The gentle murmur of the party surrounded you: the clink of cutlery and the tinkle of glassware, low voices and soft music, the susurrus of elegant gowns. Soft lights twinkled, delectable aromas wafted. It was warm in the room, but the bare skin of your torso was all gooseflesh from the guests’ lingering stares.

In a small knot of people nearby, an elegant woman caught your eye and waved you over. She was wearing what might have been called a ballgown, all cascading silks and extravagant train, if it had covered her shoulders or back or even most of her ample breasts. The man beside her was wearing long white gloves, sheer black stockings, and nothing else. Their third companion wore an impeccably tailored suit, open at the collar to reveal a tantalizing expanse of skin.

The wish of any guest was your command, and you obediently crossed to that haughty, elegant woman whose dress and whose eyes sparkled like diamonds. “Champagne, madame?” you asked meekly. You proffered your tray as you had been taught: slight bend at the knees, arms above your head, eyes downcast.

You heard rather than saw her satisfied smirk. “Such good service,” one of the others remarked, and you felt one of the glasses delicately lifted from your platter. It took precise motor control to adjust your balance so none of the other glasses so much as wobbled, but by now, you could do it in your sleep.

“You are excellently trained,” remarked the woman before you, in a low voice that sent shivers down your spine.

Still, you kept your eyes downcast. “You honor me, madame.”

You felt the whisper of a caress on your bare ass, which gave you a moment to steel yourself, and then the inevitable smack—so warned, you were able to keep from spilling a drop. It was harder to suppress a whimper, though you managed it.

“Very good,” the woman remarked. Her voice sounded warmly pleased, and that spiked your arousal ten times higher than the spank had. “Look at me,” she commanded softly.

Your training demanded that you keep your eyes down, but you couldn’t disobey a direct order; slowly, uncertainly, you raised your head to meet her diamond-bright eyes.

The hunger in her gaze made your breath catch. You were so focused on her eyes that the gentle pressure of her stockinged foot between your legs caught you by surprise. You moaned aloud at the friction—the heat in your body redoubled at the very fact that a moan had escaped you, but somehow, miraculously, your training kept the tray perfectly balanced.

Your seductress smiled a broad, predatory smile.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she took a glass of Champagne—"sparkling like her dress", your arousal-addled brain noted stupidly, “sparkling like her eyes"—and raised it to carmine-red lips. Your gaze followed, helpless, enthralled. She sipped, and you couldn’t help but stare at the elegant line of her throat as she swallowed.

And then, her eyes locked onto yours, she slowly tipped the glass again, and poured a slender rivulet of liquid down her chest. It ran between her luscious breasts and down her front, and soaked into the barely-there fabric that covered her sex.

"Whoops,” she said silkily. “You spilled.”

You flushed hot, and then cold, and then hot again. You were dimly aware of someone lifting your tray from your hands.

The diamond woman beckoned and you obeyed, drawn to her like a puppet on a string. “You know the rules, slave,” she murmured. “Clean up your mess.”

Your skin tingled, and you could swear the whole room could smell your arousal. You did, in fact, know the rules.

So you bent your head forward and kissed reverently at the glistening skin between her breasts, and the damp trail down her stomach, and then dropped to your knees.

Dimly, you were aware of movement at the edges of your vision. Later, you would realize that a crowd had gathered, but right now, you hardly noticed them. The woman before you was your whole world.

You felt nothing but her warmth. You thought of nothing but her nearness. You tasted nothing but Champagne.