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I had been to fancy events before, though never a white tie ball. I’d been to museum galas and fancy dinners and all sorts of elegant gatherings, but that was back in New York, in the familiarity of the Upper East Side. That night I was in foreign territory, the South. New Orleans. A Mardi Gras ball, a few days before Fat Tuesday. An old friend got their father to invite me to an old line krewe’s ball and I wasn’t sure what to expect. 

The invitation was elaborate and beautiful. It informed me the dress code was Costume de Rigueur, which I had to look up the meaning of. White tie, tails, white leather gloves or full length gowns and elbow length gloves.

My hosts were part of the proceedings of the evening, so I was told I wouldn’t see much of them. I really had no idea what those proceedings would be other that some vague talk about “debutantes coming out.”

The space was a large ballroom. We entered into an atrium, like the lobby of a theatre. There was a bar and people milling about.

The first thing that struck me was beautiful elegance of a room were half the guests were in ball gowns and the other half were in white ties and tails. It was impossible not to feel transported into another time. Also that everyone was white. Everyone. It was one of the first creepy things, but not the last.

The invitation specifically said to keep your phones out of view, which added to the timelessness. People sipped champagne and mingled as we waited for the three sets of huge doors that led to the ballroom to open.

Even while dressed alike, but there were tiny details that stratified the guests. Young men with pre-tied bow ties and ill fitting jackets which were obviously rented. Older gentleman with red sashes and beautiful pins on their lapels. Women in elaborately beaded gowns, simple elegant dresses, and more flashy satin ensembles with contrasting colors, decadently low cut.

I walked around the crowd feeling both out of place and by default part of the group, because I was dressed just like everyone else. I felt powerful and handsome, like an old time movie star. It was remarkable the confidence the suit gave me. 

I sipped bourbon and introduced myself to those who bumped into me or caught my eye.

There were lawyers and doctors and even senators. Beautiful statuesque older women, like queens, bored looking college age boys tugging at their collars, and preening young ladies batting their eyelashes and demurely sipping their drinks.

“Oh what a lovely evening,” said an older woman with large bright yellow framed glasses on.

“Oh indeed,” I agreed, taking her hand as presented it and unsure if I was supposed to kiss it, I simply shook it lightly.

“Jack Stratton, how wonderful to meet you,” I said with a little bow.

“Eloise Branston-Barr. A pleasure, Mr. Stratton,” she said with a bright smile.

Her dress was dark blue satin, modest and impeccably cut. Her silver blonde hair was in a tight but elaborate bun with little pearls and blue beads worked into it. At her neck was a simple string of pearls.

“This is my first ball of this kind, I’m not sure what to expect,” I said and she gave me another smile.

“Oh just some silly costumes and a little pageantry. Many of us take our fun very seriously down here, Mr. Stratton,” she said with a wink.

“I’m sure,” I agreed.

Just then a tall man in a bright green costume with a matching cape, mask, and large feathered helmet walked by and unlocked the door in front of us. His outfit was somewhat startling, looking both carnival like and not unlike something one might see at a KKK rally. As I watched I saw others in similar garb, only in blue or gold or garish red. They guided the guests into the ballroom.

The ballroom was huge, with a large stage in front of a broad dance floor which was rimmed with chairs. I saw there were two tiers of balconies on either side and a orchestra pit. 

My invitation explained that seats were for ladies only, and gentleman who were not in the proceedings of the “court” were welcome to stand against the railing or wall. I made my way over and some red faced gentleman shook my hand made a few cracks about being exiled by their wives.

There were more costumed men, who I learned were called Captains, as well as more colorfully dressed men with odd skin colored masks on and jester like costumes. Their clothes and the carousel like music gave the whole room a surreal carnival like atmosphere.

As I stood I took in the stage for the first time. There were golden thrones, huge vases of flowers, and beautiful golden curtains. It was somewhere between a really fancy prom and a coronation. 

As always, my curiosity was tinged with lust. My eyes hunted through the crowd for pretty faces, low cut gowns, and hungry eyes. I was not disappointed. Southern belles with big personalities and big curves smiled with red lips and perfectly made-up faces. They sipped their drinks and flirted. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be some beautiful woman. Matriarchal queens surveying the crowd with knowing eyes. Haughty thirty-somethings happy to be out of the house of the office. Pretty college aged girls a bit wide eyed at a room full of prospects. And coltish teenagers either bored or giggling.

It was announced, by more strangely costumed guards, that the king and queen were arriving and all who were seated now stood. The pageantry was forced and the costumed king and queen were led in, hand waving and somewhat ridiculous. 

I remember reading before I arrived that the balls were originally created to mock the European courts and royalty. The Mardi Gras spectacles and tableaux were both celebration and satire. It seemed that had mutated over the decades and people were taking their faux monarchs pretty seriously.

I zoned out a bit as titles and proclamations were announced. My eyes wandered back to the more generously endowed women. Gravity defying breasts framed in red or blue silk and satin. The long luscious line of cleavage pulling my attention in every direction.

