A Night at the Ball

Submitted anonymously by a submissive at the Dominion

Dear Ms. Syriana:

When I told a lady of the Dominion about a dream I had about the Imperial Ball coming up a few weeks ago, she asked me to write down my next dream and send it to you for Confessions. This is that dream, as best I could record it and make it into a story.



I am holding in my hands a letter on old, dirty and slightly bloodied stationery. It is written in two very different scripts, one apparently French, impeccably written, and the other, Kazakh, as it is called now, in classic, but rough, Cyrillic. I read French badly, but as best I can tell, the first part says:

"My General, I found this in a stack of battle plans we recovered today. I thought you should see what it says. It tells me a lot about the thinking of our enemy."


Below that, in a somehow familiar hand, the author was more personal:


My Dearest Ekaterina:

I am writing to thank you for the wonderful time you showed me at the Ball last evening. I cannot believe my good fortune in meeting you. It had been a difficult ride from the Borodino front to Moscow to get to the Ball. Several times I almost turned back.

I am so happy I did not! You showed me a most wonderful night!

I will never forget my arrival. As the beautiful ladies emerged from their carriages, I could not help but envy the footmen who assisted them. The men in the carriages, maybe not. I am a soldier and my uniform suits me far better than modern jackets and fancy silk fabrics. Our host was kind enough to provide soaps and fragrances for cleaning and aides to beat the ride from my clothes. That was all I needed.

But the footmen! To get to touch the ladies' hands, sometimes to hold their shoes as they stepped down. That is an honor I suppose I now will never have.

Yet, it was you whom I will always remember from the party. Your gown was simpler and more elegant than now is the fashion, but it spoke of a woman of clear mind and simple tastes.

Your boots revealed as much when you walked -- high, black leather that obviously had been worn, not just for appearance but for life. Your confident handling of the crop as you checked it and your coat told me who you were. I literally could not keep my eyes off you. Even now, my mind's eye wanders and sees you standing across the room.

I suppose my fascination for you and your attire is how you caught me staring and why you called me over. "Colonel, don't you know better than to stare at a woman? ", you told me. "Get me a drink!"

And with those words, you owned me.

I will not soon forget delivering your drink on bended knee.

I will never forget your taking my own drink from me and drinking it as easily as if it was yours, and, I suppose, it was.

Nor will I forget your telling me that I didn't need to have a drink on my own and to follow you into the chambers that our host had so graciously provided her guests.

And then there were your boots. The honor of your letting me clean them once we were alone. The scent of the worn leather, mixed with yours, was intoxicating. The sight of your legs as the boots extended up your thighs was thrilling. Even the grit of the dirt on my tongue told me of my duty, my devotion to you, my existing just to serve you -- and, incredibly, we had just met!

I sit here now with the morning light growing brighter than the candles in my tent. The long night's ride away from you is past. The fog is rising from the grassy hills, and I am reviewing the orders i have received for my regiment's defense of you and Moscow (or is it just of you -- I care for little more right now). As I sit, the burning in my seat keeps me yours. I remember you ordering me to your lap and the touch of your hand. Was it a hundred times. or more? "Whap" came the first, so sensuous and confident. "Whap Whap" came more and more. I don't remember how many, just that you had my bottom connected directly to my brain, which swam in the ether at your repeated touch.

And then there was that brush! Was that an imperial crest, black and gold, impressed into my rear so many times, over and over? Surely, for all the hellish heat I feel, I am now as black back there as the black on your brush. And I feel like I received a treasury's worth of gold in the value of the beating. The colors of our country were what you visited on me last night.

But you did not stop there, and that is the reason I feel compelled to write now. I must thank you -- even as we approach this moment of conflict. My dear Ekaterina, the courtiers at the ball, many of them not soldiers, talked often of the honor of war. There is no honor to war, only the horror of honorable lives lost, limbs torn, horses killed and maimed, and blood spent. This was has been the stuff of my nightmares, day and night for months, until you took me away from that last night.

You took me away for a blessed time when you ordered me to my knees and brought my head between your legs. My duty then was not to our Tsar, not to generals or counts, not even to my fellow Cossacks, but to you and your button, and with my tongue, not with a sword or a rifle or my regiment. Oh, how I loved running my tongue around inside you, feeling your response to my touch, feeling your strong thighs pressing against my head, feeling the hardening of your clit. You put my mind in shackles to you, but you freed me from my nightmares. For that, I am and will forever be thankful!

The taste of your juices, the smell of your lust, the sight of your mound took me clear of the flashbacks and the visions of conflict that so occupy my days and so haunt my nights. I loved feeling your body stiffen when you came, and not just the first time but for the second and was that a third as you grabbed my hair and slapped my cheeks for getting lost in my reverie? Yes, I should have been focused on you. I was and am your servant. I thank you for that.

I can still feel the pleading in my eyes when I begged for release myself and you said "No" and told me that I would need my strength today. You were right. Are you always so right? Somehow, I believe so.

I know it is assuming much that you would ever grant me the right to see you again. Indeed, it is assuming much that I should ever have the opportunity to ask. The little villain's cannons are signaling his attack already. I swear the man is the devil himself! This the mightiest force the fatherland has ever mounted, yet there are far too few of us and too many of his.

Yet, my hope is that you will read this. If you do, it means I made it through, and that you are safe for another night. Then, there can be another Ball and a chance, I hope, to kneel at your feet, to feel your touch and to know the peace of being Yours. We cannot lose forever. The fatherland is too large for the little villain to take it all. He has no supplies. My regiment and the other Cossacks will hound him until he leaves, never again to return. Victory will be ours in this patriotic war.

I just hope we will not lose today, as I hope to someday be yours again, and not just for the night.



And that, my General, is where the letter ends. We found an officer's mount with the bag of plans. We did not find the officer. I do not know what became of him. Tonight, you and I will dine in Moscow and enjoy today's victory. I fear, however, that he may be right, and I envy his moments away from this War.

Field Marsh... (and the rest is worn away).


I would say "the end" now, but there is an odd thing about this letter: Somehow I remember writing it -- although more in the passing of a dream than in normal memory. History records that Napoleon entered Russia on September 8, 1812, after killing 44,000 Russians and Cossacks the day before, only to find an empty, burning city -- my Ekaterina having escaped. Two centuries and who knows how many lives later, I still feel thankful for that night!


And that is the end.