Driving Lady Jocelyn

The seeds had surely been planted long before, but they germinated after dinner one fine May evening in Belgrave Square, London SW in the year 1931. Lady Jocelyn Fitzroy glanced across the drawing room at the glassy-eyed expression plastered across Diana Merriweather's face. Her fixed smile was a nervous façade beneath her perfect blonde finger wave, and Jocelyn could see that she was only suppressing an earth-shattering secret with the greatest difficulty.

Thank heavens her husband, Sir Archibald, had led Diana's odious husband to the billiards room directly from the dinner table -- the prospect of listening to one more moment of Charles Merriweather blathering on about the markets and his investments had Jocelyn thinking fondly of the lethal possibilities inherent in the solid brass poker hanging by the fireplace. Any conversation would have to wait, though, whilst the aged Manners mixed Old Fashioneds, and Diana restrained her usual airy-headed loquaciousness. It was so unlike her, and another warning sign.

"I must attend upon Sir Archibald, your ladyship," intoned Manners once he had delivered the cocktails and, bowing, he withdrew.

Yet still Diana did not burst forth with her usual chatter on school friends old and fashionable acquaintances new the moment the door closed behind Manners. She had been uncharacteristically silent all through dinner, too, thus allowing that tedious man to monopolise what passed for conversation -- oh, if only Archie didn't want his money for the factory! How Diana could put up with him on a daily basis Jocelyn could only speculate.

The two women eyed each other like cats for a few moments more, Diana clearly wanting to be asked, and Jocelyn loath to be so manipulated. Games, in her view, only counted when one was making the running, otherwise they usually held no interest for her. That evening, though, Jocelyn felt uncommonly irritable, a condition she ascribed to Charles Merriweather, and so after only a few moments more she cracked.

"Oh, come on then, Diana, out with it! I know you're dying to tell me. Have you been sent advance sheets for the next Paris collection?"

Here, however, Jocelyn had the first intimation that Diana was struggling with her secret, not revelling in it. The woman swallowed and pushed her Old Fashioned to one side, and whilst her smile remained fixed there was an air now of something approaching the manic inherent within it.

"Diana, is something the matter?" said Jocelyn, her tone softening from irritation to that 'big-sisterly' care she had felt towards her friend from the first day they met at Cheltenham Ladies College, "is Charles having an affair?"

Diana was unable to restrain a tiny snort at that, but then she composed herself again, though a cloud marred her beauty.

"I have news," she said finally, choosing her words with unaccustomed care, "I am with child."

"Well, congratulations, I suppose," said Jocelyn, though inwardly she groaned -- another friend down, bearing her cross. She smiled sweetly to Diana, of course, but her friend seemed to hesitate. Clearly there was another shoe waiting to drop.

"Go, on." Jocelyn tried to sound encouraging, but now there was a flicker in the corner of Diana's eye.

"It..." she began, hesitating, "I... err..."

Jocelyn summoned every atom of strength she possessed not to strangle her friend -- out with it, for the love of all that's holy!

"The baby might not be Charles's," Diana finally managed, looking away from Jocelyn for the first time, studying instead an art deco table lamp in her torment.

Jocelyn's hand flew to her mouth, but when she brought it down her mouth was not frozen in shock. Instead, she was grinning, a grin broader than the Cheshire Cat.

"Oh, Diana! You dark horse..." she said, her dark eyes darker now, a legacy of her Portuguese grandmother, and something approaching admiration in her voice.

"You... you aren't shocked?" Diana asked, her blue eyes still innocent, but whither that innocence not so long ago?

"Diana," Jocelyn smiled, "you may find this hard to believe, but I'm happy for you. You've been having fun. Why should men have all the pleasure?"

A smile played briefly again across Diana's face.

"Though of course, some man has been having his pleasure, hasn't he?" Jocelyn went on, and she sipped her cocktail thoughtfully, trying to deduce which of their acquaintances had been vigorously planting his cock inside her friend.

"You're trying to guess who it is, aren't you?" said Diana, and her expression told Jocelyn there was another layer here. A regular onion of a puzzle lay in front of her.

"Well, before I prise his name from you, I must ask: is it serious? If not, is it over? And was it fun?"

"No, yes and most certainly yes," said Diana with another half-smile, "but you won't ever guess. And I'm not sure I want to tell you."

"Oh, you wicked wretch! You would leave me hanging worse than a half-finished Poirot?"

"I can't..."

"Diana, people have affairs all the time these days..."

"Have you?" Diana interrupted with surprise.

"Well, no. You know how much I'm joined at the hip with Archie. But other people have affairs... " Jocelyn felt a pang at the half lie she was telling -- they were faithful, that much was true, but that didn't stop them talking, and fantasising, and comparing who they thought they would haul into their bed as they lay naked and entwined, entertaining each other with torrents of imagined detail.

"We aren't living in our grandmothers' days," Jocelyn continued, "and even those paragons were surely exchanging their husbands at their country house parties. They just kept it behind a veneer of virtue. So, tell me who."

"It's... shameful."

"And now I'm even more determined to find out, Diana. I promise you, with the most binding oaths, I will not judge you."

Diana took a deep breath, and finally she seemed resolved. For her part, Jocelyn had inched forward to the edge of her seat, all unawares.

"You know Wilton?" Diana began, but Jocelyn was a blank.

"You mean the town near Salisbury?"

"No," said Diana, "I mean our chauffeur... our former chauffeur."

Jocelyn formed a vague vision of a capable, confident looking man of about thirty in a slate grey uniform. She had never known his name, but why would she? He was only someone else's servant, after all.

"What of him?" she said, and then she froze as the realisation flooded over her, "no...!"

"Yes," said Diana, and again she looked away. It certainly was the truth, for what respectable married alumna of Cheltenham Ladies College, and one presented at the court of St James' no less, would invent such a tale?

Jocelyn pondered the situation, remembering the two or three occasions she had noticed the chauffeur waiting patiently by the car for his mistress. Now she thought about him, she recalled that he had a pleasing set to his shoulders, and a certain diligent spring in his step when he attended on Diana. But nothing to project ought but a correct servantly attentiveness.

And yet, there it was. Diana had been proffering her body to a servant, and he, not being a man of stone, had gleefully accepted. Jocelyn wondered what had led to it. Had there been hours of building desire, stewing in silence and secret glances, until finally they had been swept away by their mutual needs? Or had Diana exerted the power of a mistress? Jocelyn doubted it of her, for she was too open and mild and pleasing to be hiding a dominant nature, surely.

"He has a reputation, you know," said Diana, breaking the silence. Jocelyn didn't know, and it was beginning to occur to her that there were several she didn't know. And that was certainly an unwanted sensation.

"Yes," Diana went on, "it's true. He is a lothario. Not that I mind, or I minded. I heard it from Daisy Puttenham before we engaged him. In truth, it helped me choose him."

"You mean you chose him because...?"

"Oh yes, of course," said Diana, as though Jocelyn was a touch simple, "I was curious. Don't you get bored?"

"Diana, can I ask," said Jocelyn, broaching a delicate subject, "but do you actually care for Charles?"

"Yes. Oh, I know he can prattle on about the most boring things, but he looks after me, when he remembers me, and of course he is very rich. And he has his skills..."

"Charles..?! I just can't imagine it!"

"Oh yes, believe me, he knows how to please. But still, I wanted to dally elsewhere, just for the devilment of it. If Daisy hadn't told me, I'm sure I'd never have considered it. But she did, and so I persuaded Charles to engage Wilton, and it didn't take him long to weave his charm, and Jocelyn, he is a very demon of charm."

"I'm sure he is," said Jocelyn, casting her mind back to the man once more.

Silence fell between them again, Diana thinking nervously of her condition, Jocelyn meanwhile increasingly interested in Wilton and the kind of man he must be to be able to bed enough society women to gain a reputation for it.

"Does Charles know?" said Jocelyn finally. Diana shook her head.

"Very well," Jocelyn went on, "here is what you must do. Nothing. Do nothing and say nothing. Wilton, I'm afraid, must be let go..."

"He already has been. I contrived an excuse the moment I realised, and I found him a position with Sir Nicholas and Lady Rosemary Delamere."

"Good. And he has no inkling that you are pregnant?"

"No"

"One last thing, then," said Jocelyn with a serious expression, "you ensured you climbed aboard your husband with gusto once you suspected?"

"More than once," Diana nodded, "he thought it was an expression of adoration after he won the amateur championship at the Surbiton Tennis Club."

