As I reached for a book of plays and wit by one of the day's foremost authors I chanced to notice that another had joined me in the room, no doubt seeking the same solace I too sequestered myself within. "Charles," came the voice that rang out with the subtle melodies of the Blue Jay on a hot summer's day. "I've noticed you've chosen to abscond from the party. And just as Mrs. BrakenBush was to sing at the piano." I turned to notice another figure of considerable amplitude, Miss Davenport.

Miss Davenport had been coming to all the parties of the season and had caused quite a stir. Her assets, as they were, multiplied greatly within the last year due to speculation within the railroads of America. Her more visceral endowments had been the talk of all the men and many a brandy snifter had received more than its fair share of fondling while these discussions took place over brandy and cigars. The women, with their polite manners, merely speculated on the cost and yardage of her specially consigned corsets. One thing everyone agreed upon was that Miss Davenport was definitely "new Money". A term, which when used in polite society, means tedious, banal and decidedly American.

I engaged myself in my intended reading. I was well aware of the fancy she'd taken in me, one that I did not requite. "Charles," she repeated, "do tell me what you think of my latest corset. Does it not flatter my figure?" The contemptible woman had somehow ferreted out my one weakness, for a true gentleman allows himself but one. A full corset with a trough of cleavage the length of a baby's arm does one no end of wonders when attempting to arouse the ardour. And here she stands in front of me, expectantly, corset not just filled but mounded on top by domes of femininity. I can imagine her rate of breath to be forcedly high so as to attract my attentions the more as she heaves up and down within the confines of her support. "This particular corset I saw in the window at Attleby's. I was particularly drawn to the red lace which trims the black silk." Her peculiar fascination with the word particular made me wish I were very high on a hill overlooking the town of Judea.

"I thought to myself it would look much better on." she continued.

"On what, my dear? On fire?" I retorted. A touch of crimson came to her overly powdered cheek. I was flirting with her! Damn. "Oh come now Charles, you mustn't tease a lady so. Tell me the truth."

"The truth my dear is always the most dishonest of facades. Besides, I have taken a vow never to tell the truth past midday on Tuesday. Seeing as it is now Wednesday I assure you you'll not receive a single forthright word from me."

"And how disappointing, for I hoped you might see its finer points and give me a firm gentleman's evaluation."

"Your trust is misplaced, for I merely practice all the facades a true gentleman knows by heart. Won't you be missed outside?"

"Oh, they don't really care for my company and I do not care for theirs. I intimidate the women and arouse the men, which in turn infuriates the women and emasculates the men. And who wants to associate with a bunch of shrews and fairies. It's practically Alice in Wonderland when I'm around."

This cavalcade of words from her was most unusual. I now noticed the shades of crimson farther down on her over powdered chest and realized that she was well more than coyly flirting, she was aroused! I also noticed that I was in the business of noticing her and gave myself notice to stop noticing. Damn.

"Pithy rejoinders do not suit you my dear, I suggest you refrain from their usage."

"But I..."

She was struck to the quick. "And the same goes for self-aggrandizement. Such a dishonest ploy of yours to try to make me believe you are the center of this season's concern! I admire dishonesty, for it is the one thing that keeps a certain mystery about a person and stops them from becoming prematurely uninteresting, but in this case you merely attempt to deceive and I should think you well know me to be above that.

"I'm sorry," she quietly apologized. I had struck home but perhaps a bit harder than I had intended. Still, she would be out of my presence for a good long time.

"Am I so horrid in your estimation? I meant no harm." She looked as though she might burst into tears. Her emotions were always close to the surface on those rare occasions when they were not on it.

"If you are to have an emotional outburst I suggest you return to the outer rooms where it can be made more the spectacle. One's innermost privations play exceedingly well to a large audience."

She stopped and looked up at me, "Actually I'd like to show you one thing before I go. Something that may change your evaluation of me, should my sources be correct."

Who were those damnable sources? I'd wager anything on a cleverly dropped innuendo by Lord Ashton or Quimby. It is perfectly atrocious the way people spread rumors and innuendo behind one's back, nowadays, which are absolutely true.

"What do you wish to show me, dear?" I mustered with all the expectation of a migrinated bugle-boy at revelry.

She stood erect and took a deep breath, which I surely expected to end in the form of a sob or some droll upbraiding which would satisfy her damaged ego and provide no end of gossip for the harpies of Leicester in the outer chamber.

When the unexpected happens, I am one to usually take no notice, as most of the things which occur in my life are unexpected with the exception of my five o'clock cocktail at the club and my eight o'clock bath. But this took me so my jaw fell a slack and I could tell by the maniacal grim on Lady Davenport's face that she had produced the desired response. Her voluminous bosom heaved and where it should have fallen it stayed. The upper portions of her "endowments" now filling the top of her corset until they pinched ever so slightly over the tops like a fresh-baked loaf over stuffing its pan.

"Do that again." I stuttered. Her smile was practically Cheshirian. Again her lungs heaved like some great bellows, filling her and fueling my growing desire. She expanded and her cleavage grew a full hand in length. Her dress and corset gave noticeable protestations of stress and the fabric moaned. The stress lines grew more pronounced as she billowed outward spherically.

Miss Davenport took a few steps closer, giving the best definition of the German word 'bibenschimmel'- the slight shaking of breast flesh-- that I had ever seen. She undulated. Each breast quavered with the impact of heel and toe along the plush Oriental rug.

