An Improper Position

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.