"And you'll let him continue to believe that. Now, you will say nothing to Charles, and you will carry your child, and he or she will be an heir to the Merriweathers. Least said, soonest mended. Will you do what I tell you?"

"Yes, Jocelyn," and the meek Diana Merriweather was back, a gentle, fashionable soul, whose beauty projected naught but innocence. In short, the last person one could imagine fucking her chauffeur on the back seat of a Rolls Royce Phantom II.

Having steered the future with simple authority, Jocelyn manoeuvred the conversation on to safer topics, though neither woman's heart was in it. Soon enough, Diana showed signs of flagging and, her husband immersed in his billiards with Sir Archibald, requested Plumley, the Fitzroy's chauffeur, drive her to their home in Wimbledon.

For her part, Jocelyn retired and enjoyed a leisurely toilet. She had much to ponder, and there were several competing viewpoints to consider. First among them was the surprise she felt at Diana Merriweather. The woman was a bosom friend of near two decades, the pair having met on their first day at boarding school, and yet Diana hadn't breathed a word to her that she had allowed her morals to slip to the level of an alley cat.

And good thing she had, too, given the alternative was her husband (and she refused to believe Charles was anything but akin to a halibut in bed). Jocelyn was privy to the secret of three current affairs amongst their set, and when she said that everyone was having affairs these days, she spoke a simple truth. Indeed, now Diana was to be counted among the number of the fallen, that left only Jocelyn who had yet to stray.

Which thought led to the next: Wilton. He was a handsome rogue, now Jocelyn considered him, broad-shouldered and strong-legged and dark-haired, and perhaps she too could sample his 'reputation', if that was what her fellow society ladies were calling it. She would tell Archie, or rather, she would consult with him, first. They had no secrets, and she knew there were one or two women he would be happy to see coming naked into his eyeline. Well, if he wouldn't stand in her way she would accord him the same freedom, and if he said no, it would go no further. Provided that they talked to each other, surely all would remain well.

Jocelyn brushed out her auburn hair as she sat at her dressing table, and then she slipped into her short black silk nightdress. She particularly enjoyed the effect it had on Archie, showing off her shapely legs, and reminding him, as if he needed reminding, why he had fallen in love with a woman twelve years his junior in the first place.

Another stray thought interrupted her, one she had placed to the side purposely -- should she succeed in acquiring Wilton, would Diana regard it as a betrayal? She had evinced no deeper feeling for him, except... was there a hint of regret when she told Jocelyn of his removal to Sir Nicholas Delamere's employ? Perhaps. So, it must remain a secret if she succeeded, but that was all well and good: all the other women she knew gossiped for king and country, but Jocelyn was happiest when she kept her own counsel.

Thus it was, resolved on her future conduct (and that resolution having seemingly turned on a mere mote), that Jocelyn slid into bed and lay staring at the ceiling, willing Archie to rid himself of Charles Merriweather and come to bed before too much whiskey had been poured.

It was, however, close to midnight before Sir Archibald eased into bed, hoping not to disturb his wife but failing. Jocelyn was awake in an instant, a little angry with herself for having dozed but happy to relax into her husband. He had done his best but there was still a faint whiff of whiskey and cigars on him, and Jocelyn certainly didn't mind that -- it was more enticing to her than any cologne. She had once tried to analyse it, but had given up: it was animal and defied definition.

"Sorry, dear," Archie grumped as he turned on his side, his back to her, "bloody man wouldn't take a hint. I'm forty-one dammit, not twenty-one and in my college days. I can't be gallivanting and gaming into the early hours."

"You're here now," said Jocelyn, pushing herself closer into his back.

"Not in the mood, darling," he said, "sorry."

"I'm just snuggling," Jocelyn lied. She knew what she was about, right enough, and she knew her man very well -- if she pushed him too much he would get ratty, but if she pressed him just enough...

"At least I got his promise, which is something," Archie went on, and Jocelyn was content to listen for the moment -- she was generally happy to listen to her husband talk business, just not anyone else's, "with his investment we might push the airframe enough to have a serious crack at the Schneider Cup."

"That's wonderful, dear," said Jocelyn, hardly concentrating as she focussed on his body, instead. He was fit and lean, and she knew that others thought him somewhat eccentric with his cycling laps around his factory daily, and restricting himself to white meat and fish. But she felt the benefit, literally, running her hands over his taut muscles and circling a finger over the scar tissue on his shoulder.

She knew the spot precisely, felt its smoothness even through his pyjama jacket, and she wondered again how he stood the pain of the German bullet as it drilled through his shoulder. He had kept going, leading his company up Pilckem Ridge before he collapsed. It won him the Military Cross and probably saved his life, getting him out of the front line until the last week of the Great War. He grunted. He knew his scar fascinated her, and it was so often an indicator of her interest. But he was tired...

"Darling," he said, with only a mild hint of amused irritation, "I really am tired. I had to spend all evening with Merriweather whilst you had the infinitely greater pleasure of his wife, and she's a friend of yours anyway."

"Well," said Jocelyn idly, her fingers still gently brushing her husband's flank, "I'll be seeing a little less of her over the coming months. She's going to drop a sprog."

With that she eased herself just a fraction closer to him, letting him feel her warmth against him, letting him sense her breasts and her nipples. The caress of his back on her aroused her, too, and the whole tenor of the evening sent increasing signals through her. Before it was strategic, a seduction, but now she felt a genuine passion. And that always happened, she reflected -- he always made her horny in the end. Added to which were the other considerations that had arisen that evening.

"And that's made you broody?" said Archie, resigned now to some conversation before they slept.

"There's time yet before the nest needs filling, but that doesn't mean we can't practice..."

"I told you, darling, I'm tired," said Archie, "and I've an early start tomorrow..."

"I know, I know," said Jocelyn, letting the lie become humorously blatant, "I'm just talking, that's all."

With that she eased just another inch closer to him, pressing herself against his back like a cat, and she let her fingers trail down his arm and on to his back. Further they fell, and he grinned and shook his head in mock exasperation as she brushed over his firm buttock, a little surge flowing through her as she felt again the tightness of his muscles.

"Well, then, goodnight," she said, and turned away on her side, her own grin matching his in the dark. Three, two, one...

With a low growl Sir Archibald turned and pounced. Jocelyn gave out a faux gasp.

"Archie, what are you doing?"

"You know very well," he growled, and on his elbows above her he leant down and kissed her firmly.

She responded, pushing her body up against him, his strength spreading butterflies inside her. Her automatic reaction, as ever when she felt him press her down on the mattress, was to open her legs wide, to wrap her legs around him and feel him arrow home into her cunt. She reached down and urgently felt for his growing cock through the cotton of his pyjamas, and his shift in breathing was music to her ears.

He hardened in her hand, one hand tugging his pyjamas down as he leant on his other elbow. In a moment, if she wanted, he could be pushing at her -- no foreplay, no subtlety. And sometimes that might be just what she needed (and right then, maybe, something she desired). But she had a plan in her head and she needed to be the one in control, so she shifted out from under him, putting her hand on his shoulder and easing him on to his back.

Archie went with it, allowing her to make the running as she swung a leg over him and sat on his hips. She smiled quietly as his cock was sandwiched between his abdomen and her pussy, delightful shivers spreading out to her tight arsehole and up to her stomach. In a swift movement Jocelyn reached to the hem of her nightdress and pulled it up and off, casting it aside.

In the ambient light Archie was able to see Jocelyn's form -- her narrow waist curving out to her hips, and her medium sized breasts with her high nipples. He loved everything about her body, not least the fact that it was allied to her mind, and he ran his hands up her thighs to her waist as she took her hair in her hands and held it to her head, posing for him.

Jocelyn knew she could sink into the sensations, the feel of his hands on her, just being his. But she had a purpose. She began to slide along his cock, the feeling exquisite... and dangerous. Start now, or hold your peace were her options.

"So, Diana Merriweather's off the table," breathed Jocelyn, "you'll have to find someone else."

She let her hands fall, leaning forward and supporting herself on his taut chest as she rocked her pelvis back. His low growl in response came from somewhere in the back of his throat.

"Not my type," he muttered.

"Who is then? Florence Dashwood?" said Florence, and her voice was low and husky as she mentioned the famous society beauty.

"Fancies herself," said Archie, savouring Jocelyn as she slid forward again on his cock. His hands roamed over her skin, and again she found it difficult to focus. But she pressed on.

"So, who are we going to find for you?" And here, at last, Archie heard an edge in her voice.

