Dancing with The Duchess

Before driving home I called at Bedford Central Library, and borrowed a couple of books on Imperial Russia, and a volume of biographies, including that of Lord Stewartby. One of the Russian books made the briefest of references to Xenia; in the other I found a double-page photo of the extended Romanov Royal Family, lined up almost like a school photo, or a rather bizarre football squad. It dated from 1913; there must have been 50 or 60 people in it, the Tsar and Tsarina at its centre, but in the front row just to their left, sitting on a lawn beside her cousin and friend the Grand Duchess Anastasia, was the young Xenia. In an appendix to that book I found an order of precedence to the vacant throne of Russia. It was a few years out of date, and ignored the fact that, at the time of the Revolution, only a male heir could succeed, but in that list Xenia was 17th in line to become Tsarina of Russia, were the position ever restored. In the Stewartby biography she played a surprisingly small part, little more than a shadow always some steps behind the Great Man. That night, even as I lay holding my half-asleep pregnant wife in my arms, my last thought before sleeping was of Xenia, as was my first thought on waking.

The next morning I arrived at Stewartby Hall sharp at 9.30am, knowing I had to finish the interview that day in order to pull my article together. Xenia was wearing an attractive peach-coloured sleeveless dress which showed off her slim arms and ended just above the knee, reminding me how shapely were her legs, clad this time in flesh-tone stockings. I tried to get straight down to things but, to my growing frustration, she spent the first half hour talking about everything but her life story: the weather, her rose garden, her dog's ear problems...Eventually she giggled and shook her head. "I'm sorry Richard, I am being very naughty, teasing you like this. Okay, so, in 1926 I met Joe Stewartby..."

Xenia had met her husband at a party on the opening night of a Broadway show he'd funded. He'd been born Joop de Vos in Johannesburg, but changed his name early in life to Joseph Devers. A skilled and uncompromising businessman, within a few weeks of settling in Britain he had bought an ailing newspaper business, the Daily Inquirer, and after two years had turned in around and made it one of the successes of Fleet Street. He bought his grand home from a baronet ruined by stock market speculation and gambling, and changed his name again to Stewartby when he bought a peerage from Lloyd George's government, an infamous cash for honours trade long before Tony Blair thought of it. As Xenia wryly put it when she saw the look on my face, "Yes, he could pretty much buy anything he wanted, including me."

Short and squat with a bull-neck, and almost twice Xenia's age, she found him physically unattractive but was drawn like a moth to a flame to the air of authority and power he exuded, not to mention his fortune. The next day he telephoned her and informed her he was taking her to dinner; the following morning, after she slipped out of his hotel suite, she broke off her engagement to a New York bank heir, and within two months she had become Lady Stewartby, her husband's third and final wife.

She was quite frank about the nature of their relationship. "There was never really any love between us, but the arrangement suited both of us. My background gave him the status to rub shoulders with the upper echelons of society whose respect he craved, and his wealth gave me more or less anything I wanted." Her next comment caught me completely off-guard. "Joe was very coarse, and he had no finesse. He used to roger me like a bull attacking a gate, from the front or behind, slamming me into the headboard of the bed. I'll bet you're not like that, Richard. I see you as a sensitive, considerate lover -- am I right?" She placed a hand lightly on my knee and, feeling my face turn scarlet with embarrassment, I quickly tried to move the conversation on, causing Xenia to give a soft laugh and shake her head in amusement.

Despite his best efforts, Xenia and her husband never had children, and the divide which had always existed between them gradually widened. Joe's newspaper had supported Mosley's black-shirts in the years before the Second World War, whereas Xenia, with her experiences at the hands of the Bolsheviks, despised all forms of political extremism. A few years into the marriage she fell deeply in love with another man, but Stewartby refused her a divorce and her lover married another. After that they went their separate ways within the marriage: Joe had his mistresses and Xenia was free to take lovers as long as she was discreet and didn't expect to escape her husband's clutches. They rarely spoke to each other, or even saw each other in private, occupying different parts of the house, although for years they kept up a public show of togetherness. During the war Xenia had volunteered in the WRVS and run their local headquarters from the house. When her husband died from a heart attack in 1960 -- allegedly in the bed of an up-and-coming young stage and TV actress the Inquirer had been promoting -- it was one of the happiest days of Xenia's life. In the years since she had lived quietly with her horses, until following a fall her doctor forbade riding, her dogs and a handful of deeply loyal staff.

