They rutted shamelessly in the floating pyres of the Armada, before the broken, humiliated form of Spain, whose bowed head could see the further indignity leaking from his body in white and red. Clad only in her coat and boots, milky white body cast in gilt by the light of burning ships, she screamed and purred as he thrust desperately into her, his hands kneading at her breasts, suckling at them as hungrily as an infant and licking off the drops of the swarthy-skinned nation’s blood from her flesh. He told her against her skin that she could never leave him, for he loved her and desired her. She only laughed and slipped from his fingers for another spell in which peace would come to his green land.
In every age, every campaign, the men feared and worshiped her. They murmured to themselves of this odd, odd woman perpetually with such a powerful man. His own rulers sometimes had qualms about her and some even hated her. But he would never send her away; she would leave him instead, always. As the ages passed, no longer did the end of fighting, a desolate battlefield, drive her from his arms. Soon, it was quills and ink and scrawled names that spelled her departure. And his blazing desire for her started to cool.
Nonetheless, if she but beckoned to him, he knew he would go to her, a dog at the end of her leash. He would wag his tail and place his head on her lap, just hovering for her regard, her touch. She came to him at the beginning of a new century, when he was grim and sick and frustrated. He wanted her away, weary of squabbles and a world that now was mapped and sorted and plotted.
But she came to him on soft, silken feet and caressed his face with her milky-white hands. He drowned in her sunset eyes and he devoured her smiling lips desperately as she pressed her soft, heavy breasts to him. Losing all control, all propriety, he remembered the days of bearskin beds and firelight, of gilt buttons and bright red boots. He could more easily remember her eyes on him, glowing on her blood streaked face, as he humiliated Spain. Her fingers undid his clothing with enraging deftness (for how long had she had been doing this? With whom else?). He cursed her and himself and everything he could think of in a stream of sewage as he had her on his desk, over the damned missives and papers and telegrams. Her legs wrapped around his hips and she embraced him twice. He did not sing to her or quote poetry and they danced obscenely to the tasteless though ancient rhythm of his thrusts and her shoves.
“You will be the death of me,” he whispered to her, lost in her smell and warmth and embrace.
She laughed at him and kissed his cheek, chastely. Her lips burned like acid and he tasted blood.
Re: Red Rider
In every age, every campaign, the men feared and worshiped her. They murmured to themselves of this odd, odd woman perpetually with such a powerful man. His own rulers sometimes had qualms about her and some even hated her. But he would never send her away; she would leave him instead, always. As the ages passed, no longer did the end of fighting, a desolate battlefield, drive her from his arms. Soon, it was quills and ink and scrawled names that spelled her departure. And his blazing desire for her started to cool.
Nonetheless, if she but beckoned to him, he knew he would go to her, a dog at the end of her leash. He would wag his tail and place his head on her lap, just hovering for her regard, her touch. She came to him at the beginning of a new century, when he was grim and sick and frustrated. He wanted her away, weary of squabbles and a world that now was mapped and sorted and plotted.
But she came to him on soft, silken feet and caressed his face with her milky-white hands. He drowned in her sunset eyes and he devoured her smiling lips desperately as she pressed her soft, heavy breasts to him. Losing all control, all propriety, he remembered the days of bearskin beds and firelight, of gilt buttons and bright red boots. He could more easily remember her eyes on him, glowing on her blood streaked face, as he humiliated Spain. Her fingers undid his clothing with enraging deftness (for how long had she had been doing this? With whom else?). He cursed her and himself and everything he could think of in a stream of sewage as he had her on his desk, over the damned missives and papers and telegrams. Her legs wrapped around his hips and she embraced him twice. He did not sing to her or quote poetry and they danced obscenely to the tasteless though ancient rhythm of his thrusts and her shoves.
“You will be the death of me,” he whispered to her, lost in her smell and warmth and embrace.
She laughed at him and kissed his cheek, chastely. Her lips burned like acid and he tasted blood.