Going to Meet the Lady

Story by Alphazion and Okami-No-Kari

Writing contest Participant #7

“It won’t be long now,” the coachman assures you as the wheels creak and rock underneath, jostling the carriage along the hilly roads of rural Arcadia.  The sun is setting and with it the temperature has begun to noticeably drop.  You’re holding your cloak close to your body as your breath becomes visible within the narrow interior of the coach, melding into the mists of evening.

The journey hasn’t been long altogether, a few hours from the closest town center at most, yet a strange fatigue is falling over you.  The pines going by seem to meld into one another, forming a blurred patchwork of greens and browns, the creeping mist and encroaching twilight further blending the colors and textures like the paint on an artist’s palette.  The thought crosses your mind, unbidden, that you wouldn’t be able to navigate your way through these woods alone.

“We’ve arrived.”  The coachman’s words bring you out of your ruminations.  The carriage’s iron-bound wheels rattle and clack noisily over cobblestones (how long since you turned onto a paved road…?) as the vehicle slows, idling to a lazy stop within the walls of an expansive courtyard.

Upon exiting the coach you reach for your coin pouch, but your driver stalls you with an upraised hand.  “No charge.  The Lady pays all fares coming and going.”  Something about this strikes you as odd for more than the obvious reason.  You’d heard the matriarch of Windpaw Hall was wealthy, but-

Was it my audience she requested, personally?  Before you can speak your mind on the strange notion the coachman has already begun wheeling away.  There standing before you is the sprawling red brick and white marble exterior of Lady Jaida Windpaw’s personal manor house, the wings and terraces of the palatial estate extending past the field of your peripheral vision in all directions.

Feeling quite small all of a sudden, you approach the heavy oaken doors.  Two elegant bronze handles sit facing one another, cast in intricate detail depicting leaping fish, a testament to the craftsmanship of the metalworkers and surely sparing no expense.  As you set your hand upon one to knock, the massive portals swing open.

“Good evening, m’lord,” greets a soft voice as a petite Fox maid, clad in a simple black dress with white apron and bonnet, bows her head courteously to welcome you within.  Crossing the threshold into the main entrance hall, the air feels noticeably warmer than the outdoors, but something about the sheer size and scale of it all, from the polished marble floor to the high vaulted ceiling, strikes you as feeling drafty.  You haven’t even realized you’re clutching your cloak as tight as you are even while the demure maid’s gentle hands go to take it from your shoulders.

So distracted are you by the massive crystal chandeliers, the statuary flanking the colossal main staircase, and the looming portraitures lining the walls that you’ve barely noticed the quiet vixen’s gentle touch, feather-soft upon your arm, leading you to one of the adjoining side chambers.  The minute click-click of the housemaid’s clawed toes upon the cool glass-smooth floor slab seems swallowed up by the vastness of the entry hall, her dainty paws making no other sound as she approaches the door.

Inside, the drawing-room is floored with a thick crimson carpet, plush underfoot, the paneled walls boasting more oil paintings hanging there while twin sturdy hardwood bookshelves flank an impressive stone fireplace to either side.  The maid remains at the doorway.  “My Lady will be with you shortly, Sir,” she assures with a polite dip of her nose before excusing herself.

Now alone in the room, you have a chance to fully take stock of your surroundings.  In contrast to the cold and damp creeping in from the outdoors, the chamber’s interior feels almost oppressively warm at first, a cloying radiance from the homey fire as it merrily crackles and sputters away beneath the mantel’s masonry.  Your presence was indeed anticipated; this hearth was lit recently, timed to coincide with your arrival.  Directly before you sits an invitingly cozy armchair with a matching ottoman, luxurious red crushed velvet lined with gilt tasseling.

You decide to sit.  The chair is comfortable and the ride here was tiring.  The room’s large glass-pane windows are fogging from the cool dew of evening outside.  Dusk has settled.  Your body feels heavy when you sink into the velvet cushions and rest your weary limbs upon the supportive arms of the sturdy chair.  In front of you stands a small side-table; upon it, a fine crystal set, with two long-stemmed glasses and a full decanter.  The dark red wine within reflects the flickering orange light from the hearth.  Visions of the fire’s warm flames dance and distort within the liquid, circling in an endless chase of color, blurring together.  You can feel your eyelids beginning to droop as the reddish hues whirl around and around-

“I see you’ve arrived in good health.  Welcome.”