"Are you serious?" he said after some moments, pulling his focus at least partly away from her wonderful movements.

"Why not?" she said, "we talk about it enough..."

With that Jocelyn leant further forward and kissed him again, sliding herself along his cock once more and moving her mouth from his lips to his neck. He let out another low growl, and his hands found her arse, pulling at her cheeks and pushing his hips up, wanting inside her.

Archie knew his wife, and knew she was serious. And yes, they did talk about fucking other people a lot. Could he do it? Possibly. Probably. Certainly, he could think of a few women he would love to fuck. But, could he let her do it in turn if she asked...?

"If I can do it, so can you. It's only fair," he said, holding her tight by the hips again, searching for her wet hole with the head of his cock. She slid forward again a little, not quite ready to give in to him when the prize was so close.

"Would you want me to?" she said, her breathing getting weak, "would you let me fuck other people?"

"One rule," he said, nodding.

Jocelyn pushed herself back up and sat above him, grinding herself on him again and reaching her hands up to brush her palms over her hard nipples. She wanted him to take control now, to make the rest of it his idea, and then fuck her ragged.

"No. Two rules," he said, and she nodded.

"No secrets. We tell each other. In detail."

"That would be lovely," murmured Jocelyn, "rule two?"

"No one we meet socially. I don't want any sly looks over the dinner table."

"Perfect," breathed Jocelyn, and she lifted herself, taking his cock in her hand and holding him erect.

She paused as she felt him press against her, and then with a gasp she sank down on to him. It was always her favourite feeling, that first penetration as his cock spread her, filled her. She knew there were bigger men out there, but she doubted there were many better. She eased down his shaft, not letting herself sink all the way, teasing herself. A little more delayed gratification.

"What if I get jealous?" she said softly, and then she lifted her hips, pulling herself back up his hard cock.

"Then we'll stop. Or all join in together."

Jocelyn pushed herself down harder and now she let out a soft groan. It was all so exciting, so heady.

"I'll have to make sure I'm better than your tarts," she said, rising and sinking again, faster now, and a little harder.

"And I'll have to be better than your studs," said Archie, gripping her tightly and pulling her forward as he pushed up deeper into her, letting her take him at the canter.

Jocelyn rode him firmly, letting her pussy slide forward each time she pushed down, and he felt harder now, filling her. She felt every inch of him, and the pleasure peaked a little higher each time as her clit rubbed against his smooth skin.

Archie, though, now felt his own urge, and he suddenly grasped Jocelyn and pulled her down, laying her on her back as he rose about her. She gasped in pleasure as she looked up at him and waited for him to take her, hard. Oh yes, please, hard. He didn't disappoint, spreading her legs wide and pinning them under his arms as he thrust his cock straight into her, forcing a moan from her. And then he gripped her wrists and pressed them down into the bedcovers, pinioning her and holding her fast as he fucked her mercilessly.

She could feel his weight holding her down, her breasts pressed against his chest, her body all his. His urgency was everything she wanted as he pounded her, and she thought of another man watching her, waiting his turn, that man inevitably turning into Wilton. It was too much, and from far away, getting closer at speed, she felt a contraction.

"Don't stop!" she begged, but he just gasped and panted in response as he took her even harder.

She began to shake, her stomach heaving and her pussy clenching and releasing, her arsehole doing the same. And then she heard the change in his breathing, and she knew he was going to come, too. She let go, completely, moaning aloud in his ear and the first spasm gripping her cunt, at which she suddenly went silent, rigid, taut until she relaxed again, her cunt releasing him.

He groaned and his back arched as he thrust as deep as he could into her, shuddering at the first jerk, and she felt his cum spurt into her, making her spasm a second time and a great rush of air come out of her as her legs shook uncontrollably and she was hot, and cold, he jerked again inside her, growling.

Jocelyn gasped down more breaths, surfing the waves, moaning again and giggling a little as he let go of her wrists and she wrapped her arms around his broad back and held him tight, not surrendering him yet, not until she'd drained him. A final jerk and he subsided, breathing hard and lying limp on her as a last spasm, gentler now, rippled through her and up to her chest.

They lay quietly for long moments, Jocelyn teasing the short hairs on the nape of his neck, and luxuriating in the sound of his breathing as it evened out slowly. He had made her come, as he nearly always did, and she felt so affectionate afterwards, as she always did, and so, gently, they came back to reality.

"Did you mean it?" he said finally, still wrapped in her limbs.

"About other people?" said Jocelyn softly, "yes. We can try. And if it's a problem then we will stop."

But she didn't really see how her plan would come to pass, even with Archie's agreement. Wilton was someone else's servant, and one didn't just wander up to them and enquire if they had a spare afternoon. Still, as she drifted off to sleep, she knew it would be exciting to hear of Archie having adventures...

* * *

Jocelyn's chance came unexpectedly a mere two weeks later. The Fitzroy's chauffeur was called away by a family emergency, and within a day came the news that the Delamere's were to decamp to Le Touquet for some weeks. Jocelyn had to strike quickly if she was to acquire the services of Wilton as a stand in for Plumley, but fortunately there were no obstacles to her at least obtaining an interview with the redoubtable Lady Rosemary Delamere.

She was, as a good member of the upper classes, deeply involved in cultural societies for the improvement of her inferiors. It was, of course, more an opportunity to signal virtue than any innate desire to see shopgirls and factory workers enjoying Shakespeare, but Lady Rosemary Delamere was secretary of the Girls' Ballet Society, and Lady Jocelyn a member, and so it was on that acquaintance that Jocelyn had the taxi convey her to the Delamere's townhouse at Launceston Place, Kensington.

Jocelyn was announced by Bairstow the butler, and she swept into to the morning room with a broad, open smile. Lady Rosemary, vigorous despite her advancing years, rose to meet her and called for refreshments, after which there passed some few minutes of inconsequential conversation as the ladies compared the weather that year with the previous, and remarked on the upcoming society weddings. Once the tea was delivered, however, Jocelyn turned to the first part of her plan.

"I have an ulterior motive in calling upon you," she said, steering the conversation.

"I suspected as much," said Lady Rosemary, a glint in her eye.

"I have recently come into a minor bequest, and I considered it better used for the general good than spent on shoes," and with that Jocelyn reached into her handbag and retrieved a cheque for two hundred pounds.

"Oh, why my dear Jocelyn, that's marvellous!" said Lady Rosemary, "we might expand our programme to a whole new set of girls with this donation. I can't thank you enough, and it is most fortunate that you chanced to call today -- tomorrow would have been too late."

"Indeed? I do think I heard that you are away to France, and I must confess that I was hoping you might assist me in a small matter."

"Why, you need only ask, Jocelyn, and if it is within my power I would be glad to help."

"Unfortunately, my chauffeur has been suddenly called away. A family emergency of all things. I feel somewhat betrayed, in truth, but Plumley was my husband's batman during the late war, and Archie won't hear a word said against the man. So away he goes, leaving us in the lurch. And what is more, Archie is leaving on a trade delegation to Budapest, and thus I am forced to rely on public taxis, of all things. It is too much..."

Lady Rosemary's eyes narrowed, and she studied Jocelyn closely for a moment.

"You wish to borrow Wilton?" she asked after a pause.

"That was my intention, yes," said Jocelyn, "for a week at most, until Plumley returns."

"Well, I must say that Wilton seems to be in demand," said Lady Rosemary, an impish air around her of a sudden, "why, only yesterday the Honourable Lucinda Mayhew sought to borrow him, but I said no, for she is no better than she should be. Did you know that she has been seen dining with men who are not her fiancé?"

"No!" said Jocelyn, affecting a shocked tone as she lied -- Lucinda Mayhew's affairs were notorious.

"In both the Ritz and the Dorchester, if you don't mind. And on the second occasion with a racing driver," Lady Rosemary said, emphasising as a Roman matron might have described a lady of the senatorial elite seen out with a charioteer.

"Whither propriety?" said Jocelyn, fighting hard to suppress a smile.

"Whither, indeed!" said Lady Rosemary, "but I needn't wonder about your reputation, Lady Jocelyn, for you are only spoken of in the highest moral tones. And thus, I consent to your request. I shall despatch Wilton to you once he has delivered us to the boat train on the morrow, and I trust he shall give you sterling service."

"I am most grateful," said Jocelyn, and their conversation turned back to the inconsequential.