I was appalled by this sad, lonely tale, and actually felt a lump in my throat as she related it to me. Xenia smiled and, reaching for my hand, said, "Come, let's go dance and cheer ourselves up. Then you can go away and write your story about me." Feeling a little dazed I followed her to the now familiar ballroom. It took me a moment to realise that since the previous day she had set up a tape player in the room; she pressed a button, kicked off her shoes, took my hand and we began to dance. The first two pieces were waltzes, one by Strauss and one I didn't recognise. It felt strange, just the two of us twirling around that huge empty room to the echoing tinny music, but once again I found myself relaxing and enjoying the experience. As it ended I started to disengage myself, but then, in total contrast, Glen Miller's Moonlight Serenade struck up. Instantly Xenia reached her arms around my neck and pulled me close. I rested my hands on her hips and we shuffled together to the mellow, slow rhythm of the music. Inclining her mouth towards my ear she murmured, "Ah, this brings back such memories."

As the tune continued Xenia pressed herself still closer to me. To adjust to her movements I shifted my hands from her hips to the small of her back. As we swayed together, her midriff in constant contact with mine, to my surprise and embarrassment I felt my cock beginning to stir, and quickly rising to a full erection. Xenia couldn't have been unaware of it, and delicately I tried to pull away slightly, so as not to alarm her; but far from being perturbed she followed my movements, and I was quite sure that she was consciously rubbing against me, causing my prick to rise still further. I could feel a sheen of nervous sweat forming at the nape of my neck, dampening my hair, but I continued the dance to its conclusion, her belly pressed to mine, her breasts a twin pressure against my chest. The music ended but we remained locked together in that position for several seconds, my heart racing. Xenia smiled up at me, her eyes gleaming with pleasure, her cheeks flushed, her expensive perfume filling my head, her red-painted lips inches from mine. I could actually feel her breath on my face, and I was certain she was going to pull my head down to into a kiss. After a few seconds, though, she broke the silence, whispering, "Thank you darling, that was quite wonderful", then released her arms from around my neck and stepped back, before turning to recover her shoes. As she dropped her arms, however, the palm of her hand passed 'accidentally', but very distinctly, across my bulging crotch.

As she had done the previous day she took my hand in hers and led me towards her front door. This time she interlaced her fingers in mine and walked very close to me, her arm resting against mine. My mouth dry with nervous tension I comforted myself with the thought that I'd got all I needed for the article, and however awkward the situation I'd never need to visit Stewartby again.

At the door Xenia took my other hand as well and turned me to face her. Looking serious,, her eyes fixed on mine, she asked, "Richard, will you come and see me again tomorrow?" My heart in my mouth I asked why. She held my gaze for a long moment then, with a small shrug, answered simply, "Because I asked you to. And because we are friends -- aren't we? And because dancing with you has given me more...pleasure than I have felt in a very long time."

As I drove away I cursed myself bitterly. Why the fuck had I said yes? From the moment I got home until late into the night I worked and re-worked my article on Xenia, but always with my promise to visit her again weighing in the back of my mind. I left a lot of things out, and I skimmed over a lot of things; frankly, it would have been easy to make her appear to have spent her life as an aristocratic whore and a leech, but that would not have been accurate, or fair, and I didn't want to do it to her. After all, I was writing for the Bedfordshire Weekly Gazette, not the News of the World or Titbits, and I wrote the fluffy, pandering personality piece I knew our readers would want.

I didn't sleep well that night, and ended up hunched on the couch so as not to disturb Susie. I got up early, tucked my story into a manila envelope, together with a film cartridge containing several shots which could be used to illustrate it -- the house, Xenia, the rose garden, the dog -- then drove into Bedford and left it with a yawning receptionist to pass to Reg. To cover my absence for the day I also left him a note that I had a splitting migraine and was going back to bed. Then I sloped off to a back-street café to kill time eating a bacon sandwich and drinking a couple of gallons of coffee.

