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In all the years I have been an assistant to the women who call Suffolk County and its environs their home, I have never met a woman such as the Lady Victoria Chatterlynx. I cannot succinctly describe the breadth and width of her charms and her vices; if all the lofty ladies of England were to become like her, it would be both a fantastic and frightening occurrence, and I find myself unable to say whether or not I would find pleasure in such Bacchanalian chaos.

But I have become ahead of myself. My name, fair reader, is Oliver Jones. Perhaps it is a simple name, but I am a child of simple parents and a simple upbringing in a small village of the Irish counties. Rather than be content to tend the goats and vegetable patches of my family household, I set forth to plumb the depths of knowledge and drink of their wells until I had taken my fill. Universities, libraries, laboratories and museums rarely visited by even the most devoted of scholars have come to know my face as well as they know their subjects. And not just the scholarly arts, but those of the painter, the engineer, even the lowly ploughman and driver came to be mine. 'Jack of All' Jones I became, the fox who knew all there was worth knowing and more than a portion which was not.

It was with that learning that I set out to share this with the world, or as much of it as I could reach. I made it my task--no, my entire reason for being was to provide aide to those who needed it. It was perhaps naive to think that I would become some great hero of the masses by simply telling them things, some great strutting intellectual peacock roaming about the countryside and sticking his beak into things which he had no business. The 'dream' of being a hero to the masses was dashed quickly, and before I had chance to prevent the fall that came after my pride had left me, I became trapped in the village of Chatholm, out of money and relegated to a various odd tasks to maintain my home and avoid the cold and the beast of hunger. Lean times these were and continue to be, so I chose to accept that I would be returning to my origins, spending days in the farms and fields. In hindsight, it was for the best; sacrificing the body for the mind is no better than the alternative, is it?

As time passed, I grew acclimated to the area, and it in turn adopted me as one of its native faces. 'Jack' Jones became the go-to man, whether it was for advice, instruction, or physical labor. No experience was too demeaning or difficult, though my smaller frame did conflict somewhat with the burly longshoremen and the weather-worn teamsters who called the cities their workplace. I, being a fox by nature, would never become that. I thank my good fortune, then, and apologize if perhaps I sound as though I sing my own praises louder than is appropriate for a man of my position. But truly did I become the jack-of-all, master of none.

"Are you sure you've no further need of my services, sir?" I had been in the employ of a badger known only to me as Richardson, an elderly badger who operated the Crown's postal facilities. Participating in such an intricate process as the mail had been exhilarating--anyone could claim to have received a letter, how many could say they had been involved on this aspect of the post? But time had passed, and now that the post was established for Chatholm there was little need of me anymore.

"Afraid so, lad. You've been a positive joy to have under my employ, Oliver. So much has gotten done, thanks to you and that most curious mind of yours." Richardson was as a grandfather to me; the crown had charged him with continuing the ongoing reform of the post, and he had met the task in a manner befitting his species--loud, brash, and perhaps too stubborn for his own good. I had initially been hired as a carrier, but quickly Richardson adopted me as a sort of advisor in bringing the future of mail to our town. "But there's naught to do anymore. The mail goes out just as it should." He put his weight against his stick, trying to hide the nagging cough that had grown harsher as the summer had come to an end.

I started to protest, to offer myself in any other manner--I could haul, sort, carry, even serve as a clerk. But he would not let me speak, let alone demean myself in such a manner. "Don't you try to bargain with me, boy. Nothing you can say changes the fact of the matter." He paused, squinting one eye. "How old are you, Oliver?"

"Twenty-seven years this week, sir."

"Twenty-seven! My word! And you want to idly pass those golden years away as a clerk? You're a bright lad and a strong one to boot--you've a far brighter future ahead of you than wasting your days away with the post." He squinted again, face between annoyance and playful, like a parent removing the last lingering bricks from a child's well-built argument. "I know you've been hiding your money away. Stop being such a rabbit, fox, and go be something more than a pair of hands."

That said, I was summarily whisked away from Richardson's office and deposited upon the street. The postmaster had provided one last handful of coins with an assurance that he would put in as many good words for he could, and perhaps opportunity would knock again in the soon and coming. I held back my worry as I pulled my coat closer against the September chill and went home. Richardson was right in saying I had stockpiled no small sum of money away; while I could make no claim to living in unabashed austerity as the monks of the Far East were said to, I could also easily live more in more extravagance than I had. In the short of it, I could afford to spend some time without employment. I could visit the book shop to the south of town, over perhaps even ride the trains away from Chatholm entirely and begin the cycle anew in a new place.