Her voice as smooth and refined as the silks of her dress gliding over the frictionless surface of the marble floor, the Lady makes her entrance.  She’s tall - you knew she would be, near to six feet if not just over counting her alert ears, with the slender, willowy build common to Cheetahs. In the comfortable confines of the waiting-room she seems taller still; a commanding presence the walls themselves seem to bow to.  The luxuriant red-gold of her neatly coiffured hair spills over her shoulder in fashionable ringlets, shining in the ambient light.  Even by Feline standards she’s possessed of an impressive grace, a sway of her hips and liquid striding motions of her long limber limbs bring her fully into the room, standing centered in your vision with a suitably regal composure.

“Do you thirst after your journey?”  Her head inclines as she regards you with brilliant blue eyes, her voice soft, almost musical with the richness of a noble’s hospitality.  Even as she’s speaking her hands are going to the serving-table, delicate fingers slipping around the necks of the crystal chalices.  For such a wealthy aristocrat she’s chosen deceptively simple attire for the evening.  Her gown is finely crafted, but minimal in its adornments and brocading, with delicate gold thread detailing across the verdant green of the garment where it clings tight to her bosom (for politeness’ sake, your eyes dare not tarry there!) and a burgundy sash around her waist, flattering her motherly hips. Something about her understated manner of dress feels reassuring, bringing a relatable comfort to the lavish surroundings, making the manor feel more like…well, like a home.  Even now, you can feel your shoulders relaxing back into the plush comfort of your chair while the statuesque lady Cheetah makes her way to another facing yours, sits, and crosses her legs; the hem of her gown swishes and dances with her movements, swaying about her slender ankles, delicate yet strong as the rest of the Lady herself, with one ankle wearing a thin gold bangle.  Every subtle detail of her body reflects the ideal of the Solarian noblewoman, elegant as diamond and every bit as resilient.  And just there, down below, her feet; absolutely bare and immaculate, no trace of anything at all upon them but for one solitary gold ring around one of her toes.

It’s rumored Lady Jaida rarely leaves her home, for official functions only, though she is not what one would call a “recluse” by any means, with the affluence to sustain her lifestyle while leaving her ample time for leisure.  Very much the dream of any aspiring Solarian.  The state of her comely footpaws reflects this comfort, her fur there brushed and groomed exquisitely, maintained in pristine condition with her toe-claws likewise polished to a sheen and clipped as tidily as could be.  So very clean it’s as if she’s stepped right out of a foot bath to greet you.  The pads of her feet, the same satin-pink as the insides of her ears, or the hint of her inner lips when she smiles that curious cat-smile of hers, show nary a single blemish nor trace of impurity - so soft and smooth you can practically feel the way your eyes glide over those natural feline paw-cushions.  Regular pedicures must be a fact of life for her (much to the fortune of some lucky servants, you find yourself thinking!)

Only logical, of course.  To a Cheetah her feet would be everything, and the legends of the Lady’s running speed carry every bit as much renown as her storied wealth.  While a young woman at the War’s outbreak, her swiftness soon earned her an esteemed position in the Royal Scout Regiment.  Before long she’d be tasked with some of the Crown’s most sensitive missions, at least until an unfortunate enemy arrow took her off the front lines - and though her service record, meritorious as it was, earned her land and a title of nobility, it’s perhaps a little odd that she’s this well-off for it since retiring…

Her toes flex subtly.  The hint of movement breaks you from your trance.  Have you been staring all this time?  Did she notice?  How long -?  Oh, the impropriety…!  The lilt in Lady Jaida’s voice turns to a mellow purling rumble, only just on the domesticated side of a growl.

“Do you like what you see?”

You feel a heated flush in your cheeks and ears upon hearing her question, your face suddenly all too warm even for the firelit room.  Her eyes, rimmed with dark liner, naturally long lashes painted with mascara, regard you the way only a hunting cat’s can.  From underneath kohl-darkened lids that blend with the natural markings of her face, that brilliant blue gaze alights upon you.  Studying you.  The eyes of a predator as deadly as she is beautiful.  And though she’s well into thirty and some years as the very model of “aging gracefully,” in this moment you remind yourself that the woman before you was one of the Queen’s most decorated soldiers.  Make no mistake.  She is dangerous.

