The Night of the Cotillion

There are nights in the deep South which seem to suit the human temperament to perfection. Visitors from other regions are frequently overwhelmed by the explosive profusion of vines and flowers covering every tree, bush, and lawn, providing not only a dazzling kaleidoscope of color but also filling the air with intoxicating scents. At night, when the whippoorwills keen their haunting refrain and the warm breeze rustles the branches and Spanish moss in the high, twisted oaks, the South can seem like a universe apart from the dirt and bustle of modern America.
I had been hired as a networking consultant at one of the most lavish country club settings in the South, far removed in distance, culture, and setting from the grey, grimy Midwestern industrial city where we were headquartered. Ten days of wire and cable and checking and rechecking connections had left me feeling drained and dazed from sensory deprivation, and the unctuous, hovering presence of the club’s cost–conscious managers had produced a marginal but lingering feeling of nausea.
I had just finishing installing and checking the last hubs and routers when the executive secretary, a genuinely friendly young woman from Kentucky who had married into the local elite, blew in and stated, “You’ve really been putting in the hours! Hardly had time to enjoy the local hospitality. Tell you what. The Cotillion Ball is tomorrow night. Why don’t you drop in and have a look at how we have a celebration tomorrow night.”
I had planned to fly out the following day, but I was really nearing the point of exhaustion, and the weekend was coming up. Nothing going in to draw me back to Akron, so I decided to reschedule until Monday, and cordially accepted her invitation.
By the next afternoon, I was well rested and enjoying a leisurely session of Jack Daniels on the rocks at the little townhouse they had provided me off one of the fairways. A local computer retailer was interspersing minor pleasantries and chitchat with some fairly enticing offers for me to relocate to this city and establish a networking department for his company.
This gentleman took his leave, as the shadows were growing long. He told me I would be pleasantly surprised at the charm and sophistication of the Cotillion, a real treat for a Yankee such as myself, and that he looked forward to seeing me there. I was busy hauling out the one business suit I had brought for the occasion, a blue serge pinstripe, which may have been only slightly out of place for the gala, though razor–pressed and quite presentable, as he walked out the door.
The 3/4 moon rose mightily over the tall oaks surrounding the course, casting ghostly shadows over the greens. From the nearby marsh, I could hear a hoot owl cooing mystically. I sprayed on a few spritzes of Yves St. Laurent “Romance”, took a last glance in the mirror at the elegant looking gentleman facing me, and headed out the sliding glass door at the back of the townhouse.
The site for this dance was unbelievably elegant. It had actually been built as a plantation house replica sometime in the mid 1870s. The golf facilities surrounding it were more modern, but the party house in the moonlight loomed there like something out of a movie set, someone’s fantasy of an antebellum error far more lavish than anything that had existed historically. The landscaping could only be described as exquisite. Enormous live oaks surrounded the structure. Flows of powerfully scented wisteria and forsythia cascaded from the smaller trees and tall bushes. Behind the house, along my approach, were bricked–paved pathways winding through small, flowery courtyards, several of them crowned with ornate, flowing fountains.
I entered the building through a large sliding glass door, which opened directly onto the ballroom. I have to admit I experienced just a bit of nervous anticipation upon walking into that crowd. The women were mostly dressed in very sophisticated designer gowns, not the kind of Southern schlock I had expected. Many of the men wore tuxedos, but I was relieved to spot quite a few in business suits not unlike what I was wearing.
I came to the event expecting to be little more than an observer, as this club was largely populated by very well established couples, many of them with bloodlines that ran back in the community to the Civil War and before. In fact, in my entire time ensconced in the club’s offices, I had not met the first solitary single person. I fully expected to have a few drinks, take in the sights, and then wander back to my little townhouse on the fairway.
I spotted a couple of the club members I had encountered during my work session, and we made small talk about the glory of the spring night, the beauty of how the ballroom was laid out and adorned, and the wonderful jazz ensemble that was providing the music.
