Snapshots - The Show Must Go On
#3 of Snapshots
_Author's Note: The third of my 'Snapshots' series. Each of these shorts will consist of exactly 1000 words. If a picture is worth 1000 words, how much picture is 1000 words worth? This one was a challenge, as I wanted to work in a few tips of the hat to the culture of the time, and ran into the unbreakable barrier of wordcount. Some things got cut, but overall, I'm quite happy with the final product, and hope you will be too. Oh, and fair warning - This story is clean overall, but does contain some innuendo and nudity. If that's offensive, well... I'm sorry, and you may want to consider switching sites. :P _
_Enjoy! _
_Big thanks to- _
-for the idea, and the permission to use the concept. Go check out his 1000 word adventures too!
Thanks also goes as always to Guri for proofing.
The Show Must Go On
'Four minutes, old chap. Move your bob!'
The lanky hare bounded top speed down the backstage corridor of the playhouse. Arthur Reginald Helmsmeade the Third had never missed a cue. Today would not be the first occurrence. Particularly not with their esteemed royal patron in attendance!
The door to his dressing chamber flew open with a well-timed kick, his colourful cape and doublet already shucked and sent sailing off into the vicinity of his costume dresser. There was a moment's confusion as he started on his shirt buttons, recalled it did not need to switch for this costume change, and began undoing his hose instead, kicking off his shoes in the process.
That was when he realized his dressing chamber was not vacant. Arthur's head whipped up, a startled gasp escaping him. "I say! Who-"
"Ah, my sweet Arthur," purred the tigress, rising from the corner chair and sweeping towards him, arms outstretched. "You make such haste to present yourself to me. I am flattered!" Her Parisian inflection clipped the words, but her predatory gaze left no doubt as to her intent.
"G-Geneveve!" Arthur sputtered, falling back against his vanity in his retreat. "M-madam, this is most unusual. What has brought you to my dressing chamber?"
His vivacious mistress licked her lips, looming over him and trapping him against the vanity with one arm on either side. "I wished to be present to offer my... congratulations, my beau! This new performance, surely it ees a triumph, one calling for zee celebration, oui?"
"Geneveve, I-"
Her jade eyes narrowed dangerously. "But what ees this? Hesitation?" Her tone was iron firm. "Non! I must have my beau! He ees gone from me for so long, he has no excuse to deny moi."
Before he realized what was happening, Geneveve had seized his shirt ruff, hoisting him, and with almost magical swiftness, divested him of both leggings and long johns in a mighty tug. She tossed the garments carelessly over her shoulder, ignoring his squeak of alarm as he tumbled onto his rump.
"Madam! Please!"
"An improvement," the tigress said with a nod, "But still my beau's lips do not say how magnifique it ees to see moi." Her eyes drifted down to his now bared lower half as he picked himself up, a low growl rolling form her throat. "Ah! But all ees not lost! Zee petit garçon recalls proper etiquette in zee presence of his madame."
Mortified, Arthur realized she spoke truth, her presence, proximity, and yes, even her aggressive brand of affection all serving to provide a familiar tightening between his thighs. Grimly, he pushed such thoughts aside. The show must go on!
"My humblest apologies, Geneveve, but I fear I cannot attend you. My presence is required promptly back on stage, and I must shift costume prior. Please, madam, I must!" He awarded her a beseeching look, knowing that, if she decided he wasn't going to leave this room, there would be no argument.
Her brow furrowed as she stared into his eyes, probing for any deception, before she took a step back with a displeased huff. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Such dedication, it ees zee mark of zee true artiste. You must hurry to return, my délicieuse pâtisserie, or I shall be displeased!"
Arthur nodded mutely, scurrying by her to collect his alternate costume from the chair. 'Less than two minutes now, old chap. Bollocks! Could she not have waited?' To his chagrin, his long johns had landed with the old pants precisely on top of the wardrobe, well out of his reach without a stool. There was no time to retrieve them. Sweat beaded on his brow as he tugged on the new clothes, flushing at the impropriety of going without underthings. Onstage no less! But, it could not be helped.
Arthur arrived in the wings not a moment too soon, a touch out of breath, as his companions, Robert and Worthington, performed the scene leading into the play's finale. Arthur mopped his brow, intensely relieved, though he could still feel the arousal bobbing freely. Why were these hose so loose? The fabric rubbing on his sensitive flesh did not assist in removing the problem, but thankfully, the baggy material hid it from sight.
A voice stage whispered in his ear. "Arthur, splendid! You slipped into the new costume with no trouble." William, the lead of their company, patted him on the shoulder. "I have made a small alteration. A new ending, lighter fare, as Her Majesty enjoys. No need to fret, the other two know what to do. You need merely play along, and it will be smashing! There's a good chap."
"-before tasting steel!" Robert was saying onstage, brandishing a costume sword.
'Bloody, blazing bollocks!' His cue! Trembling, Arthur strode on stage, mechanically spouting his lines, playing the antagonist role. What sort of change had William devised? Why had he not been informed?
"Cretin!" Robert shouted presently, coming at him with a wild swing. Arthur drew his own costume sword, stepping back with a neat parry, allowing the other to steadily push him across the stage.
"Receive your debt price with honour, cur!"
Robert's next strike, meant to be the 'killing' blow, and the ending of the play, came in at waist height. Arthur played along, neglecting to parry, adopting a dismayed expression.
Ping!
The blade struck Arthur's belt buckle. The clasp disintegrated, clicking open at pre-arranged places. Fabric whisked down, bringing the gut-wrenching sensation of unintended exhibitionism - cool air on stiffened pride.
Arthur froze, unable to breathe, gaze flicking to Robert. The mongoose's mouth hung agape, proving that this, at least, was not in the script. An impossibly long moment of stunned silence passed, before an unmistakable, cultured voice echoed out from the private viewing balcony.
"We are amused by this new fashion in performance. Most intriguing, certainly avant-garde. We must meet these players forthwith!"
Onstage, Arthur Reginald Helmsmeade the Third fell into a graceful, dignified faint.