That night, though, I chose to take Richardson's parting words to heart. I was growing older--no man can stand against it--and I had sacrificed much of my youth already in the pursuit of personal growth. And what had it accomplished? Not much other than lining my pockets and perhaps making me a target for thieves. Perhaps today was a good day to live a bit more. I would only be young once!

I cannot claim to recall the events of that night and the following morning with any claim of accuracy. Perhaps it is a dubious honor that my first attempt at drunken debauchery should prove to be such an unbridled success, but if all successes come with rampaging headaches and sore limbs then I shall be sure to fail in the future. I can clearly recall the beginning moments after wandering into the local pub with a purse full of coin and the entire evening ahead of me. The conclusion I can deduce from my state--distinctly hung-over, disheveled beyond all belief and in a location I was not entirely sure was my own small flat. I had at some time in the festivities gained a felt hat who's best days were far behind it and in turn sacrificed my trousers. The sun had risen long before me, and with a body of complaining muscles I rose from the sheets to face it and whatever remained of the day.

"Oh...oh do come back to bed, Jack." A slim hand around my tail and tugged backwards lazily, a little giggle punctuating the request. It took several moments for my liquor-addled brain to quite process the two things that had been placed before me: number one, there was a voice present in what I believed to be my bedroom, a voice which did not belong to me to the best of my knowledge; and secondly, there was a body which bore that voice hiding within the blankets. And whoever it was, they knew my name and significantly more if my state of dress (or complete lack thereof) was any indication.

I turned slightly and pushed back the blankets to see who my mysterious sleeping companion happened to be. I will admit to a hint of trepidation--who, or for that matter what, had I brought home with me after my drunken rampage on the streets of Chatholm?

The ewe giggled again and grabbed at the blankets, her slim frame shivering in the morning chill. "Hey, Jack, don't...s'cold out there." Whoever she was, she was certainly not an unpleasant on the eyes, particularly through the haze of an evening's beer parade. Curvaceous but not ridiculously so, with long white hair that draped over black-skinned shoulder sand framed a face that I recognized as one of the servers at the pub. Sheared to the skin aside from her head, wrists, and ankles, she had something of an exotic appeal, like the dark-skinned girls who were brought from the far south islands. By heaven itself, she even smelled wonderful, the fading scents of perfume mingled with her own lanolin. The girl seemed unashamed by her profound nudity as she tried to reel me back under the covers with her.

I resisted, for the moment, pushing her hands away from me gently. "I...apologize, miss, but I can't say as I remember a thing of last night, not even your name. "

The girl--should I call her a girl? She was quite obviously a woman--laughed lightly and sat up on the pillows. "My name, sweet boy, is Stephanie." She arched her back and stretched her arms overhead, pushing her chest upwards in a manner that caught the breath in my throat. Her total nonchalance about her nudity was...distracting, to say the least. "Don't worry about forgetting. I've worked the pubs and taverns enough to be familiar with the drunkard's short memory." The ewe pouted coquettishly, her hands resting in her lap. "It's such a shame you have to be off. I so enjoyed your...company." The meaning in her words was quite clear even to my cotton-wadded ears.

"Did we..."

She nodded, nibbling on the tip of her finger.

I was shocked. At myself, you understand; it had not been my intention to have a drunken tryst with a random serving girl from some grotty ale house I couldn't quite remember the name of. But had only done such an inappropriate thing this one time, I would mark it away as a youthful indulgence.

Then she held up three fingers. I daresay this had moved beyond a simple indulgence to perhaps a bit excessive.

"Eliza enjoyed it as well. She would tell you herself, but they needed her at the bar."

...gracious.

"E...Eliza? Short rabbit, fire red hair, quite fancies port?" Fragments of the night had started to play themselves back in my head. They were incomplete and fleeting but the portrait they painted was vivid enough. There had been beer and then booze, carousing, singing, and every stage between. I had become the life of the party, if only because I had funded it. The celebration had ended with two girls in my arms, fine vintages in each hand, and...well it had led to this.

Stephanie nodded. "That she is. She quite fancied you too, but I don't think I need to tell you that." The sheep leaned forward, tilting her head slightly In curiosity. "Shouldn't you be off to work? It's half past seven already."

"I lost my job yesterday, miss."

