Snippettsville: Masquerade Ball

She was serious. I've been with talented women from all over the world, but Snippettsville girls, I was again reminded, have no equals.

Afterwards, as I struggled to catch my breath, she disappeared back in the direction of the Lodge. It took me a moment to hitch up my pants and follow. When I got inside, I couldn't find her in the crowd, but the MC was announcing the unveiling and around me people were taking off their masks. I figured she'd gone to the rest room to wipe off her pancake, so I did the same, and then scoured the Lodge looking for her.

I didn't find any woman in a mime costume. I did hook up with some old friends though.

I might have thought I'd dreamed the whole evening except for the white pancake I found on my belly when I got home.

It is good to be back in Snippettsville.

* * * * *

Sian and Robert - After the Ball by Perdita

He came late, as himself. "The decorative boy", Maggie called him. She caught the way Lobo eyed him, and shocked the locals further with an impromptu standing lap-dance. The sick gleam in her eyes hurt me.

Robert ambled sullenly to me, but with a perceptible confidence. We didn't dance, but stood amongst the other couples holding each other, close enough so I could feel his erection and he could smell me.

"Fuck, I smell you in my sleep."

He looked at me with a painful lust, his Tristan-chord sounding a fathomless yearning. I looked back with a flash, more a Kundry hungry for redemption, needing to devour her blameless Parsifal.

"Sian, I want you all the time. I'm starving, woman. Give me a crumb, love—a mote—anything."

"No, sweet, you want what you imagine I have. I'm not real, I can't be. My cunt is as real as it gets. My tits, my mouth. My scent. But not me. It ends tonight."

"Yewww . . . cunt! . . .

"Aw fuckit," he laughed loud and low, "yuh mucky bessom."

"Grazie, Roberto. I love the tag, but it's an empty word writ red on Hannah's tit. Take it back, York. Fuck me—then say goodbye."

* * * * * We went behind the lodge, bathed in a blue glow from a neon strip above. I took him slow, making a stop-motion film in my head. I replay it frame by frame now.

He leant back, keeping his Michael Furey eyes locked to mine, opened his shirt, pulled everything down. His cock leapt out gracefully, like a ballet dancer's petit battement.

I untied my Zorro mask then took everything off to be naked—a gift for the lad—I didn't give a fuck if we were found. He laughed like a boy, then took my tits first, kneaded my nipples between two fingers each so I began to keen softly, felt the swell of lust rut down my belly. He sucked and bit as starved as he'd exclaimed. I nearly swooned for the white heat of it shooting through every bit of me.

"Do that. Do it til I nearly come. Yes— "

"Keep your eyes open, who're. Look at me, Sian."

My lower lip quivered. He smiled with a lewdness that made me laugh in embarrassment—near shame—as the distress of my lust kept quaking back and forth, round about and through my pussy. He kept his gaze and I had to laugh more and blush, feel like—become—a girl to his man.

I knelt and adored his cock, used the tip of my tongue to draw out the first of his sticky glue making a string of it to my quivering lip, then quickly bobbing down on the balletic stem. I sucked hard so I knew it hurt, then let go, keeping the very tip at my lips and purring my bliss. I let it partner my face, tap and caress my cheeks, my chin, my eyelids trembling, my cold nose.

"Come up, Sian. Let me get my fingers wet."

His fingers. My piano man. My Gould. My Chopin.

He stuck me deep. Fast. Found the spot that makes me weak-kneed, makes my clit a cock.

"Robert! Fuck. Stop. Stop a min— "

I came like every orgasm I'd ever had. All at once, all in a row. As well as well. I held to him tight, holding together, holding us. Together.

I took him to my bed. We made love. I was kissed into Hell.

"My oblivion is you—Yorkshire."

In the morning he kissed my forehead last.

"Sleep nice, sweet."

It was a grand send off.

* * * * *

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