Chapter 21: Amy Fairfax

She was a vision. A mass of golden curls framed an elfin faced, cornflower blue eyed, red lipped beauty of about twenty years of age. She wore a diaphanous gown that showed her figure was an equal to the rest of her for beauty. Her bosom strained her bodice, and I swear I could see her nipples erect against the tight fabric.

"You certainly sent him off with a flea in his ear, Captain." Her voice was pleasant, and the smile she gave me would have melted the heart of a gorgon.

I bowed. "Captain Jack Greenaway, at your service, Madame."

She curtsied, so low I could see down the valley between her breasts, and my hands and mouth longed to follow the path of my eyes. She looked up at me through long eye lashes, a smile on her face as she saw where my eyes were fixed.

"Miss Amy Fairfax, I'm with the Curzon Players, and it is my pleasure to meet a brave soldier from Waterloo. I thought your name was Elijah?"

"It is my given name," I replied, "but friends call me Jack."

"Then I shall call you Jack, if I may, for I know we shall be firm friends."

The little minx stared at my groin as she spoke. My plunger had stirred at first sight of her, and then, when I had looked down the golden vale of her cleavage, it had risen to be quite discernible in my breeches.

Some of her fellow actors then came over, and there was a general melee of meeting and greeting, and in the hubbub I lost sight of her. I looked around the ball room frantically trying to spot her, as somehow I just knew that our two lives were to be entwined, and I must admit that I wished our bodies to be similarly occupied. I could not see her anywhere in the room, and the feeling of disappointment was like a blow to my breadbasket. I think she must have hidden herself behind some drapery, because suddenly she appeared at my side.

"Did you think I had left you, Jack?" She fluttered her lashes, and sent a heart clutching smile at me.

"I feared you had gone off with your friends. I'm not the most interesting of persons."

"I had to find out in which tableaux I was to appear, and what scene of the play we shall be performing."

Her smile was doing things to my heart, and to my plunger. It was then it seemed she suddenly decided as to what course of action she was about to embark upon.

She grasped my sleeve and said in a low voice.

"Follow me, Elijah. I have a chariot of fire that will take you up to heaven!"

With that she led me, through the chattering concourse of people in the ball room, out into a long passage, and then she suddenly darted down a narrow flight of stairs in a corner of a hallway. These stairs led down to the servants domain, 'below stairs', and I followed Amy through a veritable maze of corridors and passages, passing huge kitchens, with red faced sweating cooks and staff slaving over the preparations for the buffet. Eventually we arrived at a door, and she said.

"The Curzon Players are quartered below stairs, like the servants we are -- this is my room, and we have at least half an hour before I must take part in the tableaux."

With that we entered the room, and in a matter of minutes I had entered her.

We removed hardly any of our clothing. Amy simply pulled down her drawers and hitched up her gown to her waist, while I just undid the flap of my breeches, allowing my plunger to emerge, purple headed, and already wet with anticipation.

There was a bed but we dispensed with that; she mounted my erect plunger and I slid into her as easily and as snugly as my sword slips into its scabbard. Her breasts were at my face, and my mouth now wandered where my eyes had previously.

She groaned as my lips bit softly on a nipple, and then I groaned as she sucked my neck. Both of us were in a highly aroused state, and it was only minutes, at least it felt like it, before I fired my volley into her. I was rewarded by the sounds of her pleasure as she too reached her zenith. We tensed, and then relaxed, completely overwhelmed by the experience so quickly achieved.

We sat on the bed gazing at each other in amazement and pleasure, breasts heaving, as we caught our breath and our heartbeats came down to normal rate.

"Jack, that is the quickest I've ever reached my — you know?"

I nodded weakly "Me too."

"Short, but wonderful."

I nodded again.

"We will do this again, just as soon as I have performed in the excerpt from Mr Sheridan's play."

She got a wash cloth and washed the fluid of my volley from her madge, she then came and washed my plunger. We nearly started again, as we felt the lust rising, but had to make do with tongue teasing kisses. Her tongue was as sweet as a honeyed strawberry, and I savoured every minute it was in my mouth.