My partner perked as if suddenly energized. "Then back to bed with ya, foxy!" I was grabbed by two hands that should have nowhere near the strength they did and yanked back into the sheets. I could barely recall my bed feeling quite so wonderfully soft as it had at that very moment, the inviting warmth and smooth skin of my unexpected liaison disabling any meager resistance I had left. The two of us fell together, bodies pressed tightly together, lips meeting lips and hands stroking over generous curves. My fingers tangled in her woolen hair as we embraced, trying to bring her body into mine, sharing heat, feeling her pulse as her heart raced. I had been with a few partners before, but none had driven me quite like Stephanie was at that very moment. I could endlessly wax philosophical on the situation or consider hormones or the cycle of the moon in the heavens.

But there would be no such intellectual pursuits, not that morning and certainly not in my bedroom. I cupped her hip in my palm, feeling the weight, squeezing the curve of her backside. She tensed and sighed sharply, holding her breath, spine arching and pushing her heated mound against my arousal. I throbbed in kind, answering her unspoken question--I did want her and badly, the purple head of my member so swollen I feared it may burst at any moment.

"Please," she whispered into my ear. The grazing touch of her fingertips against my cock, teasing me, was the lusty period. Her scent was as intoxicating as any liquor I had consumed the night before, making my mind swim. "I need you in me."

I needed little encouragement. I wanted her as every inch as much, to feel her and hear her and pleasure her until she could take no more. I likely already had, but I would once again without a second thought. She felt perfect in my grip, as if we were meant to be entangled with each other in this moment.

I rose from her for the briefest of moments, feeling the sudden chill of the morning again. Stephanie watched me hungrily as my manhood danced before her, a slim bead of fluid dripping from the tip. The ewe spread her thighs for me, sharing the sight of her swollen womanhood with me, the folds opened in an invitation, such a display of burning lust that it nearly drove me to my peak then and there.

The crown of my member rolled along her slit and coaxed more moisture forth, parting Stephanie and bathing my groin in heat and wetness. She was a boiling pot, her jaw clenched and breasts with every deep breath. "S...stop teasing," she murmured, watching me with unfocused eyes. "We don't h-have all day..." There was a secondary implication in there, one that said if I left her on the brink too long she would be forced to take matters into her own hands, and likely without my input.

"Hush, sweet ewe. I'll bring you pleasure. Don't worry." I was brimming with confidence and bravado. It may be a quick liaison, but I would definitely ensure that it was something worth remembering.

The first thrust is something of a barometer of how the rest of the encounter will play out: if done gently and with great care for the woman and her elements, a slowly building fire that burns brightly for quite some time, the very definition of love making. I chose the other path, the path of speed and force, driving my shaft through Stephanie's slit with one sharp drive of my hips. She welcomed me into her with a burst of unmistakable dampness that staggered me momentarily, but I overcame the shock quickly and drove the remainder of my cock forward until our hips met with the soft slapping of sweat-laden fur against sheared skin.

There I lingered for a moment, drinking in everything. Stephanie's scent, the thick smell of arousal tinged with her wool, her skin, her sweat, her breath...the crispness of the air and the faint smell of dying leaves drifting through the window...cotton and linen that made up the bed underneath us...all the tell-tale odors of our previous engagements became suddenly blatantly apparent to me. I tensed my laborer's muscles, preparing for the task before me. I would not sweetly embrace the sheep; I was prepared to, if you'll pardon my unseemly vulgarity, fuck her. She deserved no less.

The intricate details of our labors are not particularly interesting by themselves. I trust that you have some knowledge of the carnal deeds, reader, so I'll not waste my words speaking of how hard I rocked my pulsing erection through her, how the fluids trickled down the ewe's thighs, and how she cried my name with every motion I made until I feared that the local constables may be summoned to silence the caterwauling. The cheap springs of my mattress squeaked in protest with each pounding stroke of my hips as Stephanie was pushed deeper into them, the blankets cast away long ago to give us the most room. It must have been some sight to behold, pumping like some sort of mechanized creation into my lover, hands pressed into the cotton to each side of her head, her legs splayed out as she was rutted with no sense of shame or restraint. This would not last, but neither of us worried. It was beautiful for the now.

She came. I know those words sound simple when put to paper in quite such a way, but you must understand that there is a special emphasis to those two words, those seven letters, that mean so much more than I can represent on paper. Slim black fingers clenched in the sheets and pulled them free, her hair spread around her head like a sort of woolen crown, and her spine arched so sharply that I feared she would break. There was no sound, only the soft grunting as I struggled to continue thrusting through tensed muscles that clamped my prick and held it in a stark refusal to be empty.

