Clockwork

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After allowing herself to be amused by her friend's silence for a bit, Olivia finally spoke, "Please thank Helmut for me...he did a wonderful job of seeing to the cleaning of my costume."

"The boots were a tad big though...I had to stuff kerchiefs in the toes...but tell me, what do you think?" Olivia asked.

Greta gulped by way of a reply, and gave another tentative glance to her own costume, which suddenly seemed woefully inadequate.

"It looks marvelous," the German girl added, eyes downcast.

Slowly, the two girls walked down the large marble stairway toward the noisy throng of partygoers downstairs, and, as they walked, Olivia casually lagged behind, letting Greta prepare the way for their tiny procession. Olivia's tapered heels tapped loudly on the marble, and the creak of her leather overshadowed the soft, almost unnoticeable, swish of Greta's gown as the pair descended the staircase. But before they could reach the halfway point of the broad stairway, they were suddenly accosted by a bespectacled, middle aged man dressed in furry leggings and a horned mask who bolted up the stairs, nearly knocking Greta over, before gingerly grabbed Olivia by the arm, slyly running his fingers gently over soft and slick surface of her costume.

"Meine Liebchen," it's so nice to see you again," the portly man cooed in German.

"Why, Herr Kirtzler, I would not miss one of your masquerade parties for all the world," Olivia replied in the man's own language with perfect pronunciation and a knowing smile.

"And your costume, it's, well...as one could have predicted...it's spectacular!"

"And what of your daughter's, Father?" Greta asked quietly nearby.

"Eh, what?" the host mumbled, his eyes still locked upon the soft swells of flesh hidden under the golden swans of Olivia's costume.

"And what of your daughter's costume, Father?" Greta repeated, irritation lining her voice.

"Oh yes...my dear...you look wonderful as well!" Herr Kirtzler replied quickly, as if woken from a trance.

After giving his daughter a quick hug, the host's hand found it's way back to Olivia's arm, and he led the pair down, along the balustrade, to the waltzing, chattering assortment of ghosts, imps, characters, and dandies below.

As they reached the last step before the laughing mob of partygoers, Herr Kirtzler addressed Olivia, raising his voice to be heard over the din and clangor, "

"I would have thought that after last year's costume, you would not have been able to outdo yourself my dear, but, here your are, a princess of swans!" the jovial Pan declared with a flourished wave of his hand, "you must tell me who tailored it for you!" Irritated by the neglect of her father, Greta began to speak for her friend, but stopped short when Olivia shot the Bavarian girl an icy glare to silently remind her of the secret promise that had been extracted from her, regarding where the costume had come from. And besides, Greta knew inwardly that her father would probably let all his unhappiness regarding the pilfering of his dead brother's shop fall upon her anyway.

"A dear and talented friend, Herr Kirtzler, a dear and talented friend," Olivia shouted in response to the question, grabbing Greta by the wrist and pulling her out into the dancing, laughing mass of revelers before they could be pressed by the host for more details.

The rest of the night was a confetti shower of music and delight, and Olivia was at the very hub of it all, a graceful swan princess of feathers and leather that swam through the teeming, rolling sea of tipsy, giggling, boasting, masked bon vivants with an effortless delight that drew all eyes to her and demanded every dance, every affection, and every attention the evening's masquerade had to offer.

And in her wake, Greta treaded the choppy waters of Olivia's passing like an ugly duckling, gobbling up whatever little crumbs of notice might be left over, until finally, the pinnacle of the evening came when it was time to declare the best costume of the masquerade.

Silencing the band for moment, Herr Kirtzler drew the crowd's attention in a wide circle around him and coughed into his hand before beginning, in a booming voice, "Frau und Herren, the time has come to give recognition to the best costume of the evening!"

And then, taking her gloved hand within his own pudgy grip, the host pulled Olivia gently from the fat ring of revelers to the applause and utter delight of the entire crowd...save one. Olivia basked in the glow of the evening and a hundred eyes, waving to her frowning friend Greta, when suddenly the chime and ring and cuckoo of a dozen timepieces, large and small, sounded throughout the stately manor.

"Midnight everyone!" Herr Kirtzler shouted with glee, "prepare to unmask!"

And even though most of the guests already knew one another or were too drunk to care, the excitement still grew and grew with each stroke of the hour's passing until finally the last chime and ring and cuckoo's song all fell silent.

"Unmask, Unmask!" the revelers shouted, throwing back their hoods and lifting their disguises...everyone that was, except for Olivia, who stood oddly still, her arms at her sides, and her feet pressed tightly together in the eye of the roaring crowd that swirled around her.

And then, as the noises of appreciation faded amid the scattered masks, Greta heard it.

The sound of a music box playing.

Without a thought, Greta knew where the music was coming from, and one glance at her friend confirmed it...Olivia's costume itself was the source of the mechanical ballad.