I felt as guilty as hell, not for throwing a sicky at work, but because it felt as if I was betraying my wife. Not that I expected anything really outrageous to happen -- after all, I was just paying another visit to an eccentric elderly lady. I was deeply aware, though, that this old lady had once been a predatory young beauty who had screwed Christ knew how many blokes, who had told me that "being fucked" was the greatest joy of her life, and who was clearly attracted to me. And the worst of it was, despite the differences in our ages, and despite the cloud of guilt hanging over me, I found Xenia intriguing, and fun, and I couldn't deny to myself that I felt a certain physical attraction towards her too. I expected that all that would happen that day was that we would dance again, she would probably get her rocks off by rubbing herself up against me again and maybe giving me another hard-on, and then I'd leave. Even so, there was no valid reason for me to be going back to Stewartby, and I knew I shouldn't go.

We had agreed to lunch, and I arrived about 20 minutes early. Xenia herself met me at the front door of the house, closely followed by the spaniel, its stumpy tail wagging. She looked fabulous, having opted for the Greek goddess image: a thick gold band circling her throat, a white figure-hugging ankle-length dress, which exposed an expanse of pale chest and a hint of cleavage, an intricate gold wire bracelet around one wrist, and strappy gold sandals exposing gold painted toe nails. As I stepped close she placed her hands on my shoulders and kissed me softy on each cheek. Her lipstick was darker than usual, a burgundy shade, her cheeks were lightly rouged and she was wearing a different fragrance to her usual, a flowery one with slight musky undertones.

We drank rich, oily sherry before entering a small dining room, not the huge hall where in the past 60 or more guests at a time had eaten. Xenia was in professional hostess mode, bright and charming, full of small talk, the conversation entirely neutral. The butler served us, trying hard not to look as if he resented my very presence in the house, assisted by a middle-aged Filipino maid I hadn't met before. The meal was superb: real oxtail soup, succulent roast beef that melted in my mouth, and a deliciously spiced apple crumble with cream, all washed down with a bottle of glorious red wine probably more expensive than I could afford with a week's wages. Then, with me feeling rather stuffed and a little lightheaded from the drinks, we retired to the familiar sitting room. Instead of the chairs we had previously occupied, Xenia directed me to large soft sofa then sat beside me, perhaps a foot away, and poured coffee.

I handed her a copy of the article and watched nervously, praying she wouldn't demand changes, as she read it, sipping her coffee. For minutes the only sound in the room was the ticking of a large and ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Finally she looked up from the article and, with a shy smile, said softly, "Thank you Richard, you've been very kind, very discreet." Finishing my coffee, weak with relief, I thanked her for a wonderful lunch. She nodded and said, "It was my great pleasure darling." Then she placed her cup on the low table in front of us, slid along the sofa to within inches of me and took my cup. She gazed searchingly at me for a few moments then with a single finger stroked a strand of hair from my forehead. Then she dropped her hand to my shoulder and murmured, "You know, Richard, you really are a very beautiful young man."

I knew I wasn't, but her blatant flattery caught me off-guard and I was tongue-tied and speechless. Of course, if I'd been sober that's the moment when I would probably have leapt up, told her I was very flattered, then made my excuses and left, as they say. But the combination of the sherry, the wine and her cloying perfume acted like a drug on me, dulling my instincts and muddling my brain. Caught in her gaze like a moth held captive by a flame, after a few moments I felt bare toes slip up inside my trouser leg and stroke my shin. I was about to say something -- I didn't know what -- when her hand slipped from my shoulder and around my neck and she pulled me gently towards her. Lost in the moment, a small part of my brain shocked at my compliance, I leant in and she kissed me on the lips.

Her other arm joined the first around my neck and she eased forwards, until she was laying half on top of me. At first we kissed softly, tenderly, but quickly our connection turned to a passionate gnawing at each other, our mouths pressed hard together, our tongues wrestling like combative snakes, as her thigh pressed between my legs, against my groin. Without me realising my hand found one of her breasts -- unfettered by a brassiere beneath her dress -- and I gently squeezed it, feeling a nipple pressing into my palm. One of Xenia's arms left my neck and she began to fumble at the belt of my trousers. In moments she had skilfully undone it, and with no hesitation she dragged them and my boxer shorts halfway down my thighs.