Just as I thought the show couldn’t get more lavish, it was announced that the debutantes would be presented. I still wasn’t fully sure exactly what that entailed, but I had read it was when twenty-one year old women “came out” and were accepted into adult society. 

I saw a procession of young ladies being escorted by older men I assumed were their fathers. It was a little jarring to realize these girls were “coming out” as women and were wearing pristine white gowns and holding blood red roses at their waists. Could it get more symbolic? And on their daddies’ arms no less. Had no one in southern society read Freud?

One by one they were announced. Long regal names and descriptions of where they went to college, what their fathers’ did, so on. As much as I hated being so overtly objectifying it was almost impossible not to see them as pretty virginal nymphs being presented to a room of identically dressed men and letting them know they were ready to become women. 

As they sat and handing off their bouquets, the deflowering was prophetic. 

I watched each one with lust. A skinny, pale girl with blonde hair. Shy, mousey, precious. The next a tall brash redhead with a wide smile and confidence in her gate. She looked like she would eat a man alive. Then two almost identical brunettes with the generic good looks of local news weather girls. Oh, then the most adorable one, red hair, slightly chubby, especially in the cheeks. She seemed so fresh faces and full of joy. She was glowing. She was perfect, like a cherub with big tits. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

It went on and on like that, twelves girls in total, but I couldn’t take my eyes off my chubby angel. I tried to remember her name. Josephine. Josephine Marie Jefferson.

After the presentation of the debutantes there was some more royal banter, some more of the creepy multicolored captains bowing and marching, and finally a strange “tableau” where a bunch of men came out in costume, with some in drag, and did a little dance skit and then froze in position for a full minute before the curtain fell.

Then it was announced that we should dance.

I went straight for the bar. The weirdness of the event was getting to me. I needed to take the edge off a bit.

As I maneuvered around the others with the same idea I spotted a flash of white behind me. There she was, the very redheaded cherub I had pined for, was a tad too short to see over the crowd in front of the bar, was trying desperately to get a drink.

I smiled at her and she caught my eye and smiled back.

“Champagne?” I asked and that illuminating smile blazed again as she nodded vigorously.

I got my bourbon and her Champagne and we walked a bit away from the bustle of the bar.

“Thank you very much! I thought I would never get to the bar. It’s hard to move in all this,” she said, pointing to her billowing white gown.

“No problem at all, you should have anything you want on your big day. I’m Jack, by the way, Jack Stratton,” I said and toasted her.

She clinked my glass and took a long sip.

“Josephine Marie Jefferson, but my friends call me Fifi,” she said, looking a little embarrassed.

“If I get you another Champagne will you consider me a friend?” I laughed.

She smiled, though it was a different smile, with a little edge to it.

“Even better you can give me a sip of that whiskey,” she said with a wink.

I offered my glass and she downed the rest of her bubbly before taking a long sip of my drink.

“I’ve never met a Fifi before,” I said taking a strange elation in putting my lips over the lipstick mark she left on my glass.

“No? Well, we’re lots of fun,” she said, though she was looking around the crowd and no longer at me.

I felt like she might have duties as part of the ball, but I didn’t want her to go.

“This is my first ball like this. Is it proper to ask you for a dance?” I said, holding out my hand.

“Oh, it’s quiet proper, Mr. Stratton. I’d be charmed,” she said, in her Louisiana twang.

I’d been twice a best man, so I’d had to learn a few simple dances. We drifted onto the floor easily, my hand on her waist. I felt the heat of her body though the thick fabric.

As we swayed to the slow carnival like song, jazzy and French with accordions and horns, her body got closer and closer. Her curves under my hand threatening to collide with me. 

My eyes moved to the generous cleavage her gown exposed. Pale with just a smattering of freckles. Fresh as cream. 

She seemed to follow my eyes and she gave me the slightest chiding look. My gaze went up to her collar bone, her neck, her small ears. She made me feel like a monster. I wanted to devour her. 

When the song ended we clapped and she bit her lip and blushed a bit. 

“More champagne?” I asked and she nodded.

I held out my arm and she took it. I escorted her to the bar.

There was an even longer line for drinks, being a huge ball with many thirsty patrons. Just as we approached the queue, she grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the bar and to the far side of the ball room. We went through a doorway and we found ourselves in a hall that led to a stairway. It was empty there and the music was muffled by the thick walls.

“I needed to get out of there for a minute,” she whispered, taking a deep breath and stretching her neck.

She was till holding my hand. We both sort of looked down at our hands, but didn’t let go.

“Thanks for dancing with me, it made my night, I’ve never been to anything like this,” I said.

She sort of shrugged.

“I’m sort of supposed to dance with anyone who asks,” she said with a grin.

I laughed.

“Crazy rules,” I said shaking my head.

She shrugged again.

“Too many rules. It’s wild. Everything we wear and do and say is all prescribed today. It’s driving me crazy,” she said and then her smile turned a little wicked.