Olivia looked to her friend with pleading eyes and parted her lips to say something urgent, but, in that instant, the wide collar of her costume had closed in upon her mouth, gliding along hidden hinges with each note of music and sealing Olivia up behind an orange and black leather gag, shaped like a bird's own narrow beak, to truly complete the illusion of the swan princess that the white outfit conjured up from its' crafted beauty.

All eyes were upon Olivia now, unsure of what to expect from the girl, and unknowing about the source of the music that floated through the air around her.

But Greta knew, and as she watched her friend, she thought of the rutting little figures in the music box of her dead uncle's shop, and a familiar rush of blood flashed throughout her body like pinpricks of fire.

Gaping in wonder, the crowd watched as Olivia's high, black leather boots continued to hold themselves at polished attention as the delicate tinkling of the music box grew in strength from behind the brass plate, giving mechanical movement to the form fitting leather outfit through a score of hidden gold-plated bearings and polished brass cables.

Like an automaton, Olivia raised her gloved hands slowly into the air to form a "V" above her head, and then the gilded swans across her chest popped open along their secret hinges, letting the plump flesh of Olivia's freckled breasts spill out over the edge of the tightly cinched corset, drops of sweat lingering around the soft pink aureoles of her nipples, sending a mixed tremor of shock and excitement trembling throughout the crowd.

Greta's eyes grew wide at her friend's predicament, but she said nothing, and instead sent a hand slowly creeping over her belted waist. Her fingertips glided along the softness of the front of her gown toward warmth hidden underneath the silk that was slowly building in her like a fever.

And the music box played on, sending Olivia's arms moving alongside metal points and pivots, greased by coachman's oil, within the laced, leather sleeves until her gloved hands were forced under her own breasts and made to push the warm and supple mounds up and out with each note of music so that the eyes of the guests around her could devour them fully.

Then Olivia's legs shifted, the heels of her glistening boots inching apart slowly along the floor as the music box continued to scatter the notes of its' waltz throughout the air.

Hypnotized by surprised ignorance, the crowd gasped as the silent swan princess dropped to her knees, the high boots squeaking upon the marble floor, with leather clad hands still cupped beneath the succulent fruit of her breasts.

Then, Olivia leaned back upon her haunches with a clicking of machinery that sent the tips of the costume's feathers splaying out on the floor, encircling the ebony folds of her legs like a white halo. Over the American girl's muffled cries, the music box still played, and then, from between her thighs, tiny cogs locked and meshed. Olivia tilted her head back slowly as the gilded beak of the swan nestled at her loins gingerly opened, as if begging for food, exposing the fiery down that rimmed her sex for all to see.

And along the edge of the gasping crowd, Greta watched her helpless friend perform for her and the rest of the partygoers, while the German girl pressed one tiny palm hard against the front of her costume to add to the excitement she felt at Olivia's sudden powerlessness.

With clockwork timing, Olivia's gloved hands released the swells of her breasts and moved down the corset's bindings in slow, mechanical unison until they found their way to the soft thatch of red hair between the swan princess' booted thighs.

From the fringe of the captive audience, Greta's breathing became shallow and beads of perspiration began to spring up like dew along her forehead in response to the fever of pleasure that rose through her.

Forced to keep time with her own music, Olivia pressed one hand down to the warm and yielding flesh between her thighs and stroked the sacred vessel there with her orchestrated gloves, which had grown moist in a calculated rhythm of movement that increased in speed to keep up with the quickening tempo of music rushing out from the brass box at her back. Like the tune of a child's Jack in the Box, cranked until the toy is ready to burst, the song churned out relentlessly from the costume, and Olivia's body shuddered within the tight leather as her fingers sought to match the music's pace.

And finally, when the last note from the music box had finished playing, the swan princess quickly stopped and then was jerked to her feet, amidst the eerie silence of the crowd, like a marionette being played upon by a hidden puppet master built of brass and leather.

With a whir of tiny gears and the tick of clockwork, Olivia's laced arms stiffly found their way once more to her sides, her boot heels came scuffling tightly back together at attention, and the swans around her breasts and sex almost seamlessly closed themselves again upon their hinges. Then, the leather swan's bill bloomed open so that the costume's collar revealed the tear and makeup streaked face of the disheveled swan princess to the dismayed crowd. And after the costume had released its' hold upon Olivia with a mechanical sigh, she slumped to the floor and covered her face with both hands in wretched embarrassment.

Suddenly, as if released from a spell, Greta broke from the crowd and rushed down to kneel beside her friend.

"You are all right, yes?" she asked in English, cupping Olivia's stained face between her hands.

Olivia sobbed and nodded her head.

Cradling her friend against her own body, Greta quickly got up and led the girl away from the shocked and mesmerized faces of the unmasked onlookers.

And as the pair climbed up the broad marble stairs back to Olivia's room, Greta whispered words of comfort through an almost imperceptible smile that tugged upon the corners of her lips.

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