Soon, Jocelyn took her leave to allow Lady Rosemary to turn her attention to the preparations for her journey. What she did not note, however, was that lady subjecting her to a most sagacious examination as she looked down from her morning room window as Lady Jocelyn entered the taxi in the street below: for all Lady Rosemary's extolments of Jocelyn's virtue, she knew of Wilton's reputation, and she felt sure Jocelyn knew. Why, she had even drank of it herself.

* * *

A little more than twenty-four hours later Wilton was stood in the morning room at Belgrave Square, Lady Jocelyn casting an eye over him as she sat at her bureau, her correspondence put to one side. She had never been much in his presence before, and hadn't really seen him close to. She could see at once, however, what set the ladies aflutter.

He was tall, naturally, and broad shouldered as she had noted before, and his frame was only enhanced by his grey uniform. He was around thirty, she suspected, so of an age with her, and he gave off an aura of practicality. He had also, she now saw, a touch of the sun which marked him out from so many other of the pale and pasty denizens of the capital and suggested robust good health.

It was more than the physical, naturally, that drew the eye, for there was also his confidence, the certain cast to his stance as he stood, as much scrutinising her as she was scrutinising him, on nodding acquaintance with servantly deference, but no more. She felt it, and she rebelled -- she had the power there, and she wasn't about to surrender it to some cocky swaggerer who clearly believed he was God's gift, and was only waiting for her to fall at his feet.

"My husband is away this week, so you will be at my service," Lady Jocelyn began, "and I have a demanding calendar. In the household we have Manners, who admitted you. He is the major-domo, and to be deferred to, is that clear?"

"Of course, your ladyship," said Wilton, and there it was, as Jocelyn suspected -- his voice was of a timbre to touch those special places, and it was certain he knew it, too.

"There is also Cook, and Atherton, my lady's maid. I needn't stress, I hope, that Atherton is a most moral young woman, and soon to be affianced to a clerk in chambers," and Jocelyn gave him a hard look, which he returned with blandness: here was a man who dallied not with the maid when the mistress was on heat, damn him!

"Very well," said Jocelyn after long seconds, "you may take an hour to settle yourself, and then I will require you. Firstly, you will convey me to the Chelsea Flower Show, following which I will have other appointments. For now, you may leave."

"Very good, your ladyship," said Wilton, and with a slight nod of the head and a suggestion of a smile he turned and left, giving off the air of a man certain of his next conquest.

Jocelyn watched the door handle, sphinx-like, as it returned to the horizontal on her side of the door, and once she was sure he had let it go and departed she found she was fanning herself. Oh my! She could see precisely what the fuss was about, and there was an intelligence about his eyes that attracted, too. It was easy to look ahead, and feel the man pulling away her clothes, and her hands on his chest, and him parting her legs wide, and...

But he was so sure of himself! Well, he had much to be sure of, that much was true, but he was going to find he had met his match, Jocelyn determined. Before the week was out one of them would be driven to distraction with desire, and it was going to be the chauffeur. It was a pretty pun, and she wore a little smile at the thought. Then, she turned back to her correspondence, but it was useless, for she simply couldn't concentrate.

Instead she removed to her boudoir and her dressing table, there to choose her eau de cologne -- he would need to spend some hours in the car with her, she had decided, and he would be enfolded in her scent the whole time. Let him see just how much he could learn to desire her...

An hour later Jocelyn emerged from the townhouse and walked haughtily down the four steps to the street followed by Manners, bearing her camera case. Wilton stood to attention and touched the peak of his cap before opening the rear door of the elegant two-tone grey Bentley 4 1/2 Litre. Wilton had spent the previous fifteen minutes glorying in it, keen to drive such a pedigree vehicle and more interested in it, perhaps, than even his new mistress.

Manners deposited the camera case in the boot as Wilton watched on warily -- however much the aged retainer was responsible for the house, Wilton was responsible for the car. Finally, Manners gave Wilton a condescending nod, letting the impatient younger man off the leash with barely concealed disapproval.

As Wilton pulled gently away, he glanced at Lady Jocelyn in the rear-view mirror, and she was worth glancing at, to be sure. Her make up was light, barely more than a hint of blush and lipstick, and a touch of mascara. She didn't need more -- her natural beauty was as yet unravaged by age. Wilton was looking forward to an enjoyable day.

"Leica's a very good brand of camera, your ladyship," said Wilton, testing the waters, "my uncle has a..."

"I do not encourage familiarity, Wilton," said Jocelyn coldly, "and I do not recall requesting your opinion. Pray confine your attention to the road."

And with that Wilton was very effectively slapped down. He rolled his eyes -- she was one of those, which was a pity, for her looks suited him very well. Still, there was this to be said of him, he played the bowling as it came, and after all it was only a week and he could find some other society lady to poodle-fake.

"Very good, your ladyship," he said, and he drove her the short distance to the Royal Hospital where that year's show was taking place.

Throngs of people were waiting, and amongst them were Jocelyn's friends Lady Honoria Medmenham, Florence Dashwood and Dorothy Brereton-Breen, all of an age with Jocelyn and dressed in society fashions. The fact of Wilton emerging from the Bentley and opening the rear door for Jocelyn most certainly did not go unnoticed by them, and surreptitious glances were exchanged.

With their priority tickets the ladies breezed past the queue, Jocelyn ahead, arm-in-arm with Florence Dashwood, Lady Honoria and Dorothy Brereton-Breen following, those two ladies working hard to stifle their giggles.

"Do you think she knows?" said Dorothy.

"Jocelyn Fitzroy?!" snorted Lady Honoria, though she smothered it enough to keep it from Jocelyn's ears, "I doubt very much that the Ice Maiden has even let Archie at her."

"Oh, come now," smiled Dorothy, "they've been married three years. You can't imagine a man like Archibald Fitzroy going without for that long."

"And he doesn't have a secretary?"

"Well, and now Jocelyn has Wilton as her chauffeur!"

"Wilton! I'm afraid the poor man won't be having his wonderful, wicked way with her, I'll be bound!" And with that Lady Honoria and Dorothy entered the Flower Show, their friends waiting for them, and they discreetly dropped their speculations.

Two hours later, and having been seen by all the right people, Jocelyn bade farewell to her friends and climbed into the Bentley, acknowledging Wilton with a cool nod. He hid his confusion -- usually by now he would have the ladies cooing -- and he resumed his place in the driving seat, awaiting instructions and determined not to speak unless spoken to. Two could play games...

"Alexandra Palace, Wilton," said Lady Jocelyn.

"Very good, your ladyship."

With that Jocelyn directed her attention to the programme from the Flower Show, deciding which features from the show gardens might be added to the grounds at Rushton Parva, the Fitzroy country seat. Wilton, meanwhile, guided the Bentley with no little style, smooth and focussed on the road as a distraction. Unknown to him Jocelyn cast furtive glances at his back, amused to perceive a hint of tension in him -- it looked like round one to her.

It took three-quarters of an hour to reach Muswell Hill in the north of London, the monumental 'people's palace' resting weighty across the ridge. By that time even Jocelyn was a trifle bored, and close to breaking her silence. That would have been weakness, though. She wanted Wilton firmly in his place, and preferably crawling before her, before she would investigate whether his reputation was well-earned.

Wilton turned the Bentley on to Alexandra Palace Road and even that beast took the climb slowly. Jocelyn was becoming animated now, constantly checking the view. Would it be obscured by the smoke, or... It was marvellous, a breeze taking the smoke from London's homes and factories up and away, and leaving a glorious view over the centre of the city from the brow of the hill, the sun reflecting back in a warm cream from the blocks that had risen in the past few years.

"Stop here," Jocelyn commanded, and Wilton began to protest that they were on a thoroughfare.

"Pull to the side," said Jocelyn, smiling for the first time in his presence, and the sight of her with her guard lowered went straight to diverse places, "chop, chop!"

Impatiently, Jocelyn hopped from the car the moment Wilton opened the door for her, he meanwhile scanning for a policeman who might hand him a ticket for 'obstructing the King's highway'. Jocelyn scanned the skyline with a professional air, and then clicked her fingers at Wilton.

"My camera," she ordered, and Wilton hoped he would get a chance to repay that click of the fingers -- he was a professional driver, not some hotel boy. Nevertheless, he retrieved the Leica and the case of lenses, albeit not with the alacrity he usually displayed when in the presence of a beautiful society lady.

It was then, though, that he saw Jocelyn Fitzroy's passion. In a trice she had the Leica resting in her expert hands, and with a practised eye she started shooting landscapes from east to west. After a couple of minutes she paused and hid a grin, but she did need a tripod...