"Oh...oh god...don't...don't come in me..." I felt those hands push against my chest, urging me to rise, and I did as they asked, if awkwardly. Freeing myself was quite an endeavor in and of itself, and doing so in a manner which did not immediately force me to release my load into Stephanie was something altogether different. Still, I managed it, watching in a bit of hazy glee as she rose to her knees, wrapping her fingers around my thickness and stroking it with a furious pace. She was impatient, so very needy, begging with big brown eyes for a reward. I granted it to her with a shout, streaking her slate-grey cheeks with streaks of white come. She must have telling the truth about our previous 'sessions'; there was not much to provide her with, and as the bliss of orgasm wore away I realized just how much I ached from the exertion and how my testes complained of the strain.

We fell together, kissing hotly again, hands weaved together. It was love, at least of a temporary sort, shared between two young adults in the prime of their life.

I must have dozed. When I awoke, Stephanie was finishing dressing, buttoning the backing to her dress in preparation to leave for the day.

"What...time is it?"

The sheep smiled, adjusting her attire into place. "Six in the evening, Jack. You've had quite a rest, but after such a night, it would seem only fitting." I rose, rubbing my forehead. "I took the liberty of cleaning you while you slept. I thought you would prefer to not find unmentionable things dried into your pelt." She was right; scrubbing such things out was a difficult job at the best, and quite unpleasant in comparison the joy which produced them.

Stephanie leaned down and kissed my cheek softly. She still smelled positively fantastic, if in a new, less salacious way that before, all perfumes and soap. Even dressed for her job she was a marvelous specimen, though I had found that the modern marvels of corsetry and bustles did wonders for even the most modestly endowed females about town.

With a simple click of the door, she was off, leaving me to my fantasies.

I came to find that the debauchery of the past evening had consumed a large majority of my saved funds. In a single long night I had destroyed any sort of financial security I had worked so hard for, and rather than weeks of unemployment I would barely be able to manage a few days. Without a shred of sympathy from my landlord or the various tax collectors who preyed on the poor masses of the town. Stephanie had offered a portion of her earnings, but I declined; the girl made so little as a barmaid that I could not bring myself to take her charity.

At the suggestion of friend, I took to the trains of the countryside to visit those locations outside of Chatholm itself. I believed the city dried up and free of any respectable labors for a man such as myself, and I refused adamantly to demean myself or risk the response of the constabulary. There were countless small villages and estates located outside of the borders of the various towns; one of them must have an opportunity for one such as myself.

I was greatly thankful that the English railway catered to those of less affluence such as me. My trips were rewarded with confusion at my purpose at best, outright disdain at worst, and more often than not I found simply nothing. It was upon the last trip from Chatholm that my purse could support that I was directed to the estate of one Lord Chatterlynx. It was a substantial trip from my home--despite leaving as early as the trains would allow me, my carriage did not arrive at the grounds until the sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon. I would certainly not be able to return home until tomorrow. I hoped to any listening ear that I would be able to find room and board, lest I find myself sleeping in the grass and walking to the railway station.

"Ah, good good. You've made it. I do certainly hope your travel was pleasant, my good man." Lionel Chatterlynx was not what I had expected from a lord and estate holder; he was a small man, thin of frame with a voice that befit his stature. He seemed fretful at my late appearance as if somehow the Royal railway and its inconvenient schedule were his doing. The poor cat kept his hands clenched tightly together, fingers knitted. I had seen many a cat, but the angora was as skittish as any I had ever encountered.

"It was perfectly fine, sir. Thank you for arranging the carriage, and it is a distinct pleasure to visit your home." I looked around the large foyer as we walked. Much of the space was spartan, decorated to be functional rather than ornamental, though each and every item I could see was immaculately kept.

I paused to examine a suit of armor, leaning in to examine an inlaid crest. "From the Aragonese Crusades...Charles of Valois?" The nervous feline nodded. "I've rarely seen anyone take interest in that particular conflict. Most dwell on the English affairs, given native history and all."

"My ancestry is Spanish, and as such, it carries a degree of weight that my countrymen do not share." He turned to me, and I could detect the very edges of a smile playing on sharp features. "I am somewhat surprised. Few even care about ancient history. Fewer still know of its obscurities."