She inhaled and she blew up yet again, roughly to the size of a medicine ball, each breast. As she grew I heard a faint ripping which I took to be her corset-cover divorcing itself from her broadening frame. How could this corset be taking the stress? Already the seams under her arm had begun to pucker. They burst leaving little stringlets behind to form an ever-widening gap filled by the enormously overstuffed corset within. The delightful floating orbs of flesh protruded from those partitions of cloth forcing them wider and wider. Moses did not part the Red Sea more efficiently.

In comparison, I can only imagine the inflating of a dirigible would give an adequate visual impression of what was happening before me. They swelled and swelled to massive proportions. She took notice of her own expanding girth and ran her hands over the curvaceous tops of her feminine globes, which could have filled four or five hands, compressing them at the sides, pressing them slightly upward so as to expose the very upper portion of her areolae. At that moment she threw back her head, exposing her soft white nape, her hair back and she gave out a rapturous gasp.

The next sound was of a crunching and splintering. Her bosom billowed forward as it filled larger. The dress, which had succumbed to the power of her augmentation, hung loosely, not much more than a skirt now and her lovely black corset with red lace uppers was exposed. The splintering sound came from the crushing of the whalebone supports. They could no longer be considered supports as undeniable force of her Brobdignagian growth snapped them asunder. She threw her head forward and looked at me hungrily, her tresses falling down her alabaster shoulder to rest lightly on top of the venous mounds throbbing under her chin. Her head tilted down slightly while her eyes stared up in that smiling predatory manner of the hunter with a helpless prey. I knew it then. They were coming out.

Snap! Crack! went the wire clasp hook and eyes that held her in the now trembling coiffure. She threw back her shoulders, which I now realized had the tone of a circus strongman, arched her back and ecstatically encouraged her burgeoning development. As she grew large, fat, deep red nipples burst forth tearing the lacy fringe from its mooring. With each PING and ZIP she looked more and more satisfied until finally in one swift motion, combined a shake of the shoulders and a toss of her soft auburn hair, the corset ripped from her body and landed penitently several feet in front of her quivering shaking body. She stood, with erect nipples the size of opera-glasses, two massive breasts thrice the size of a schoolhouse globe that totally obscured any insinuation of a slender waistline her late corset had attempted to create. She trembled in front of me, overcome by the tremulously vibrant sensations rippling through her body stimulating her to her primal sexual core. I was staring into the eyes of the Id personified. Damn.

With a deftness of step that belied her massive bulk she crossed the room to where I was located against the bookshelf and pinioned me there, a good foot of flesh to either side and she yet a few feet away. She stared at me and then the slightest bit of pale overcame her face accompanied by a trickle of sweat gently gliding down her left temple. Her lips parted. She realized that the hands I had raised in a Darwinian gesture of self-defense had found their purchase grasping her unbelievably sensitive nipples. I looked down and saw each and every vein feeding the massive titans and could have sworn they actually throbbed. I felt like the tiniest of infants clutched to the most overly engorged pap of a glowing new mother. I deftly flicked my right thumb as though I were ridding myself of a cigarette that had outlived its usefulness and she immodestly drew in a breath and bit down on her lower lip. A near orgasmic wince ran roughshod over her face.

"Take me."

The request was barely audible.

Truth be known, I too was now bulging and throbbing, but in a distinctly gentlemanly fashion.

Her hands made their way to the pronounced promontory now made by my trousers as I managed to heft my arms up, over, around and down the sides of the mounds of flesh that stood between myself and the opportunity to hike her skirt and remove her bloomers. The feeling was astonishing and I wondered how much longer I could hold back my "petit morir". As my hands slithered down her waist toward their design, the entirety of my torso was covered in this flowing feminine flesh that gave ever so slightly to any pressure. My wrists, though at her waist, brushed against the massive curvature of her breasts. The small sensitive pit of my elbow filled with her delights. The pressure of her mammoth presence I felt on my ribcage, front and side, as she took each heaving breath. I was awash within the confines of a woman.

The pressure increased greatly as she leaned forward to whisper, "They have an open under seam." Had you told me it was possible to "stand" any taller and prouder than I had been I would have seriously taken your medical credentials into doubt. This statement though produced an upsurgence that I did not think I could withhold. It was my duty as a gentleman to fulfill the lady's wishes and, by gum! if I wasn't ready to give her what for!

What happened next is all an intoxicating blur. Notions of suffrage having been put in her head by who knows who she forced me to the floor and straddled my trapped and nearly helpless frame. Her motions caused waves of tissue to relentlessly assault me, each breast rippling like its own ocean. Arching her back wildly I was able again to orient my hands to their proper targets. Each areola was wider than the span of my hand. As she gyrated wildly, I hugged close her heaving outpourings. I ran my hands down from her collarbone to where the skin of her chest stretched to accommodate her great girth. Then I pressed down into the crests of each breast flattening as I went (as well as I could) which elicited a moan-sigh of enthusiasm. A fair share of kissing even took place, of lips and bodies and abundantly profuse nipples which I could grip in my hand like a jockey his riding crop.

*** ***

We only narrowly escaped the attention of our hosts. A well-timed call to my footman and a bit of pecuniary remuneration goes a long way in keeping one's closet locked, though by now I was in dire need of a whole armoire.

From this point on Miss Davenport was well received in society. I gave her support through my generous patronage of her artistic endeavours, be they successful or not. Some would call her a dilettante. Some would call her immoral as rumors spread about the nature of our arrangements. I am bothered by none of this. Morality is merely an attitude adopted towards people whom one personally dislikes.

Occasionally she will tease me at some of my finest dinner parties by growing ever so slightly in the middle of conversation. It is totally shameless the way wives flirt with their husbands, nowadays, and something should be done about it.