"Wilton, come here and kneel down."

"Err, I'm sorry your ladyship, I don't think I quite understand," he said, genuinely puzzled.

"Come here," and Jocelyn pointed directly in front of where she was standing, "and kneel down. On the grass. If your uniform is stained, we'll get it cleaned."

Wilton reluctantly walked over to the spot Jocelyn had indicated and knelt down, facing her.

"Turn around," Jocelyn snorted but not unkindly, "I don't need to see your face. And anyway, we can't have passers-by thinking my chauffeur is proposing to me."

Wilton turned and looked out over the city, desiring even more to have a chance, some time in his life, to get Jocelyn Fitzroy naked in his power. And then she knelt close behind him and rested her camera on his shoulder, tendrils of her perfume snaking up to his nostrils, dancing a bewitching dance.

"Hold your breath," Jocelyn said, softly now, "don't move."

She clicked the shutter, then paused, feeling his closeness, too. But this was her game and she was confident of winning round two, so she could allow herself to project an infinitesimal hint of attraction -- it would, indeed, enhance her power over Wilton. The moment gone she stood and strode back towards the car, certain both that the shot would be poor, but the chauffeur wanted her more than ever.

"Come on!" she called over her shoulder, "before the light changes."

Wilton stood and brushed his knees down, then strode back to the Bentley where Jocelyn was waiting with unconcealed impatience. He resumed his position behind the wheel.

"Along to the other end of the hill," Lady Jocelyn told him, "I want some shots from there, too."

Only a minute later Wilton pulled the Bentley to the side of the road again and Jocelyn sprang out, not waiting for him to open her door. She was already taking shots at speed, scanning across London, when she saw something. A wonderfully framed shot had presented itself and she dashed back to the car, pulling open the rear door and reaching for her lens case.

She changed her lens with rapid hands, Wilton watching with idle curiosity, and then she ran along the side of the road nearly fifty feet, her skirt flapping. She stopped and turned, facing out from the hill, and Wilton saw that in front of her, perhaps fifty yards away, was a mother and son, the boy perhaps eight years old. They were holding hands and looking down at the city, and Jocelyn had a shot of them from behind, the panorama of London in front of them.

Jocelyn was winding on the film when a moment of serendipity occurred, a slight gust of wind playing across the hill made the mother reach instinctively for her cloche hat. Jocelyn raised her camera, happy to have the luck to frame the picture then and there, to press the shutter and capture the moment. She knew it would be the shot she would exhibit from the day. She breathed out, and the woman dropped her hand, that slice of life past and gone.

She walked back to the car with some purpose, though, and reached for her handbag. She pulled out one of her cards and summoned Wilton.

"Please take my card and present it that woman," said Jocelyn, indicating the mother, "tell her that I have a photograph of her with her son, and if she would like a print, it would be my pleasure to provide her with one. At my expense, naturally."

Wilton took the card and walked over to the woman, and as he left Jocelyn reached for her Leica again, focusing now on Wilton's back as he walked. She let the camera dip a fraction, and she pulled the focus, looking at his firm backside as he walked. It was an idle thought that slipped into her mind, but it hit the right spot -- what would that frame look like if he was nude...?

Jocelyn licked her lips and re-focussed, and then she paused to watch Wilton introduce himself to the mother. After a few words the woman glanced across at Jocelyn, and clearly saw the Bentley behind her. Jocelyn smiled and gave a slight wave, and then the woman looked back at Wilton and Jocelyn raised her camera again. She took the shot, one for herself this time, framing Wilton bowing slightly and handing over Jocelyn's card, a slight smile on his face for the boy who stood to one side.

"Home, Wilton," Jocelyn commanded once they were both back in the Bentley. As Wilton began the drive he glanced once more in the rear-view mirror, hoping to see Jocelyn still animated, open. His hopes expired in an instant, however, her cool, detached mask back in place, and with an almost inaudible sigh he turned his attention wholly to his task. Jocelyn, however, had heard that little sigh, and her eyes widened a fraction in pleasure as she clamped down on the smile that tried to form. She had unquestionably won that round.

Back in Belgrave Square she made straight for her darkroom, and then had a quiet evening of magazines and the radiogram. Wilton meanwhile moped around the kitchen, fussed over by Cook, who liked nothing more than feeding 'such a pleasant, respectable young man', but then she was slightly deaf and the society gossip passed her by these days.

* * *

At eleven sharp the following morning Wilton was on duty with the Bentley as Lady Jocelyn emerged on to Belgrave Square. It was a glorious morning, bright and warm without being stuffy, and not a cloud in the sky, the kind of morning that makes everyone smile at the life bursting around them in the late spring. Except the glacial Lady Jocelyn Fitzroy. Wilton was beginning to wonder if she was frigid -- he could warm up any woman, even ones he didn't want to bed. Given five minutes with the Queen he would probably have her laughing. But not Jocelyn, who climbed aboard the Bentley with barely a glance in his direction and arranged her handbag and gloves next to her on the cream leather upholstery.

It was, naturally, precisely as Jocelyn had planned. She had spent more than an hour preparing, with a dab of eau de cologne behind her ears and another between her breasts. It was too early for a glamorous frock, of course, so she made do with a silk blouse, the top two buttons open and a string of pearls nestling in her cleavage. Wilton noticed immediately, as was intended, and he caught his lip briefly between his teeth. For how could such a lovely vision as this be so cold?

"Eulalie Soeurs, South Audley Street," said Jocelyn, and Wilton nodded and drove them into Mayfair.

Eulalie Soeurs turned out to be a lingerie boutique of the highest order, though there were no sisters involved, and certainly not French ones. But there was the forbidding middle-aged figure of Madam Virginie, ostensibly from the Loire valley, to lord over the customers. To the merely rich she condescended, and they loved it. To the true quality, such as Jocelyn, she offered advice as an equal, and they respected her. Had they known she was actually a cooper's daughter from Clacton called Mildred they might have been a touch less deferential, or perhaps not.

Madame Virginie delegated her existing customer, the wife of a mid-range brewer, on to her assistants the moment she saw Lady Jocelyn sweep into the establishment. Jocelyn was Madame Virginie's favourite type of aristocrat -- one who still had money -- and she respected her taste as well. Very soon they were deep in silks, Jocelyn examining French cut knickers and camisoles and the new styles of brassieres.

She luxuriated in the highest quality, imagining the feel against her skin, and she also gave a passing thought to what Archie might think of them too, though this was of far lesser importance. A final thought was directed towards Wilton, and how he might be stewing in the road outside, sitting in the Bentley fully aware of the items Jocelyn might be purchasing.

And stewing he was. He had realised the instant they arrived what kind of establishment Eulalie Soeurs was, and try as he might to resist his eye kept being drawn to the large plate windows and Jocelyn bending over samples. Each time he tried not to think of her stripped down to her underwear, he advancing on her with purpose, and each time he mentally slapped himself and turned his glance away. But mere seconds later he would turn back to the flame.

Finally, he was distracted by a knock on his side window, and there, peering in, was a uniformed member of the Metropolitan Police, middle-aged, moustachioed, and red-faced. Surprised, Wilton slowly rolled down his window, unable to imagine what offence he might have committed.

"May I ask your business, sir?" said the constable, though it was hardly a question and more, of course, a demand.

"I'm waiting for her ladyship, guv'nor. She's in there," and Wilton indicated Eulalie Soeurs, "I'm not wrongly parked, am I?"

"Oh, no, no," said the policeman, "but don't you think it isn't so polite to be staring in at ladies buying their underthings? Hardly the behaviour of a gentleman, is it? You are a gentleman, aren't you?"

"And what if I ain't?" said Wilton, a little flustered at being caught spying and trying to cover with bravado.

"Don't play stupid with me, sunshine," said the constable, a little sterner now, "move along. Thirty yards or so should do it."

With a sigh Wilton started up the Bentley and pulled along to where the constable had indicated. Lady Jocelyn glanced up to see him moved on as the assistant gathered the armful of items she was about to try on. She allowed herself a small smile at the sight, then walked to the changing rooms at the rear of the boutique -- for it was she who had directed one of Madam Virginie's girls to fetch the constable. Another round to her, she fancied.

So the days passed, with Wilton driving Jocelyn to engagement after engagement: lunch at the Dorchester, tea at the Ritz, her hairdresser Monsieur Phillipe, the Royal Opera House and the London show of House Schiaparelli. Every time she got into the Bentley she seemed more glamorous than before, and each time she hardly gave him a glance, though she knew very well the effect she was having on him.