Most of the dancers were quite attractive, reminding me a bit of F. Scott Fitzgerald characters from the 20s.
Then I noticed the charming figure of Jillian Marie Greenley sort of flitting about among some of the club’s women. I had met Ms. Greenley briefly in the club dining room where the club manager introduced us. She had made some offhand remark about “the Yankee computer wizard who had come down to enlighten us Southern low–tech barbarians.” She seemed friendly, but certainly nothing more than that.
Ms. Greenley was wearing something like a combination of a peasant dirndl and a svelte evening gown, accentuated nicely by a lovely white linen shawl. She was just a little more on the voluptuous side than most of these well–tanned, well–exercised ladies, and her costume took optimal advantage of her features. I was particularly impressed by the way her bodice pushed her quite ample breasts upward and forward, I imagined like someone in French monarchist gear at a ball at Versailles. The shawl definitely added an air of propriety.
Ms. Greenley, generally referred to as Marie, worked her way around the margins of the dance floor until she reached the small coterie of gentlemen with whom I was chatting. “I believe you know Ms. Greenley,” said Andrew Morrison, manager of the local bank branch where I had picked up my paychecks. I responded that we had met, and Marie sort of commandeered the conversation to lightly cover the academic doings of some of their kids. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Morrison and his companions meandered off, leaving Ms. Greenley and I to our own devices. After a brief moment of awkwardness, she launched into explaining her circumstances of the evening.
“You know, my husband Randall makes me so mad sometimes. We get all ready for the biggest event of the year, and thirty minutes later he tells me he’s too worn out from his workweek to enjoy being here. I let him off the hook and told him to run back home if it’s that bad. One of the kids will pick me up later. They stay out later than we do most of the time. But here I am at this gorgeous dance, and once again he leaves me planted. Come on, let’s take a spin around the room, want to?”
This took me by surprise, but I love to dance, and there was no way I could politely reject the invitation. We strolled out on the floor, and began dancing to a lively jazz tune with a little bit of a Latin beat.
Though I was trying to hold Marie as lightly as I could, considering the novelty of our relationship, I was impeded in that effort by the prodigious quality of her breasts. Try as I might, those bullet–hard nipples kept brushing enticingly against my chest. I noticed that her breathing was becoming progressively more exaggerated, and I wondered how long it had been since her dorky husband Randall had given her any. Before long, it had become obvious that we were both becoming at least a little aroused.
The song ended, and we wandered over to the side of the room next to the bar. “Like a little toddy?” she asked me. “I’m ready to get me one.”
Marie strode off, and shortly after appeared back at my side, bearing a beaker of good scotch, which she handed me. She seemed to taking long sips from a tall glass filled with vodka collins. “You know,” she addressed me, “I got wind of the work you did for the club, and I was thinking how wonderful to be if my oldest child could get interested in the kind of networking you do. I’m well aware of what we paid your company for the job. That’s terrific money, and would make a lovely career for my Breanna. It’s a shame you won’t be in town for much longer, I’d love for you to come over and provide some inspiration.”
I thanked her for her compliment, and told her that, yes, within a few days I would be back in the frozen north until the company farmed me out for another work session. I went on to make small talk about how deadening the work routine could be, and what a pleasant relief this evening in this beautiful place in the company of a beautiful woman represented. After a few minutes, she took me by the hand and led me back out onto the dance floor.
This time, loosened up a bit by the effects of our drinks, we both made less effort to maintain our distance. Close up to that snowy white neck framed by a cascade of long, straight honey blonde hair, I could not help but glance down the front of her dirndl, or whatever it was. I gasped a little at my first glimpse of her perfectly round, cantaloupe–sized melons topped perfectly by pale cherries. Her blouse, being of light rather than rigid material, provided me with a tantalizing view of the top of her aureoles down to the top of her nipples, a vision that I dearly love. Soon, my little feller was as long and hard as a tent pole, something she could not have helped but noticed as we whirled around the room, her legs cleaved to me in perfect rhythm with the music. I felt fortunate that I was wearing the dark serge trousers, which would not show the searing flow of pre–cum that was pouring prodigiously out of my member.