Sudden realization dawns upon you that you’ve now left two of the Lady’s questions unanswered, and your hand extends lamely, seeming of its own accord to take the proffered glass from hers.  How long -? you ask yourself once more.  A dry cough tries to rise from your throat.  “Ah, but of course,” she replies with a subtle dip of her chin, every one of her motions agile, intuitive.  Sensual.  Seductive… Epitomizing the sophisticated woman of means, as sensibly matured as the expensive wine that fills your goblet. “Such a journey would leave you weary.  And with so much to see…”  Her silken gown billows around her shapely legs and ankles as she turns, indicating the room and what lies beyond.  “To me?  Home sweet home.  But for a first impression, well.  It can be daunting.”

“And it is your first time after all?”  She goes on to ask this as her head turns to face you squarely on, the pendant of the God Solarius that hangs from a chain around the woman’s sleek neck swinging into your view with the movement of her slight forward lean.  Almost mocking you for the indecent thoughts that continue their stubborn racing through your mind, as though for a brief moment the golden sun emblem had become the burning eye of the Radiant God Himself, looking inside you, staring, judging for the lewd thoughts you cannot escape.

“I can only hope that Windpaw Hall lives up to your impressions.”  This time, she hasn’t waited for an answer.  In a single motion she’s risen, closed the distance between the two of you, and is now raising her footpaw to rest her toes on the very edge of your seat.  “And if there’s anything at all you’d like a closer look…”

“I -” you begin to speak, but the words don’t come as easily.  Jaida looks as though she’s suppressing a soft laugh.  A fingertip taps to her lip…not in a shushing kind of gesture, not explicitly, yet you can still see the wisdom of holding your peace at this time, reminded of the old aphorism: better to keep one’s mouth shut and be thought a fool than open it and remove all doubt.

Her muzzle inclines, again - or does it?  The firelight casts odd shadows, the sweet wine-taste lingering on your lips and tongue mingles with travel fatigue and the comfort of the soft chair you’re resting in.  Try not to be a fool, pleads the voice of reason within you, try not to be taken off guard by the wily Cheetah and her ways.  You struggle to remain alert to the soothing sound of her gentle voice.  “I do hope you’re not intimidated.  If there’s anything more I can do to put you at ease -”  She trails off, there.  Her foot remains elevated and her padded toes curl, delicately pushing into the cushion of your chair and dimpling deep creases into the velvet.  It’s all you can do not to stare openly.  “...They do say my feet won the war,” the Cheetah adds as an airy afterthought, as though she either hasn’t noticed you looking or hasn’t paid it any mind until now.  Once more, your lips part, but no words come to your mouth, and now, you can see the sharp points of Jaida’s teeth as she gives you a predatory, all-too confident smile.  That Feline paw on your chair lifts, her toes flexing in the air, light shimmering from her claws as they’re splayed for your vision to behold.  The steady, deliberate slowness of her movement starts to come across as teasing; she’s slowing herself down to your level.  You can only imagine how awesome, how terrifying her speed was in her prime-

Your hands are going to her foot, like a marionette’s pulled by invisible strings, powerless to resist.  You realize she’s tempting you, entreating you…requesting a foot massage?  Allowing you a touch in a gesture of unspeakable magnanimity?  And you’re giving in without a fight.  You drink from your glass again, your hand unsteady when you set it back down - the sweetness of the fine wine does little to ease the rasping in your throat, the clumsy thick feeling of your tongue.  By now the thumb of your other hand has risen up to press into the curve of the noblewoman’s instep and she’s relaxing her shoulders, with a sensuous purr to your touch.

“Ah…by all means, help yourself.  Hospitality is a serious matter to myself and mine own.”  Smiling sweetly, lidded gaze over the rim of her glass, Lady Jaida drinks more as the impossibly soft pad of her paw brushes across your wrist, her toes briefly pressing to your inner forearm as she grazes her silken foot encouragingly along your hand.  Softer than you could possibly dream…your fingertips trace up to the edge of her paw’s main pad, and an electric shiver runs through her limber frame, her spotted fur bristling up.