And at the end of every day he would slump below stairs, increasingly frustrated, for never before had he failed so comprehensively. Cook worried for the poor man as he grew wan, and even a tad listless. Manners and Atherton however, better acquainted with his history, thought he was getting nothing more than he deserved from her ladyship, and were proud she was clearly putting the man in his place.

Thursday was Wilton's final day in the Fitzroy household, and it appeared that Lady Jocelyn was to be a photographer again. It was another glorious late spring day, and Manners brought several items to place in the boot -- tripods and cases and even a rolled-up reflector. A second trip brought with it what appeared to be a picnic basket, and Manners then handed Wilton a brown paper packet with bad grace.

"From the cook," said Manners haughtily, "I believe they are egg sandwiches."

"Right-o!" said Wilton, "give her my regards and tell her I'll bring her back a flower if I get the chance."

"I shall do no such thing, laddio. Cook is a respectable woman, unlike you..."

Before the evident animosity between the men could escalate Lady Jocelyn appeared, reaching the Bentley in long strides. The men instantly gave back from each other, Manners inclining his head to her Ladyship, Wilton bringing a finger to the peak of his cap as he reached for the car door and opened it to admit her. He closed the door and glanced back at Manners, sticking out his tongue in response to the butler's supercilious sneer. Manners' eyes widened in vexation at which Wilton grinned and sprang up into the driver's seat.

"Polesden Lacey, Wilton," said Jocelyn, "it is near Dorking, in Surrey."

"I know of it, your ladyship," said Wilton, swallowing the grin in his voice at the last moment.

Jocelyn straight away retrieved a small notebook from her handbag, containing the list of potential exposures she would make that afternoon. She particularly hoped Mrs Greville, owner of Polesden Lacey and her subject for the day, would wear her Schiaparelli with the spray of roses up to the shoulder. Wilton, meanwhile, was glancing at her in his mirror, probably thinking she was so engrossed she hadn't noticed.

Wilton had much to observe. The previous night Jocelyn had shimmered in a Vionnet gown and Ducerf-Scavini heels, set off with a peacock feather in a nacre hair-grip, and all the while her Chanel had lingered in the air. He had driven her to dinner at the De Lancey's in Chelsea and thought her wasted in that boring company -- an old general and his shrivelled prune of a wife, a retired judge, and a pansy of a lawyer and his dull, worthy sister. She would have been better off at the 43 Club or the Silver Slipper.

Now, in contrast, Jocelyn was dressed in a simple skirt and cream blouse, plain brown Oxfords on her feet, and she looked more radiant still. He was, he reflected, getting it bad. And it was all because he hadn't been able to lay a finger on her -- Lord help the next woman he bedded, for he had much frustration to allay.

Once Jocelyn, meanwhile, had checked and re-checked her order of business she stowed her notebook and furtively glanced at Wilton. He was, finally, absorbed in his task rather than her, and so she now pulled an opened envelope from her handbag. It was a letter from Archie she had received by the last post the previous day. She had read it quickly and excitedly when she returned from her dinner, but she had been too tired and focused on the day ahead to form more than a general impression. Now, in the strange solitude she felt in her chauffeured car in the bustle of London, it seemed the perfect time to study it in more depth.

Archie wrote in a surprisingly ornate hand, though now on second reading she skimmed over the more perfunctory details of his journey to Budapest, and his fellow manufacturers and the civil servants accompanying them. Details of Budapest could wait, too. Jocelyn eagerly skipped forward to the meat she was interested in...

... the best thing, though, is that old Wharton has a secretary, a pretty blonde thing. I knew straight away she was interested in yours truly. Anyway, we had a reception at the embassy, a dull affair as these things always are, but at least there's booze. She was there too, though secretaries aren't often included in the invite, and I confess I decided to take advantage as soon as I saw her in her little black dress. Obviously, I could hardly spend every moment with her -- eyebrows would raise, and Wharton was being a bit of a mother hen towards her. So...

I kept circling back to her, solicitous like, ensuring her glass wasn't empty and keeping a lid on my own drinking. It didn't take long and most of the party were half-cut on the tax-payers' dollar, and once the convo got loud and raucous I eased her aside, and then out to a window seat in a corridor. I can't remember exactly what I said -- some old guff about her being a bright flower amongst all us old brambles, but it did the trick. She excused me from bramblehood, at which I suggested she might want to continue the party back in my suite, given that everyone else bar us was an old bramble. She accepted with alacrity and we took French leave.

Happily, I'm staying at the Gellert, which is only a stone's throw from the embassy. We were there in two shakes, and up in my room I gave her some more guff about, 'did she want another drink, or perhaps something stiffer?'. Well, of course, she wanted something stiffer and she practically threw herself on me. I had her out of her gown in a trice and she was wearing black underwear, of all things. I suspect she was thinking of getting lucky.

Within two minutes I had her down on her knees and she had my old feller in her mouth. She's not as skilled as you, my darling, in that regard, but she was no slouch. I had my hand on the back of her head, my fingers in her hair -- not firm, you understand, but enough to show her who was boss, and you can believe she liked that! Well, thinks I!

So, I got her on to the bed, lying back on the mattress, and I pulled off her knickers and pushed her legs apart, hard. And then I proceeded to lick that lovely wet slit of hers, and she was making some pretty sounds. From her reaction I don't think the young gentlemen these days are much acquainted with cunnilingus, for she was like a dying woman in the desert upon finding an oasis. She pushed herself up to me and arched her back and had her hands on my head pushing me down, and soon she was hyperventilating. So, I pushed fingers into her and then she was soaking the bed covers, you may be sure. And then she came, hard, shaking and gripping the covers and pulling at her breasts and all sorts.

Jocelyn paused in her reading and gazed, unfocussed, out of the window as the suburbs went by. She had unconsciously crossed her legs, and now she squeezed her thighs, putting her finger across her mouth and half closing her eyes as the pleasure felt more like an ache. She shouldn't have done it -- her arousal before had been abstract, but now it was clear and present, and one way or another it would need to be satisfied. She breathed out slowly, then turned back to the letter.

Obviously, I had to give her a moment to compose herself, but I wasn't going to wait long -- I had brought her there for my pleasure too, damn it! So, I growled a bit, and she went beautifully submissive, and I turned her over on her knees and elbows and thrust myself into her, firmly-like. At that, she began to call me 'sir' which was nice, and I gripped her around the waist and pounded her. She was a real piece, you may be sure, for soon she was making the pretty noises again, so I left off from her waist and took her hair in one hand, pulling, and used my other to tan her backside for her.

She was close again, I think, sweating and groaning, but by now I was closer. And so, I laid her on her back again, at the end of the mattress, and I stood and fucked her as hard as I could until I pulled out and shot my load over her tummy and up between her tits, and I was gasping myself by that point.

I did the gentlemanly thing after that, and got her the promised drink and made some small talk, but honestly, I just wanted my solitude so I could lie back and think of you being there, too. So, I made the excuse that Wharton, three sheets to the wind, might call for her, and it would hardly do for her to be found in a Fitzroy Industries bed, of all places. She agreed, and departed at some speed. Which brings us to now, and this letter, and the absolute desire I have of finding a bad little innocent looking woman to pull into our bed and devour between the two of us.

Jocelyn licked her lips and folded the letter, sliding it back into the envelope and depositing it in her jacket pocket. She felt as excited by it on the second reading as she had on the first the night before. Where another wife would have been a fury, spitting with jealous rage, she only wished she had been there to see, and then to participate -- she particularly thought that the secretary sounded like she needed a good spanking with the hairbrush to make her evening complete.

And then she looked at Wilton with a soft smile. It was time for him, certainly. She had decided before that perhaps she might allow him to ravish her that day, but on reading Archie's letter again, she was sure. The only question was where, and she had a felicitous thought there, as well. It only remained for her to fulfil her assignment, and then she could take advantage of him at her own pace.

Within the hour Wilton turned the Bentley onto the sweeping drive up to the magnificent house at Polesden Lacey. It was only two storeys high but it was long, with a wing at either end, and a hundred and something rooms with servants to match. It was the home of the socialite Margaret Greville, and Jocelyn had been a visitor a number of times. This time, however, she was on more of an assignment, there to take portrait photographs of the lady, and she wasn't upset at this -- Margaret Greville was still sprightly at nearly seventy, but she had lately become rather taken with German Brownshirts and was known to advocate for their presence in England.

