Sweet Meats

George sat by the window, chin in hand, elbow resting on one leg thrown carelessly over the arm of an ornate velvet upholstered chair; the perfect picture of the casual elegance of a country Lord caught in an idle moment. Down below the stable bustled with everyday activity: walking, grooming, cleaning the stalls, oiling the tack. Two burly men labored over a carriage—his sister Odette’s carriage—balancing and tightening the wheels, checking the springs, insuring all was in proper order for her departure three days hence. Cleaning maids were sweeping the interior and hanging the deep blue curtains that matched the trim. Soon she would be on her way back to the city, dressed in her traveling suit of rich peacock brocade, blonde curls piled under a wool felt hat with gray plumes. All heads would turn when her team—manes, tails, and hooves carefully tinted the same azure as the carriage’s trim and drapery—reached London’s cobblestone streets. 

Inside, at her dressing table, a few feet from her brother, Odette chattered away about this and that; nothing of great importance or requiring much more than a cursory answer here and there. George made all the appropriate sounds as if he was listening while allowing his mind to focus on more important matters. 

Phoebe. 

Luscious Phoebe. With a luxurious mane of shiny black hair and, he hoped, an abundance down below; jet fleece trailing up her plump white belly, hiding the tender parts yet to be breached. George had been watching her blossom these past few months. A timid, malnourished common class girl in shapeless homespun hanging like a rag; all bones and awkward angles, ragged nails and cracked skin. With kindness and care, time and the utmost patience; with a special, exacting diet of sweet meats and pungent spices, daily baths in mineral water and rose oil massages, she transformed—metamorphosed—into a soft, rounded delicacy. He personally supervised each and every day, every waking and sleeping moment she resided under his roof; from what color garters would be fastened around her thighs, to how many strokes of the brush to smooth her curls. He smiled a secret smile shifting his weight to better accommodate the slight stirring in his riding breeches. 

Silence. Sudden and absolute. Shattering his reverie, drawing his attention to Odette’s flinty stare, hard as frozen sapphires. He drew his other leg up, obscuring what he affectionately called his viper’s nest in more appropriate surroundings; particularly Miss Opal’s brothel. 

Odette was invigorated from her early morning ride; pale windblown strands escaped from the jeweled netting swathed around her derby, and her skin still bore the high flush from the hard gallop back to the stable. She wore no more than her riding coat, corset, stockings and garters. 

"You’re thinking of HER again," she stated flatly, then melting into a sly smile. "Am I not prettier than that common peahen?" she continued approaching slowly, freeing her hair with a practiced flourish. Hands on hips, she placed her foot, shod in short patent leather boots, on the edge of George’s chair. "Are these not the most shapely calves? Do they not lead to the more inviting thighs?" Pushing his leg down, she insinuated herself into his arms; head tilted, back arched—the better to present her petite rose tipped breasts peeking from the top of her whalebone constraint. She regarded her brother from under lowered lids. 

"Yes," he murmured kissing the top of her powdered bosom. "You are incomparable." 

He slid his arms about her corseted waist and removed her from his lap; his hand lingering a moment, feeling, examining the extraordinary undergarment beneath her simple black riding coat. An exquisite creation of royal brocade and jet beading; cut low under the bust and high over the belly for easy access to the charms she now freely displayed; clearly more for show than practicality. Surely her corsetier labored long over this special design, if he desired one, he should place his order now. He made a mental note to inform his Head Housekeeper, Maigret. Phoebe should be measured and the fabrics and trims obtained for his inspection posthaste. Odette, mistaking her brother’s intense scrutiny for interest, preened and posed, her delight quickly fading when he pointedly asked for her corsetier’s name and location.

"Georgie! Georgie, look!" she cried, anxious he not leave. Look what I have for you!"