreating with increasing urgency. He could feel her giving into him now, he knew she would let him try anything, bend to his will, even in this elegant party, surrounded by dignitaries, friends, high society, just steps from being discovered, becoming a scandal. He had edged them both now to the second set of stairs below the landing, pulling her massive cloud of skirts over the edge so he could get under them more easily. She knew he was being a gentleman in an oddly proper way, waiting to be invited again, so she let him try, thinking she could tease him endlessly here in this stairwell as the lavish party went on above them. But he had other plans, and soon he was flicking her G-spot in a place she never knew was possible, thrumming her nervous system like a well-tuned guitar, driving her to her very edge and she lost all control. She buried her screaming mouth in his chest, all the while still toying with his cock, which now throbbed and kicked in her hand like a bronco bull stomping in the gates. As the orgasm subsided, she could take it no longer. She crawled to her feet, pulled him with her, back to the corner of the stairwell; their position there earlier had been merely a rehearsal for what was to come now. She used his shoulders to climb boldly onto him as he slid up under her voluminous skirts. Lifting her once again off the ground, he spread her thighs, propping her back up against the wainscoting, and in one deliberate motion he entered her, letting out a low sigh of surprise and relief as he used her own weight to part her cunt and drive himself into her most of the way. It was a tight fit and he felt her legs and hips struggling, stretching, and flexing around him, trying desperately to let him in deeper, to please him. It was a strange sensation for him, usually his women fit easily, but this tightness was almost annoying, the friction was almost too intense, her grip on him was almost too powerful even if she could not yet take his entire length. He had not expected a white woman to feel so different, so ... proper, so trainable. Her underskirts and crinoline crinkled and crunched around her as he thrust into her, and he felt just as wonderful to her as she imagined, and not really all that different than the other big lovers she'd had. She loved the heat of his long thighs as they gently brushed her upturned ass, the way he effortlessly held her up by her hips, pushed her body up against the wall, the hardness of his stomach against her inner thighs. She loved the naughtiness of the moment and except for her enormous, unwieldy dress and her suffocating bodice, she felt like she had done it before, perhaps in a different, more appropriate situation, at home with a boyfriend, or in a hotel. She could not reach below the piles of her dress to feel him enter her, but she knew that he had not yet completed the task, he was trying to be gentle, and she wanted more of him, to please him and excite him. Except for the scandal of fucking a strange man in the middle of a high-society ball, this was entirely familiar, like coming home to an old and skillful lover. But for him, it was completely new experience. This petite, sophisticated woman of American society, in her incredible dress, was allowing him to have her, all of her, right in the midst of the party with all her important friends. He knew it was because she was curious, and because she could. Women were different in this country, somehow wilder, more powerful even despite all its puritan conventions. But he was sure now that women everywhere wanted the same thing, they wanted the same deep, overwhelming, deep fuck. In the dim light as he drew back from her, he could see his massive black cock fucking her, contrasting dark and almost purple and shocking against her prim little white cunt as it stretched around him. Her small, almost translucent white body seemed barely big enough to accommodate him, and yet she was taking everything he gave her, as rough and almost as deep as he wanted, this made him want to lose all control and pound away with no restraint. It was almost too much for him to look now. He tried to focus on something else as she tightened around him, again burying her screams in his dark chest, cupping his large body with hers. He knew he had to win her, impress her with his skills, seduce her mind... if he was going to use her the way he planned to. He tempered his desire to spin her over and fuck her mercilessly from behind, the way he wanted to, and instead and focused on patience, on pleasing her, giving her what she wanted, so she would want it over and over, do what he asked, let him own her. He lowered her onto the floor so he could finish, once again at the edge of the lower stairs, her dress upturned, her lovely little white legs spread around him as he knelt several stairs below, his dark, muscled body contrasting starkly against her lily white skin. The cocktails he'd served her and himself were good, maybe a little too good, making it harder for him to finish. He slid his hands up the backs of her shaking thighs, spreading her small, smooth cheeks wide and drawing her body down onto his lap, then he slid his thumbs around the base of his cock and up into either side of her sex, pulling the lips impossibly wide apart and pressing his cock deeper than he thought she could stand, feeling her pelvic bones tight against the sides, sheathing him, resisting him. Her cunt strained around his cock, which from this angle looked impossibly big for her, impossibly dark next to her pale flesh, her gossamer dress, her white wig. In better light, later, he would show her this incredible sight, teach her to hunger for it, beg for it. She moaned, tightened, shifted her hips, then relaxed. Beyond the floating layers of petticoat and dress, he couldn't even see her face, her upper body, her beautiful pearly tits. With tiny, grunting thrusts, she bucked her hips down onto him, felt her cervix sucking hungrily on the head of his cock, small and hard and spasming like a sex toy built just to please him. It was like she was in a trance, entirely possessed by the sensation of his cock inside her; all the haughtiness and disguise of her aristocratic nature was gone, all she wanted was for him to fuck her hard and deep, to push all the way into her, to use her purely for his pleasure and with no thought to her comfort. The sounds of the party, the elegant clinking of champagne flutes, the pomp and circumstance... it all disappeared and she surrendered entirely to this raw, animal moment. She pushed her dress aside to lock eyes with him, and now he could see her tits jiggling with his thrusts, glowing almost alabaster white with tight, rosebud nipples swaying in the dim light, her arms stretched above her head on the floor above her, her eyes closed in bliss as her small delicate body rocked and pulsed on the edge of the stair, until she worked her way all the way to the very base of his incredible cock, and now he had to muffle her cries with one hand, filling her mouth with three fingers. As she sucked on his fingers at one end and his cock at the other, her softness overwhelmed him, taking him into herself more than he thought she would. He lay his full body weight onto her now, falling into the piles of satin and lace, her soft alabaster skin, her delicate socialite's perfume, and he felt his cock swell and harden inside her, his balls tighten; her cunt tightened even more on him, like a cock ring, controlling him, holding his own orgasm at bay, lengthening it. Her body struggled in climax and she was really on the verge of a scream, so he covered her mouth with one large, dark hand. Her eyes stared widely into his as he thrust more violently into her, now tossing aside any gentleness he'd maintained. She cried out in real pain now as he drilled her, now all for his pleasure, no more teasing, using her body to please himself, and he could feel her opening completely now, convulsing powerlessly underneath him as he felt himself empty into her. They lay still just long enough to remember where they were, and then they used the shredded remains of her torn bloomers to clean up. She rolled her stockings back on as he quickly refastened his breeches and retrieved her shoes from the still-empty hallway above. He then led her, wobbly and bewildered down the stairs and out a back entrance to his waiting towncar, where she collapsed limply in the plush cream-colored leather seats, and fell almost immediately into blissful, exhausted sleep, not caring what came next or where they went.