I took the showerhead from the wall holder and played the stream of water over myself, a frisson of pleasure running through me as the shower water played against my nubbin. Satisfied that I had removed any trace of suds, I stepped out of the shower, allowing the water to drip from me onto the mat on the floor.

“Good job my body is waterproof,” I laughed to myself. “I’ve been in the shower so long I’d have doubled in weight, otherwise.”

I patted myself dry with the large bath towel that I had put in the bathroom, ready, and then padded into my bedroom. My dress was hanging on a hanger on the back of my bedroom door. A maroon red bodice that laced up the front and had straps for each shoulder.

The dress was asymmetrical from front to back, lower behind, almost to my knees, and the front was hardly lower than my crotch. The material was a stiff cotton in the bodice and layered silk and nets for the dress. Silver-buckled black straps went over my shoulders. There were buckles, cogs, and metal wheels sewn onto the whole outfit.

Underneath, I wore simple cotton knickers that matched the colour of the dress with a suspender belt and black straps to hold my stockings. My bodice supported my breasts; I didn’t need a bra. Finally dressed, I looked in the mirror. Critically, I looked at my makeup. I decided on a dark rouge to highlight my cheeks and a dark red, almost goth, lipstick.

I used a dark, nearly black, eyeshadow, and then, using a mask, I sprayed a complementary pattern over my face across my left side. Finally satisfied, all I needed was my top hat and my silver-handled swagger stick. I sat and laced up my square-heeled boots, and finally I was ready. I heard a horn outside; my Uber had arrived.

The journey to the hotel where the event was being held took around fifteen minutes. The Uber driver, who looked Middle Eastern, smiled as he dropped me off and wished me a good evening. I thanked him, adding a tip to my payment, and headed into the hotel reception.

I checked in at the reception, collected my room card, and headed up to my room. I put two bottles of water on the bedside table and my makeup on the vanity unit in case I needed to redo my makeup later. I took my change of clothes and hung them in the wardrobe. I had a different, shorter style of dress. If someone else had the same outfit, I was prepared; I could change.

Satisfied, I put my room key in the small hidden pocket in my dress, gathered my swagger stick, put on my hat, and headed down to the ballroom where the event was being held.

As I approached the ballroom, I heard the familiar musical sounds. The clanking of bells, the sawing of violins, and the tinkle of gears. It sounded like Derek Flechter, perhaps a new one; I shrugged and headed inside.

“Mica,” a voice called. I looked in the direction of the voice; it was Paul. He had been the one who had told me about the event. That he was here hadn’t surprised me. It was still relatively early, and the ballroom hadn’t quite filled up. There was a projector that was projecting Victorian steam age industrial images on one of the walls of the ballroom.

Paul was wearing Edwardian finery: a frock coat with a ruffled shirt, striped trousers and, unusually, a bowler hat adorned with cogs rather than the usual top hat. As I walked over to Paul, Geraldine, his ex-girlfriend, intercepted me.

“Nice outfit,” she said as she approached.

“Thanks, you too,” I replied. I had no beef with Geraldine; we had never been lovers, and I felt no deep connection to her. I did notice that her outfit was very similar to my spare outfit. Not quite the same, but very similar. I was relieved that I wasn’t wearing my spare; people would have thought that we had copied each other.

“Got anyone new?” I asked her.

She walked up to me and ran the back of her hand down my arm before intertwining her fingers with mine and pulling me near. Her face was close to mine; her perfume was in my nostrils – the aroma of gardenia. Our noses touched, and as I was about to open my mouth, someone bumped into me; I almost fell backwards.

I didn’t see who it was; there were now so many more people at the festival that it would have been almost impossible to be certain. The moment, if that is what it was, with Geraldine was gone.

“My two favourite ladies,” Paul said as he walked up to us.

“Really?” Geraldine asked, "Only I seem to think that you see things a little differently these days. You finished with me, remember?”

“How could I forget? But there was a very good reason for that, as well, you know.”

“It didn’t bother you at first.”

I was intrigued; I wondered what it could be. What did Geraldine do that caused Paul to finish with her? I might ask him when I get him alone. Paul leant in and kissed me, his tongue briefly reaching through his lips. He turned and gave Geraldine a kiss, although it seemed less of a kiss and more of a peck.

“Come on, let’s get on the dance floor,” he said. He grabbed my hand and led the way; I grabbed Geraldine, and we headed off to dance. Paul was a typical man dancer; he certainly wasn’t John Travolta. Geraldine danced in a very uninhibited way; in fact, she was almost wild. We were soon sweaty with exertion, and I waved a hand at Paul.

“I need a drink,” I said and moved away and headed to the bar.

The bar was busy, and it took a moment to get served. As I waited, Geraldine came and stood next to me; she rested her hand on my arm.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked her.

“Fizzy water, please,” she said. I looked to see if Paul had also come over, but he was still grooving on the dance floor, and from over here, that he wasn’t John Travolta was even more obvious.