I was feeling butterflies in my stomach as I held her hand. That and a creeping darkness inside of me that just wanted to fuck her.

“You want to know a secret?” She said with glee.

I nodded.

“I felt so strangled with rules this morning I decided had to do something rebellious. So my cousin Adelaide and I didn’t wear any underwear under our gowns!” she said with a laugh that bubbled out before she covered her mouth.

I thought quickly and didn’t smile.

“Yeah right. I don’t believe that one for a minute,” I said with a shake of my head.

Her bright eyes went wide.

“No really! We all stayed at a hotel last night and went to the spa and got all waxed up and exfoliated and scrubbed nearly to death and then this morning Addie and I got dressed together and we came up with the idea and we threw our panties in the trash!” she said with another laugh that made her cover her mouth.

I just shook my head again.

“No way. You debutantes are too goody goody to do something like that. I think you’re making that up.”

Her eyes flashed a little with anger.

“I ain’t fibbing!” she whispered as loud as she dared.

I nodded and sighed.

“Sure, sure. Anyhow, we should get back,” I said looking at the doorway to the hall that lead to the dance floor.

She pouted and stomped.

“You’re a jerk, come up here and I’ll prove it,” she said grabbing her gown with one hand and pulling my hand so I would follow her up the stairs.

I tried to hide my smile.

She got to the second floor and sat down on the top stair.

“Now, I’m a lot of things, but I ain’t a liar,” she said in her light yat.

I stood a few steps down from her and watched as she pulled her gown up over her pretty legs. Her stockings were white and semi-opaque, ending in white lace and a white garter. She leaned back and shifted her bottom a bit and pulled the voluminous gown up a little more until the neat hairless slit between her legs became visible.

I knelt on the stairs in front of her, getting a closer look. Jesus, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She pulled her gown up a little more totally exposing her garter belt, thick thighs, and complete lack of underwear.

Her cheeks were bright red, but her eyes shone with victory.

“Told you!” she said with petulant glee.

I leaned in even further, my hand on her knee, pushing her legs apart gently. She let me open her legs wider, exposing pink that made me unable to breath.

“You got me,” I admitted.

She smiled brightly.

“You sure are pretty,” I whispered.

My hand lingered on her knee. She watched me expectantly.

“I’d sure like to kiss you, Ms. Fifi,” I said, not sure how much of the pleading in my soul I should let out.

She cocked her head and considered.

“Oh yeah? Hm. Just a little, we have to get back soon,” she said with a serious tone.

I moved forward, standing up to and bending to reach her face. As I did, she pulled back and looked at me incredulously.

“Not on the lips, stupid, you’ll mess up my makeup!”

She put a hand on my head and pushed me down. 

“On your knees. Kiss me down there,” she said sweetly and my brain seemed to short circuit. 

I knelt again, as if she were a princess and I were a courtier. Then, like ascending to heaven, I buried my head under her dress and tulle.

I wanted to take my time. I dragged my bottom lip across the decadently silky skin of her thick thigh, but she would have none of that. She reach under her dress and grabbed my hair, pulling my face where she wanted it.

When my tongue touched the wet heat of her pussy it was as if I lost all connection to the outside world. All there was in life was her thighs on each side of me and the taste of her pussy and the smoothness of her lips and the slick ridges of every secret part of her. 

Now, I am a fan of eating pussy. This is well documented. More than just the taste and feel and innate hotness of it, the reactions are what get me off. I don’t know if it was the tension of the day or the wickedness of sneaking off to fool around at her coming out or if she was just really receptive, but I’ve never had a woman go so wild as I went down on her. Fifi’s hands were in my hair, pulling and pushing me around. In a minute or so her hips were bucking and she was covering her mouth to stop from alerting the whole party she was coming.

As she thrashed around I was briefly drowning under that mass of white tulle and lace. The light filtered around me as her soft thick thighs closed on my head. All the while I kept licking, kept sucking, wanting more of her. 

But, alas, she eventually pushed me away. I stood up on shaky legs to see a much more rosy cheeked debutante than the one I started with. She was smiling though, bright and happy and more than a little wanton. 

“Wow, I needed that,” she said and took a deep breath.

She looked up at me just then, still shaking a little and glowing in her white dress. Damn I fell for her then, but I had to keep cool. I helped her up.

For a moment were were close again. I wanted one kiss, but she demurred. Makeup, after all.

“You go back to the party first. I have to fix myself. Thanks again. You made my special day a little more special,” she said sweetly, kissing me on the cheek.

I was a little heart broken, but I gave her a smile.

I walked down the stairs a bit, but turned when she called me.

“Oh, Jack, and come find me after. We’re all going to the parades tomorrow. I bet my friends would get a real kick out of you. I’ll give you my number before I leave,” she said with another sparkling smile.

I went downstairs, in my tails, smelling of debutante pussy and good bourbon, ready to take on New Orleans.

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