I started to answer but he held his hands up, the slight pleasure fading from his face instantly. But I did not bring you into my home to discuss history, Mister Jones." We entered into a study, a huge affair, with shelves lining the mahogany walls filled with more books than I could dare consider reading in a lifetime. Lionel's personal interests became sharply clear--the vestibule and connecting hallways had been austere; his study was his sanctuary.

A snifter of brandy was placed into my hand, and Lionel sat in a luxuriously cushioned chair, sipping on his own libation. "I am a man of brevity, Mister Jones, so I will be succinct." His words backed his statement--they were staccato and unadorned. "I am a scholar and an archaeologist by trade. I am sure I do not need to explain to you the intricacies of my occupation. Suffice to say, worldly travel is an unfortunate requirement, and as such I need to spend much of my time away from my estate."

I took a small sip of my drink, nostrils flared. This was a succulent beverage, one of the smoothest I could say I had ever had, though I had to admit I had enjoyed very little liquor since the celebration. "So you need a caretaker to tend to the grounds and mansion while you're away?"

Lionel clicked his tongue. "Not specifically a caretaker." He set his glass down. "I have servants for most of the menial tasks. And I daresay you are hardly a prime candidate to tend the grounds or prepare meals."

"I understand, yes. But if not in that capacity, Lord Chatterlynx, what purpose can I serve to you? I am rather confused."

Lionel tapped a button on the table nearest him, and a bell rang somewhere in the distance. "While the material needs are properly managed while I am away, Mister Jones, there are other things which require attention that I do not trust my servants to."

I heard the click of a door to my left, and rose with Lionel. He smiled, the first time that he had done so since I had arrived, raising his hands. "Ah. My dear, you look ravishing tonight." He turned back to me as he and this new entrant came further into the lights of the room. "Mister Jones, my wife, the Lady Victoria Chatterlynx."

Victoria entered the room, offering me a small nod in courtesy. Where her husband was a creature made of rails and saplings, the Lady Chatterlynx was more substantial in every manner identifiable, garbed immaculately in a ruby red dress which must have cost my salary a hundred times over simply for the material to make it. The fit was perfectly, her corset forming her bosom up and outwards in a manner that stripped the breath from my lungs. I watched in thinly restrained awe as she moved across the floor with the soft steps of bare feet, her bustle accentuating the sway of motherly hips and creating quite the hypnotic effect. Tufted ears rose above piled ringlets of silver hair decorated with golden pins and ornaments. To say I was entranced would be quite an understatement, enough so that I quite forgot my manners for a moment before remembering my place and bowing at the waist.

I heard a soft chuckle and looked up into crystalline blue eyes over a playful smile. "Is this the one you spoke of, Lionel?" She spoke with an American accent, but maintained the traditional English dignity.

Lionel nodded to her, helping Victoria to a seat. "Yes, my love. This is Oliver James, the young man from Chatholm." The slim cat turned back to me, his demeanor again dour. "What I wish of you, Mister Jones, is to be my wife's attendant. She will manage the household, and you will in turn ensure that she is as tended to as well." He stroked over Victoria's arm slowly. "I worry for Victoria's well-being when I am on my expeditions. And I feel heartache when I think that she spends her days and nights alone with no-one but the servants and the empty hallways of the manor house." Victoria smiled and tilted her head to him, and I could hear the faintest sound of a purr from her. "Your name reached me through an old friend, Mister Richardson of the Royal Post. I must say, Mister Jones, he spoke _very_highly of you."

"You'll be given due compensation, of course, and provided room and board." He paused, watching my features, oblivious to my barely restrained infatuation with Lady Chatterlynx. "And that, Mister Jones, is the extent of my offer. I shall be leaving for Persia within the week, so I have little time to discuss the matter. Should you accept, I will send for your possessions. If not, then you may stay here for the night and I will have you taken back to the rail station. What do you say, my good man?"

I thought for hardly a moment. It was certain an odd offer, perhaps a bit too good to be true. Could I trust Lord Chatterlynx? And what was he asking of me--to make sure his wife was happy? That is hardly the future I'd expected for myself, not after so much education and labor. But I had no other opportunities; a trip back to Chatholm would be easy but what awaited me there? I had barely enough coin left to live on for the remainder of the month and no opportunities. The docks and slaughterhouses always begged for more laborers to enter into their domains with the promise of backbreaking labor for mere shillings. It was a terrible risk to stay here, it was a terrible punishment to return home.

I was wracked with indecision.

Then I looked up, and Victoria gave me the slightest wink and a nod so subtle I barely caught it.

"I readily accept your offer, Lord Chatterlynx."