Snatching her lips from mine, she slid down the sofa and I gasped as I felt her mouth close over my scrotum. She tickled my balls with her tongue while tracing her fingertips electrically along the length of my already hard prick, then ran her tongue up the underside of my shaft before taking me into her mouth. I gazed down in astonishment at the head of white hair bobbing at my groin, part of me still not quite believing that a woman 52 years older than me, a Russian countess distantly related to our own queen, was sucking my cock.

I heard a sound outside the door to the room and for a moment had a horrible vision of the butler walking in and finding us like that; then everything flew from my mind except the feel of Lady Xenia Stewartby's lips and tongue feasting on my cock and balls. Old Captain Kazamirov had been right -- it was the most fantastic blowjob I'd ever had as she trailed her tongue around my knob, and sucked me deep into her throat to take my balls into her mouth at the same time. I lay back, my eyes closed as I felt myself about to explode...then she stopped. I felt her slither up my body again then her lips were on mine, her tongue exploring my mouth and her fingers stroking through my chest hair under my shirt. She waited until I'd started to cool down a bit then repeated the process, playing my cock like a piccolo until my orgasm neared and then pulling back. By the third time she went down on me I was all but begging her to let me cum, and as the moment approached I wound my fingers into her expensive coiffeur and held her on my dick. She gave a throaty chuckle and guzzled greedily at me as, with a huge upward jerk of my hips, I erupted into her mouth. She kept sucking until she had every last drop then sat up and made a show of swilling my jizz around her mouth like a fine claret then swallowing it. Then she kissed me again, smearing the remnants of my juice around the inside of my mouth.

I was still a little drunk, and dazed by what had just happened. Xenia, however, calmly stood, pulled me up, re-secured my trousers around my waist and guided me by the hand out of the room and through a small door I hadn't noticed before. It led to the back stairs of the house, and we emerged on the first floor opposite what turned out to be her bedroom. Once inside she eased her dress off her shoulders and it fell to the floor around her feet. Beneath it she was completely naked. Wordlessly she stepped out of the dress, crossed the room to the bed, lay on it with her legs slightly splayed and, sitting up on her elbows, gazed at me with one elegant eyebrow raised questioningly.

Christ, I had never seen anything like her. Her long slim body was as pale as alabaster, with only a few wrinkles here and there to mark her age. Without the support of a bra her breasts sagged a little, but were still impressive, with brown nipples, the longest I'd ever seen, perhaps an inch. A couple of blue veins traced down the thin skin on her hips, and at the base of her belly was a downy silver patch of pubic hair. Not an ounce of spare fat could be seen on her thighs, between which I could see the hairless pink folds of her vagina.

I must have stood staring at her beauty for fully twenty seconds before, with the tiniest hint of impatience, she said "Well?" That snapped me out of my reverie, and without a second thought I quickly removed my own clothes, lay beside her, took her in my arms and kissed her with renewed passion, her breasts crushed against my chest, one of her feet stroking my shin. When we came up for air she triumphantly whispered "I wanted you to fuck me the first time we met; and within half an hour I knew you would." We kissed some more and I felt her hand close around my already stiff knob. Completely surrendering to my passion for her I slipped my fingers between her legs and she groaned appreciatively as two of them entered her, my thumb seeking out her clitoris. She was on fire inside, her flesh already slick, and I began to slide my fingers deep into her in a steady rhythm.

I could feel that I wouldn't last too long if she kept stroking me with her fingers, so I eased her legs apart and positioned myself above her. As I entered her she sighed "Oh God yes my darling, fuck me." I started gently, but Xenia urged me on until before long I was thrusting powerfully into her, my knees drawn up to enable me to provide the power she demanded. I was sure I would cum first, but she suddenly swung her legs around my body, locking them behind my back, her hips pushing up spasmodically against me as she screamed her joy. I followed seconds later, driving my cock into her to the hilt, then we fell into each other's arms and kissed tenderly, both panting for breath.