After that song was over, Marie ran over for more drinks, and we watched the other dancers for a little while. “You know, this night is just too beautiful to waste it all cooped up indoors. C’mon on back with me, and I’ll give you the tour.”
We were both feeling the effects of the alcohol more than a little as we strode over to the sliding glass door and out into the garden. Wandering out through the gardens and courtyards, she ranted liltingly about the beauty of the night, the lavishness of the event, and the pleasures of living in the South. Then, over next to one of the fountains, the conversation turned to the subject of her marriage. “Randall really is a terrific father and provider, and there’s no question that he loves me dearly, but y’know, y’know, after 17 years with one person, the relationship tends to get a little stale. He really didn’t have to leave the way he did.” She punctuated her remarks with little bell–like titters, and it was obvious that, although she was enjoying herself thoroughly, there was an element of nervousness in her discourse. She conveyed that she had never been unfaithful to her husband throughout the course of her marriage, though at times she had been sorely tempted. Then she abruptly cut it off with, “Oh, listen to me, I’m terrible! Why am I boring you with this!”
Somehow, during the next few minutes, we began imitating an exaggerated Southern accent, and she lampooned me for being such a Yankee that I couldn’t possibly talk “propah suthun”. We made our way through the maze of pathways to the edge of the fairways, and I pointed out to her the lights of the little townhouse. “Just look at that moon!” she exclaimed. “Takes me back to the time we were teenagers and used to park over here for make–out sessions. I felt her cool, slim hand slip into mine, but then she rapidly removed it.
We continued in our vein of faking dialects, and at one point she giggled, “Suh, wouldn’t it be lovely if you could spirit me ovah to yoah fine castle ovah yondah and, and … (giggle) do me.” Before I was able to fabricate a response, she said, “But oh, ah couldn’t, ah jus’ couldn’t! It would be so unfayuh t’Randall and so impropah fo’ a laydie of mah breedin’!” We laughed again in unison. “But if you would be so kind as to take me foah a stroll around this gawgeous course, this lady would sutainly appreciate it!”
We walked out onto a fairway and over toward a thick grove of oaks, when it finally occurred to me that this lovely lady was probing me for a little convincing. Standing next to a waist–level branches of one of the trees, I remanded, “Mah deah, it would be fah from mah gentlemanly nachuh to suggest m’lady compromise huh virtue by succumbin’ t’the wiles of an unwuhthy nawthun wage slave such as mahsayulf, but if you will avail me of your shawl, I think I may provide a solution!”
Marie handed me her long shawl, which was of a light but strong material. I proceeded to wrap it, first around her wrists, then around the convenient branch. “Whah you brigand!” she reprimanded. What cruel fate do you intend to inflict on me!” she said, laughingly. “Patience!” I responded.
I began to plant small pecks on her cheeks and lips, withdrawing suddenly before she could respond. “Mah, but you are a villain!” she cried. “You gon’ tie me up here and kill me by teasing me to death!” At that, I bent down gently and engaged her full lips in a lengthy, passionate kiss. She gyrated her face enticingly against mine, and deep moans emerged from her throat. After disengaging, I turned away from her and contemplated the moon for a few moments.
Presently, I heard a plaintive plea from behind me. “Kind suh, this lady has imbibed considerable libation, and would be most appreciative if you would untie her so she could tend to the matter of relieving herself in an appropriate manner.”
A surge of almost sadistic pleasure went through me, and I told her, “The lady should have thought of that before she allowed the gentleman to tie her up!”
