Bopping. Sliding. Gliding. In through all the trance and hard house came a clear single note, held for a beautiful long moment, gradually building up tension, other rhythms patterning themselves within it. And then bit by bit as Kirsten and Sophie and Paul and Barry sank to the size of midgets on a small corner of the earth, in a vortex of spinning ravers, it built up inexorably and powerfully and ever greater, wave upon wave of emotion and power, to finally climax with beats so heavy and dense that Kirsten could feel her stomach give way beneath her, her long hair swaying onto her breasts and hardening nipples, the ring in her belly-button transmitting hard signals of joy. And then crescendo. Passion. Ecstasy. Emotion. The four of them almost wept as the music carried them up higher and higher, wave upon wave of overlaid beats, crashing and bashing, banging and clanging. Kirsten danced with her head up, mouth open to the sky, as a full moon appeared above her, monstrous and. Such a thing was an alien concept to his limited worldview. A servant announcing that dinner was ready ended the first trying segment of Alicia’s evening, and began the next. “Did you have a pleasant visit with Alfred, Dear?” Alicia contained a sigh, having hoped that she might have more than a bite of her dinner and a sip of wine before the inquisition from her mother began. “Yes, Mother,” she replied with little conviction in her voice. “He’s quite handsome, and he shows great promise in expanding his family’s prospects,” Her mother continued, either ignoring the bland tone of Alicia’s voice, or dismissing it. “A fine choice for a husband,” her father agreed from the opposite end of the long table after a sip of wine. Growing testier by the moment, Alicia said, “He barely notices me. All he does is talk about himself.” “Well, Dear, you’re hardly drawing attention to yourself or encouraging him. You must make an effort to accentuate your charms. You have far prettier gowns, and you.
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