The country home of Sir Richard and Lady Astley was to hold a reception following the wedding of Sir Richard's niece, Cecily, to the scion of the Radley family. In due course, when her husband inherited his father's title, she would become the Marchioness of Netherhampton. Sir Richard was pleased by the prospect of his family and the Radley's being unified. His gaming debts had mounted in recent weeks, and the generous but a discreet endowment received from the bridegroom's family would more than cover them, leaving a tidy balance to finance future activities.

Tom Fisher, the gamekeeper's son, had won the favour of Lady Astley — on several occasions. By way of reward, she had ensured he was employed around the house as her personal footman. This was an unimaginable achievement for the lad, and he took care to do exactly as his mistress told him. For instance, before the reception was due to start, Lady Astley needed to go to her room, where her maid, Clara Livingstone, had laid out her gown, gloves, and shoes for the event. Her ladyship dismissed Clara, but told her to send young Tom up to her, and within a few minutes, he arrived, slightly out of breath after climbing three flights of stairs from the kitchen.

When he entered the room, Lady Astley had removed her day dress, and was sitting astride a chair, her arms resting along its back, her legs akimbo. A fine silk basque thrust her breasts upwards, so they seemed about the burst out of the cups. She rested her chin on the back of one hand, and watched him as he gazed upon her.

'Come to me, Tom, ' she commanded. He approached her, his eyes glued to the plump inviting mounds of her breasts.

'I have an ache, Tom. Please massage it for me. Between my shoulder-blades.'

'Massage, milady?' he asked.

'A rub, Tom. Come behind me, and rub my back.'

'Yes, milady.'

He stood behind her, and flexed his hands before laying them tentatively on her smooth white skin. Her perfume drifted up his nose, and as he began to rub her, rather unscientifically it must be admitted, the sensations he experienced caused his unruly part to wake from its slumber.

'There is some oil on the table, Tom, ' Lady Astley informed him, pointing. 'Use a little.'

He obediently tipped a little oil onto his hands, and resumed rubbing.

'You may find it easier if you unfasten the basque, Tom.'

'Aye, milady, ' said the gallant lad, and with slippery fingers, he unhooked the fasteners at the top, allowing the garment to be opened to a certain extent, and Tom to rub a wider area of her back.

After a moment or two, her ladyship protested that he was not rubbing the right places. 'You will have to undo all the fasteners, Tom. I can see it was foolish of me to leave the garment on. Perhaps it would be better if you were to remove it completely.'

'Aye, milady', he said. He loosened the hooks the rest of the way down her back, but found the garment formed integral knickers, and that she would have to move if he were to slip it off her.

'I can't get it off, milady, unless you move', he said.

Lady Astley understood the problem. Keeping her arms on the chair back, she straightened her long legs, so that Tom found himself peering at her fundament.

'There are a couple of hooks underneath, which need to be opened, Tom', she advised. Tom allowed his hands to rest on her buttocks for a moment, before his fingers wormed their way under the gusset in order to release the small fasteners. Her ladyship's nether curls were revealed to his interested gaze. The basque fell off her, slithering off the chair onto the floor, and her pendulous breasts hung downwards, their nipples hardening to thick rubbery points. She showed no signs of sitting down again, and Tom used his initiative to change the locus of his massage.

He began to rub his hands in a circular motion around his mistress's buttocks, gradually allowing his thumbs to rub the outer edges of her lips, which visibly bloomed under this treatment. A small bead of moisture appeared at the confluence of the lips, and Tom dexterously allowed a finger to become lubricated by it.

Her ladyship's eyes were closed, and her breath was coming in short pants. 'You must be warm, Tom. Why don't you slip your shirt off.'