"But they are anti-Bolshevik, Jocelyn," she would say over the soup. And whilst Jocelyn smiled politely, she couldn't help but consider that one needn't batter people nearly to death to display one's capitalist and aristocratic credentials. One didn't need to bring politics to the dinner table, either.

So it was that Jocelyn put on a professional front and spent an hour taking photographs -- half-an-hour with Margaret Greville on the grand staircase, and the rest of the time in her study. Jocelyn adopted a naturalistic style, and Margaret Greville indeed wore her Schiaparelli. Half way through, as a footman conveyed the Jocelyn's equipment from the staircase to the study Jocelyn looked down from the window and smiled. Below, in the courtyard, was Wilton, leaning casually against the Bentley and sipping a cup of tea. Jocelyn was finally prepared to admit the man had an animal allure and she ran her teeth over her lower lip -- she was feeling very ready...

The session finished, Jocelyn graciously declined Margaret Greville's invitation to stay for lunch, citing a non-existent prior engagement, and with promises to see each other soon she followed the footman out to the Bentley. Wilton was clearly a little surprised to see her so soon, and he smartened himself up with some alacrity which, yet again, forced Jocelyn to stifle a smile.

Once her photographic equipment was stowed in the boot, Jocelyn was more than content to leave Polesden Lacey in her wake, particularly as she now had a very definite plan of action in mind.

"Take me to Box Hill," she said, the glowering bulk of that famous hill having been visible from half the windows of Margaret Greville's mansion.

"Yes, your ladyship," said Wilton, "would you like to go to the crest?"

"Yes," said Jocelyn, "I need fresh air and a view. I believe there is a road to the top?"

"Indeed, there is," said Wilton, and he pointed the Bentley in the right direction.

Box Hill was certainly familiar, and growing more so now the great unwashed could take the train there from London for mere pennies. It wasn't quite the wild location the romantic painters had loved a hundred years before, but it was still a landmark for many miles around, a bold escarpment facing south, away from London, two sides forested and two open grassland, with a stiff climb for anyone with the right constitution. The road, on the other hand, wove steeply back and forth, climbing the folds of the hill from the north, Wilton shifting gears constantly as even the Bentley struggled.

"Do you know why it's called Box Hill?" said Jocelyn, surprising Wilton a little -- she had made no small talk with him at all over the week.

"The shape, you ladyship?"

"Everybody thinks that, but no, it's for the boxwood trees. They grew them here commercially until Portuguese imports destroyed the trade, back in Napoleon's days."

"Err, very interesting," said Wilton as they reached the ridge, and the climb became almost imperceptible.

"No, it's not!" laughed Jocelyn, "and you're a bad liar. Park over there, I think."

Jocelyn pointed to a small, deserted car park, and in particular to a corner where an overhang from a tree hid the passing road. She jumped out the moment Wilton shut off the engine, not waiting for him to walk around and open her door for her, and taking a deep breath she strode to the crest and spread her arms wide, gazing over what seemed like half of the south of England. It receded before her until, blue in the far distance, it merged with the sky.

Smiling she turned and beckoned Wilton who, a touch confused, walked over to her.

"Do you see it, Wilton?" said Jocelyn, stretching out her arm to indicate the glorious view.

"Yes, your ladyship," said Wilton, for how could one not?

"Oh Wilton..." said Jocelyn, "do you not know the lines? 'That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went, and cannot come again.' Doesn't it touch your soul?"

"Well, it's nice enough..."

"Nice enough?!" Lady Jocelyn laughed again, "Wilton, you are a barbarian. Come on! I have something else to show you."

She turned away from the crest and strode back under the trees to a path, Wilton following cautiously. He didn't trust her mood -- where had this whirlwind of girlishness come from, bursting out from beneath the glacier?

A short two minutes of brisk walking brought them to a small marker stone in the shape of a cube beneath a canopy of beech trees.

"Have you heard of Peter Labilliere?" said Jocelyn.

"No, your ladyship. Never."

"A crazy man," Jocelyn smiled, "he believed that if he was buried head down the problems of the world would be solved. So here he is, buried head down."

"When did he die?" said Wilton, looking down with slight disgust at the thought of the dead man nearly beneath their feet.

"In the year 1800."

"The world's taking its time, then," said Wilton, glancing around, unsure of what Jocelyn's purpose was.

"Yes. Whenever I read the front pages, I think of him here."

A silence fell around them, and the cool air felt a little moist on Jocelyn's cheek. Within her, though, she felt an energy bubbling to the surface. It would be so easy to reach out and pluck him...

"Are you hungry?" said Jocelyn, "I am. Let's get back to the car."

Wilton walked a step behind Jocelyn and she smiled to herself, for it seemed to have worked. He had wanted her immediately, she had played ignorant but had teased him as if she hadn't known what she was doing, and now the poor man didn't know what was happening. So much for his dangerous reputation...

Back at the car Jocelyn surreptitiously glanced around. Despite it being such a lovely day, the place was deserted, not another soul in sight. Well, it was a working day, and that was all to the good. She could find an even quieter place, for she knew more than one nearby, but there was something about the risk. The Bentley wasn't really visible from the road, however anyone could chance along. She exhaled in a steady stream, trying to control the thrill that was suddenly threatening to overwhelm her.

"Should I get your hamper from the boot, your ladyship?" said Wilton from behind her.

"One moment," she said, "I have one more thing to show you first."

Opening the rear door, Jocelyn reached in for her handbag and opened it, pulling out the folded silk she placed there an hour before.

"I took these off back at the house," she said, turning back to Wilton and letting her French knickers unfurl between forefinger and thumb.

Wilton gazed, open-mouthed, his eyes finally lifting from her underwear to the unmistakable expression on her face. She grinned lustily, and fixed him with her stare.

"You do want to fuck me, don't you, Wilton?" she said, every inch the mistress. And then she leant in to him, reaching up and kissing him gently on the lips.

It took Wilton a moment more, but then he was practically roaring as he took her in his arms and pulled her in close, almost crushing her. Jocelyn started losing herself in the moment, her head beginning to spin delightfully as she felt his height over her. He was strong, too, pressing her back against the body of the Bentley as she dropped her knickers on to the back seat.

A moment more and they broke the kiss and an unspoken urgency overtook them. She desperately wanted to rid him of his uniform, and he wanted her naked, too, and their fingers struggled with buttons as they undressed each other. She won the race, unbuttoning his uhlan jacket and pushing it back over his shoulders. He leant back and almost ripped it from himself, hurling it to one side as he breathed heavily.

Jocelyn was breathing heavily, too, and the devil was in her eyes as she watched him. He grinned confidently, and began to unbutton his collarless shirt with something approaching violence. Once his shirt was on the grass next to his jacket, Jocelyn could drink in the sight of his well-muscled chest. He was smooth, not worn like Archie, almost perfect but not better -- just a different kind of attractive. She reached out and let her fingers drift across his chest and felt a little animal surge in her pussy, a calling for his cock.

Another moment passed as they looked at each other, and then something impelled them once more. In an instant they were locked together again, and now he was struggling with the buttons on her skirt. Once undone he was firm, pulling her skirt down and pausing as it reached her knees, gazing at the hair on her mound framed by her white suspender belt and tan stockings. She took over, letting the skirt fall around her ankles. She stepped out of it and hooked it up to her hand with her foot, before casting it into the back of the car.

His hands took over, unbuttoning her blouse and roughly pulling it off her. Beneath she was wearing a bra and she went to undo the clasp, men being so clumsy with them, but he was ahead of her and with one flick it came loose. She smiled in approval as she slid it down her arms and off, and then reached for his fly buttons, determined to regain some control and what better way than to have his cock in her hands?

At which point they heard the car. They were both moving on instinct, hardly aware of what they were doing as they dived into the back of the Bentley, he lying on the floor and she on top of him, hardly breathing. Some of his clothes were outside on the ground, and the door was only pulled to, but that couldn't be helped, and he was thankful he had vacuumed the car only that morning.

They lay still, Lady Jocelyn trying hard to stifle her giggles, as they heard the car park and the doors slam shut. Then voices, approaching, a man and a woman though indistinct, and Jocelyn pushed Wilton's hand away as he tried to stop her reaching into his open trousers and grasping his cock.

She licked her lips as she felt him through his underwear, and her impression was he was quite big. Which was to be expected, given his reputation. She began to stroke him, a finger on his lips to still his protest, and the voices moved past the front of the Bentley. They heard a fragment of 'he said, she said' gossip and the people were gone towards the crest of the hill, oblivious to Jocelyn and Wilton only feet from them.