“OooOOHHhh,” she croons out, her back subtly arching, tail lashing into a curl before relaxing again.  Ivory-tipped fangs press down into the dark line of her lower lip as her nostrils flare.  Is she exaggerating for effect?  Could you tell?  Just how much is she putting you on…?

“Do be gentle, darling,” the Lady murmurs, seeming to think nothing of using such a familiar term - even as the back of her paw sensually caresses up your leg.  “I’m very sensitive, you see.”  Her tone seems deeper, thrumming with lively energy, and the sensation that initially greeted you upon walking into the main entrance returns: feeling so small, so insignificant before the Lady’s splendor.

Before you can think any more on the matter her foot presses into contact with you again.  A gentle, but insistent motion - the muscles in your neck start to tighten, as do the leathers of your trousers, and for a moment you must plead, silently, to Great Solarius that the telltale creaking of the material stretched so unfortunately snug to your loins was only audible to your imagination.  As though seeking His divine presence your eyes are once more drawn to Lady Jaida’s Solarian pendant, glimmering gold and ever so flattering there just above the alluring curve of her generous bosom…with great effort your eyes meet hers again, those keen sapphire orbs likewise gleaming with amusement like twin gems set in her fine-featured feline face.

Amusement at my expense?  The thought mirrors the discomfort of your cruelly tight breeches, contrasting the welcoming softness of the armchair…and the Lady’s foot as she raises it further, moving with a hypnotic slowness this time that commands your attention, her paw curling subtly inward. The curve of her arch seems to fit perfectly over your knee and she leans a delicate press there, just once.  While she does this she swirls her wine glass around in her hand, the rich drink within turning over like dark tides at sea, before she takes another slow sip, by all appearances relishing in the sensation.

“I trust you are versed in the history of our Realm?”  She rests her chin in her free palm as she resumes studying you, continuing her slow rumbling purr on every word, voice as steady as a river washing over smooth stones - and undoubtedly concealing just as deadly an undercurrent.  Her sleek footpaw feels so warm, so very warm even through your trousers and now there’s no hope of hiding your arousal as it strains painfully tight in the front.  What could she be getting at?  Was this all her game from the very start - you, her prey, drawn in to be hunted and stalked by this savagely cunning Cheetah, as quick with her wits as with her feet…

The question hangs in the air for another awkward moment, and you go to speak.  Jaida’s throaty purr-growl beats you to the punch.  “For in days past, there was a tradition when greeting noblewomen for the first time,” she murmurs, taking a heartier drink of her wine - draining the rest of the glass in one swift movement.  It’s so warm in here, so warm, your garments tight beyond tight as they cling to your upper thighs, and her heavenly foot is moving again, creamy pink of those precious pads visible, tempting as her paw rises…to be kissed, as per the tradition she’s speaking of?  Or, to your lap where-

“Mother?”  Somehow the simple word reaches your ears before you register the subtle creaking of brass door hinges.  There from the doorway enters another figure; another Cheetah, somewhat smaller but every bit as lithe and gracile as the first, clad in a comfortable, modest raiment of her own, just a simple white blouse and forest-green skirts.  Miss Mika Windpaw, the daughter and future Lady of the house, a young woman only just grown past her girlhood, with shorter blonde hair and a pair of green eyes that alight on you with a huntress’ acumen beyond her years.  An inheritance from her father’s side, no doubt, though her striking features do greatly resemble a younger Jaida’s.  She wears her shortish hair loose about her shoulders, clipped in a sporty bob-cut, with her only visible accessory a simple Solarian pendant hanging from her neck in complement to her mother’s.  And just like the Lady’s, her soft feet are bare as well, shapely, high arches like a dancer’s, the pedicured claws tipping her toes showing that she too enjoys the domestic life afforded by the prosperity of her mother’s estate, wanting for nothing here.  She steps forward, then, showcasing the same sense of feline balance and agility as the older Windpaw; placing one foot in front of the other in a straight line, resting them almost gingerly upon the carpet one at a time, running the arch of one over the toes of the other on each, slinking, deliberate step forward into the chamber.

”...I wasn’t aware our guest had arrived already.“  With that, her lips curl into a smile - showing just a hint of teeth.