“Oh, sir. Suhtainly you wouldn’t subject the lady to the indignity of… Oooooo! Ooooo! Now you come over here right this minute and turn me loose! I think I’ve wet myself a little!” Then she let out a peal of her ringing laughter and said, “It does feel a little erotic having this warm liquid wash down my thighs!”
Instead of complying, I walked over to her, hoisted her wide skirt up to about the middle of her back, and pressed my naked torso against her ample, pantied rear, which gleamed irresistibly in the moonlight. “Ohhhh, my God, she exclaimed, that feels soooo good! But I can’t, really, I can’t!
I then slipped my hand over her round, sopping rear, luxuriating in the hot wetness of her soaked, satiny underwear, then down to her steaming crotch from behind. That effectively silenced her protests, and the only sounds that emerged from her, after an intense gasp, mmm, ahhhhh, ahhh, mmmm, yes! Oh yes!
My pole was about as long and rigid as I could ever remember it being as I began to slide into her. We were about halfway “connected,” when she exclaimed, “But I still haven’t, oh no! Oh my God!” It was lucky I had tossed my trousers aside, because at that moment, she let go a flood of searing hot urine into my lap, down my legs and over my ankles. She had no idea of the intensity of arousal her pouring her hot flood all over me had provided.
By this time, her sounds resembled something between a wail and the throes of incredible ecstasy. I slammed my self fully inside her, with her still tied to the branch, and began pounding her unmercifully. With each thrust, she tossed her head violently from side to the other, caressing my chest and lap in a cloud of her long, swirling blonde hair.
I went on pounding into her, and at some point thrust one thumb into her piping nether hole, which seemed to engulf it greedily. Her breasts had somehow escaped from the dirndl blouse, and were swaying and jiggling madly and enchantingly as I ravaged her, and I occasionally reached around with my free hand to cup these marvels of roundness and softness hard within my palm. This continued until she let out a high–pitched shriek, somewhere between guttural and banshee like, which seemed like the doors of a primal universe opening beneath me. She began to tremble violently in every extremity, and her anal ring contracted in pulsating waves around my thumb.
As the waves slightly subsided, afraid she might injure herself straining against the knotted shawl, I withdrew and untied her, allowing her to collapse in a heap onto the grass and oak leaves. I lay down beside her and held her tightly and tenderly.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take her long to recover. She pushed me gently away and into a prone position, and began licking me from my ankles, up to my knees, then over my thighs, and with a leap and a gulp took my monstrously engorged member into her mouth, distending those beautiful lips incredibly. At the same time, she pumped her tiny, slender grip up and down the length of my shaft almost desperately. Her soft hair falling over my lap was like being caressed by moonbeams.
Before long, I produced a series of deep screams almost equal to hers, and then seemed to lose myself in the brilliance of the stars. I must have lost consciousness in a way, because I remember her saying, “Good knight, would you avail me of the comfort of your keep so that I might, errrr … compose myself?”
I located my trousers in the moonlight, and walked arm in arm over to my townhouse, where it took some real doing, but she was able to adequately repair the ravages of our “adventure”. I was most pleasantly surprised that she failed to express the slightest particle of guilt over what had occurred. We simply continued the engaging, lighthearted patter of bogus Southern virtue and chivalry.
I walked her back over to the clubhouse. Out by the fountain where she had first regaled me with the details of her marriage, we embraced tightly and shared a last deep kiss. She informed me that this had been her most refreshing and invigorating engagement in the last ten years, and that we must repeat it with all due haste. Then she walked over and wafted through the sliding glass door and into the crowd, blowing me a kiss.
This was only the first of several encounters I have had with Jillian Marie, each one increasing in intensity. Randall has since developed prostate cancer, and she attends him devotedly. When we manage to meet, we consider joining as a couple if he doesn’t make it, which she by no means desires, but is prepared to face. Strangely, though, when I’m out on the job hunched under some computer desk tangled up in wires, it’s always the memory that first, gorgeous night by the golf course, on the night of the Cotillion, that gets me through the day.
Sunchile