Jocelyn stroked Wilton harder as the voices receded, and he started to struggle out of his boots, trousers and underwear. She refused to make it easier for him by letting go, and she smiled as he paused half way through to enjoy the sensations. Finally, he kicked himself free of his clothes, hell bent on taking back control.

She gasped in delighted surprised as he lifted her up on to the back seat and used his strength to spread her legs wide, all in one smooth movement. He knelt between her legs, gazing at her, and the twinkle in her eye only made him more determined to do things his way, whilst she reached out for her handbag and the Young's condom she had secreted there that morning.

Before she could give it to him he startled her, dipping his head down and planting a powerful kiss on her inner thigh, just above her stocking top. She couldn't help but push her hips towards him, pleasantly surprised and unwilling to resist. He kissed her again, closer to her pussy, then closer still, and she let her eyes close as she anticipated the next touch, right where it mattered.

He didn't disappoint, holding her thigh with his left hand and spreading her open with his other hand, he licked her gently. She breathed out heavily, focused wholly on that place, on the tip of his tongue as he explored her with featherlight flicks then pressed his tongue into her.

She gasped and grabbed his hair, reaching for her nipples with her free hand and brushing her nipples, pursing her lips as they hardened swiftly. He glanced up at her, grinning at the result of his handiwork, then began to lick her again, this time vigorously, faster and faster.

"Oh my God!" she whispered, "oh fuck!"

Then she clenched the upholstery, her knuckles white, as he pushed his finger firmly into her. He added a second after only a minute and immediately her buttocks were trembling as she sucked in jagged breaths. He could do that all day, but it wasn't how she wanted to come -- or at least, not until he had thoroughly filled her with his cock.

"I want you to fuck me," she breathed, but he ignored her, instead licking her more intently, taking her closer to heaven.

"Please!" she gasped, and still he pretended not to hear: she had been the teasing mistress on her high horse for days, and so now she could grovel for what she wanted.

Her tits rocked and swayed and she folded her legs around him, resting them on his shoulders as she started to shake. He grinned, revelling in his power, and pressed a fingertip against her rosebud.

"Please fuck me!" she moaned, her tone becoming urgent, "you're going to make me come and I want you inside me!"

Finally it was enough, and he stopped, leaving her panting. It took her a moment to gather some semblance of self-control, though it was only enough to toss him the condom. Her whole body vibrated and she willed him to rip open the packet and roll it on, then enter her with all speed.

Wilton looked at the packet and smiled -- it was one of the new latex condoms, one that promised an ecstatic ride, and as he tore the packet with his teeth she reached down between his legs and grasped his shaft again, stroking him hard. Her expression was pure lust as she felt him hard in her hand, and he let her wank him a little longer than necessary as he drank in the sight of her.

After a moment he rolled the condom down his hard shaft and held himself steady, then eased into Lady Jocelyn. It was bliss as he filled her, and she felt every part of him as he slowly sank to the hilt and she arched her back, pushing her tits up towards him. He waited a moment, in part to let her get used to him inside her, but also, well, who was the boss now? Then he eased back, almost his full length, before he thrust, a little harder.

"Oh, God!" she murmured, and he put his hands on the back of her thighs and pushed her knees towards her shoulders.

He took her with smooth thrusts, getting faster and harder and deeper as she gasped and brought her knuckle to her mouth, pressing her teeth into her skin as the pleasure flowed out to every part of her. She felt his strength and luxuriated in it, and she imagined Archie sitting in the front seat, looking back at this virile servant ploughing into his wife. She looked down at him penetrating her, and then she let her eyes glide over his body, watching his muscles flex and move with each thrust.

She was moaning, suddenly, and he was fucking her harder and harder, pounding her as the beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. She felt them begin to drop, pinpricks of coolness amidst the growing heat, and between her legs she felt her orgasm swirl, coming closer, then ebbing and coming closer again, the wave tantalisingly close to breaking but just out of reach.

Urgently, she pressed her fingertips against her clitoris and caressed herself, then she slid her fingers down each side of his thrusting cock. He groaned and she felt her fingers wet, and she brought them back to her clit, and now she was rough with herself. She alternated, spanking and rubbing herself until the contraction gripped her all of a sudden, and she was going to come, no matter what.

"Don't stop!" she gasped, "please don't fucking stop!" And far from stopping her words urged him on to greater exertions, as a wall of noise built up around her and she gasped and shuddered, reaching for his sweaty skin and pulling him down towards her until she could sink her teeth into his shoulder.

She spasmed, her hips thrusting up and into him and her legs wrapping around him to hold him fast. She came, helplessly, hot and cold and gasping, her kin gliding over his as he continued to pound his cock into her. Waves of pleasure swept over her, and she spasmed again, crying out as she clenched and then relaxed, limp, as he peaked, groaning, and then she felt him come, pumping into the condom as his sinews strained.

He panted, burying himself as deep as he could and staying, stiff and still, and she held him close, milking him, until he gasped down a breath and shuddered, pulling out of her and rolling away, slumping down on the floor of the Bentley with his back against the closed door, his chest heaving.

She came down, little shudders thrilling her every few seconds, the heat enveloping her. She was flushed, strands of hair sticking to her forehead as she fanned herself with her open hand, smiling as she looked at nothing.

She was the first to move, looking feebly around for her clothes and pulling various items towards her. She gulped then hauled on her knickers, and remembering where she was she quickly glanced out of the windows. Thankfully, they were still alone. It had been a risk, and she had initially directed him up the hill it had been with the intention of seducing him deep in the woodland. And the risk still remained -- another car might appear at any minute, or the tourists who had nearly discovered them might return.

"You may clothe yourself," she said to Wilton, and as he gave her a weak grin, he saw that the hierarchy was restored.

Dressing was conducted quickly and in silence, at least until basic propriety had been restored. Jocelyn conducted her minor adjustments with more care, and brushed out her hair with satisfaction, the cat who had lapped up the cream with abandon. Wilton was standing outside the car, brushing stray stalks of grass from his jacket, the physical barrier between them not nearly as absolute as that of class and wealth that had reasserted itself. But not of taste, or of appetite -- that would always remain.

"I will drive," said Lady Jocelyn, stepping out of the back of the Bentley.

She grabbed her handbag and slid into the driver's seat, Wilton unsure whether he should sit beside her or occupy her previous place in the back. She rolled her eyes and leant across, pushing open the passenger door.

"Get in, man," she said, "I would like to be back in London by nightfall. I do have a dinner engagement."

He climbed in and closed the door, uncomfortable that his space was now occupied by another, even if she was his mistress. She grinned at the sight of his discomfort, divining its source immediately. For a moment she softened, brushing her fingertips across the back of his hand, then she was all action, pressing the electric starter and slipping the car into gear.

Wilton wondered why she bothered with a chauffeur as she expertly guided the Bentley out of the car park and negotiated the hairpin bends on the road down the hill with aplomb. She eased the car to a stop as they reached the London road, and tapped her fingertips against the steering wheel, confident energy radiating from her.

"Do you smoke, Wilton?" she said, scanning the passing traffic for an opening.

"From time to time, your ladyship," said Wilton.

"Very good, there is a packet of cigarettes in my handbag and you may light one for yourself once you have lit one for me."

"Thank you, you ladyship."

"There's an envelope in my handbag, as well," said Jocelyn, as she turned the car north towards the capital, "it is for you. A mark of my appreciation."

Wilton lit the cigarettes and retrieved the envelope, peering inside to see the crisp white and green bank notes.

"Is it a bonus?" he said, prepared to go out on a limb, "or hush money?"

"Oh dear," Jocelyn laughed, "you are out of touch! I have an agreement with my rather wonderful husband, and we allow each other indulgences. But I suppose you might consider it a sign of my expectation that you won't gossip to any other menials."

"Menials?"

Jocelyn sniggered and took a long drag of her cigarette, her eyes flashing as she worked through the gears and tuned into the road ahead.

"Don't be so precious, Wilton, and learn to take a joke," she said, "now hang on."

With that she floored the accelerator, and the powerful four-cylinder engine throbbed and roared as Jocelyn swung around a surprised travelling salesman in a rickety Austin Seven. Wilton did indeed hang on, and he looked across at Lady Jocelyn, her grin broad as she unleashed the demon within. He laughed to see her joy, and she glanced at him and then laughed, too, and they sped back to London, without saying a word, but both happy and engrossed in the moment.

The End.