'Aye, milady.' Using only one hand, so the other could continue on its mercy mission to relieve Lady Astley of her ache, he undid the buttons on his shirt, and pulled it part-way off. A change of hands, with no loss of rhythm, (much appreciated by her ladyship, when she recalled the incident in her later Memoirs) allowed him to remove it from his other arm, and throw it on the floor. Moved by the sight of his mistress's pink interior, he bobbed his head down, and allowed the tip of his tongue to trail up the slit into her pouting gap. Her ladyship mewled softly as he lapped up her juices, and explored her cavity with his nimble tongue. Suddenly, her legs trembled and her head jerked upwards, she whimpered a long sigh, and Tom's mouth was filled with a sudden expulsion of her juices.

He became aware of pain in his proud friend, as it bounded frustratedly against his trousers, and he boldly undid the buttons to allow the garments to fall off him, and his manly staff to wave and throb in the direction of her ladyship's nesting place. Lady Astley gave up her valiant attempt to keep to her feet. Turning round, she slumped back on the chair, her legs spread comfortably apart, and her nipples pointing accusingly at the young man rubbing his prick gently before her.

'I see... ' she panted, 'I see you are ready to massage another part of me, Tom.'

'Aye, milady.'

She pushed her breasts together and held them towards him with an appealing look. Moving to stand between her legs, he first knelt, which brought his stout friend to within inches of the place where it might decently discharge its load, and began to rub his oily hands round her firm breasts. As he flicked the rubbery nipples, she locked her ankles behind his buttocks, and pulled him ever closer to her opening. He leaned forwards, and nuzzled and licked each nipple in turn, while his excitable part throbbed and nudged against her. She reached between them, and directed it into her dribbling entrance, grunting as the first inch of its massive girth pushed her soft swollen flesh aside in its demand for ingress.

She wriggled, impaling herself on the young man's staff. Gently, he helped her by feeding it up into her heaving belly. It clenched and flattened as her muscles tightened around the invading part, squeezing and encouraging it to invade her as deeply as possible. Tom pulled out, then thrust back in, a process he repeated at growing speed until he established a steady rhythm. He pumped away steadily for a few minutes, until the familiar ache began, signalling the impending climax of his proceedings. Lady Astley felt the enormous piston ramming into her belly break its rhythm, before beginning a wilder and more erratic one. She felt it swell within her, and prepared herself to accept the young man's seed in the place nature intended.

She felt her crisis rushing upon her, causing her to grip and squeeze the pulsing part deep inside her. Seeing her eyes roll back, and her belly humping, was enough to send Tom over the top, and he pressed into her as deeply as he could, while splattering the walls of her throbbing tunnel with his outpourings. He collapsed on the soft cushion of her breasts, and they lay thus for a moment, panting. At last, Lady Astley lifted Tom's head between her hands, and kissed him on the lips.

'Thank you, Tom', she said softly.

'Thank you, milady', he replied.

He lifted himself off her, extracting his softening part gently from its sheath.

'If you want to rinse yourself, Tom, use the ewer and basin in the corner.'

'Yes, milady. Thank you', he said.

The reception went well. The new (prospective) Marchioness was gracious and charming, and danced with her uncle as well as her new husband. Tom, recovered from his recent encounter with her aunt, managed to observe the ballroom from the embrasure around the door to the kitchens.

All the household staff had been drafted in to assist in keeping the wedding guests supplied with food and drink, and Tom had lost track of the number of times one or other of the maids, passing him on their way back with empty trays, had given his most treasured possession a gentle squeeze before disappearing through the door. As a result, he found himself with an unwanted bulge in his trousers, just when the whirling Bride caught her foot in the hem of her dress during a tricky bit of footwork, and landed in an undignified heap almost at his feet.

Her arms flailed without direction for a moment, and for the briefest time, he felt one hand brush the semi-tumescent instrument of pleasure lying fatly against his left thigh. He saw her eyes turn towards his groin and open wide, before they flicked to his face. The incident lasted just a second before her new husband rushed to her side and took her elbow as she scrambled to her feet. As he led her towards the centre of the ballroom, Cecily's eyes locked onto Tom's over her husband's shoulder. Her gaze dropped to his groin, and stayed fixed until the movements of the dance tore it away.