“Two bottles of sparkling water, please,” I said to the barman when he finally deemed it my turn for service.

“He never could dance,” Geraldine said, nodding towards Paul.

“Excellent at dad dancing, though,” I laughed. The barman bought our bottles of water; I gave him my room card for payment, and he frowned just for a moment. I think they prefer cash. I don’t know why; the card is just so much easier. He flashed my room card through the payment machine and handed it back with a smile.

“Thanks, girls,” he said, then turned to an older guy who had been standing next to us and asked what he wanted. I turned away and unscrewed my water bottle top, taking a long drink before sealing the bottle again. I knew it was unlikely, but still, I protected my drink from being spiked. Better safe than sorry.

Geraldine put her hand back on my arm and pulled me to her.

“I thought I detected something,” she said, her voice competing with the music.

I moved a little closer; our bodies touched, my breasts pressing against hers.

“Maybe,” I said, perhaps a little too quietly for the music.

Geraldine moved closer and said into my ear, "The music is so loud.”

I twisted my neck, and my mouth was next to her ear. “It hasn’t even gotten started yet,” I said, and then, I didn’t know why, I kissed the bottom of her earlobe.

Her hand squeezed my arm again, this time just a little tighter. She pulled me around, and as our noses touched, she jinked a little and kissed me, her tongue probing. I parted my lips and welcomed her tongue inside my mouth. Technically, part of her was inside part of me. Our tongues danced, jinking to the music from Derek Flechter; my hand helped support her right boob. Well, it seemed only right.

Her hand pressed at my waist and slid down, my dress forced into my crease with my knickers. She was being very forward.

“Let’s go to my room,” she said. “I managed to get a ground-floor room; it is just along from the ballroom.”

I knew what that meant; I knew what she wanted. The night was young. Why not? We could get back to the event quickly enough. “Lead the way,” I said breathlessly.

When we left the ballroom, the sound almost vanished as the door shut behind us. It was as if the air pressure had suddenly lowered. The quiet flowed over us; it made the moment feel surreal. Geraldine took my hand and led me to her room; a quick flash of her card, and we were in. She wasn’t so fussy about tidiness, I noticed. Her clothes were strewn over the chair, the table and the drawer unit.

She twirled me around and pressed her lips against mine, her tongue once more delving. Her hands were all over my boobs, and then she was undoing my buckles. Wow, she was eager. My dress soon fell to the floor, and her mouth moved to my left breast, licking and sucking at my nipples, her hand pushing past the hem of my knickers. I gasped as she found my nubbin, flicked it and pressed on it.

She stepped back and looked at me. "God, you are fucking gorgeous,” she gasped as she pulled at her own outfit. I pushed my knickers down and slipped them and my shoes off. I put my clothes in a small pile on the chair and turned back to her. She was naked. Her fanny had a small straight line of hair, almost an extension to her crease, and her inner petals partially hung out; her main labia were fat and glistening with arousal.

I closed the gap and pushed her onto the bed, her legs parting as she fell. I went straight for the honeypot, my tongue pressing between her petals, seeking the hot and wet valley floor. Her fourchette was large, almost a barrier between her fanny and her perineum. I ignored it; I licked along her crinkle, riding the crests and petals until I found her nubbin.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasped as I nipped her between my teeth. Her clitoris was large, the largest I had ever encountered; it really was like a bean. I used my teeth to tug as my fingers ran circles around her entrance, dipping slightly in, probing, her fanny fluttering as I pressed.

“Turn around,” she whispered, “I want you too.”

Without releasing her clitoris, I turned and pressed my fanny against her face, and then I lifted slightly. Her tongue closed the gap and pushed my petals apart. She pressed at my urethra, and then her tongue found my centre, opening my fanny. I felt her lips purse, and she blew gently, my fanny feeling almost pressurised. I gasped. I gulped. My lungs filled and emptied; my fanny pulsed.

I released her nubbin and licked it, one light lick and then another. My hand moved up, and fingers pressed at her entrance, and I pushed, two fingers entering her sanctum. I began to open and close my fingers inside her, adding my own form of pressure. I diddled, I licked, I pressed, and then my fingers began to move in and out, my palm pressing hard against her fourchette and perineum and then releasing.

I could feel her breath turn to gasps as her face filled my crotch, her nose pressing against my nubbin. I began to move my fingers a little faster and a little harder. My pleasures were beginning to flow, and my pressures were building. Electricity seemed to flow from my groin to my nipples, to my ears and to my toes and fingertips.

“Oh, absolute fucking fuck,” she screamed and pressed hard against me, squirting and soaking my face as her fanny clamped hard on my fingers. I coughed at the influx, and my moment seemed to go away. I pulled away and looked up at her. She was smiling, laughing, and almost crying.

“God, Mica, you’re good. Did you?”

“Almost, not quite,” I replied, “but that’s okay; it is early yet.”

Back in the ballroom, I lost sight of Geraldine almost immediately; the place was heaving. So many people. The sound of ticking clockwork pulsed over the speakers, bells rang, and people danced.