"Do you think you could find this room again? If you get lost ask any of the servants for Madame Veronique Dyer's room, they all know it well. Her room is the one next to mine."

We shared a last swift kiss, and returned upstairs.

When I re-joined Billy Bassett in the ball room he made no comment, either on my absence or my rather flushed countenance. There was a stage at the far end of the ballroom, with two servants stood ready to draw back the swags to uncover the tableau. We engaged in small talk, with some of the other guests, until the first tableau was announced.

'Aphrodite, Rising from the Sea. '

There was a great gasp of amazement from the room as the tableau was displayed. The centre piece was a woman — a veritable Amazon of a woman, at least two yards tall, and with a physique to match her height. She had the shoulders of a coal heaver and the thighs of a prize-fighter. Her hair was the colour of a fox's brush, and great tawny coils of it fell to her waist — partly — but only partly, covering her breasts. And what breasts!

They were gigantic, The nipples as large as, and shaped like, chapel hat pegs. Aunt Jemina would have signed her up for her household on first sighting. I heard Billy exclaim, in a voice full of awe.

"God's Teeth, Jack, she could suckle a regiment with those jugs!"

There were a number of sea shells strategically placed in front her groin, but wisps of hair could be seen coyly peeking above the obstruction. One could suppose from that glimpse that the hair of her madge would be the same shade and luxuriance as that on her head. Her massive flanks gleamed in the torch light, and I wager every man in the room thought of the joy, and possible danger, of being clamped between those Olympian thighs.

Standing just to the right of this apparition, who turned out to be Madame Veronique Dyer, the leading lady of the company, was Amy. Her eyes were demurely cast down at her feet, but I could see a little smile playing about her mouth. She wore a toga type of garment, with one delectable shoulder and breast bare. Fortunately, it was her left breast, as I knew that on her right was a mark, made as I had sucked that sweet flesh into my mouth. I had had to readjust my stock so that none could see that I wore a similar badge of passion on my neck, made by Amy when she achieved her release.

The swags were pulled back across, and a short time passed before the next tableau was revealed.

This time it was 'Andromeda Chained'.

The Amazonian built Madame Veronique Dyer was Andromeda, spread-eagled, with only the merest piece of material draped across her loins. Her arms were chained above her head, forcing her massive breasts to jut out like gargoyles from a cathedral roof. Her legs were also chained and wantonly spread, for all the world like a waiting woman laid open for the delectation, and possibly the despoliation, of the watching males.

More startled gasps, and a great jockeying for position by men eager to get a better view of her madge, which could be seen clearly outlined against the flimsy garment shielding her private parts.

There were four more of the these tableaux, which seemed to consist of Madame Veronique Dyer wearing fewer and fewer clothes, and revealing more and more of the most intimate parts her body. I wondered what would be the outcome if the milkmaids, or the kitchen maids, of the estate went to the village Inn and gave a similar exhibition. Without doubt the constable would be called, and they would either end up in the stocks, or be birched for lewdness, on the orders of Lord Grosvenor, the local magistrate.

That worthy, who was right at the front of the mass of men now at the front of the stage, was practically salivating at the sight of Veronique's accessible and readily available attributes – as were a good many other men I must add.

After the last tableau had been displayed, 'Europa on a bull' – don't even ask! – an orchestra, and a Master of Ceremonies, then took the place of the Players on the stage, and the ball commenced.

I had been given dancing lessons, much against my will it must be said, as a young man in Grantham. A French émigré, Comte de la Fayette as he called himself, taught those young people whose parents aspired for betterment for their children, the rudiments of the ballroom, including the etiquette, and basic steps, to the more popular country dances, especially the Sir Roger de Coverly. He also tried, largely unsuccessfully, to get us to tread the French Cotillion. I expect, given what he knew now, he would have rather stayed in Paris and welcomed Madame Guillotine, than teach deportment and grace to clodhopping farmers' boys, and giggling girls, in a small, insular, English market town.

I acquitted myself well enough, but one of the ladies from Matilda's house party was making it plain that she was looking for a husband, and that her eye had fallen upon me, so I made a visit to the jakes as an excuse to leave the ball room.