THE NIGHT OF HORROR
by John Alexander
Andy is tactful with a Valkyrie
Update: 13/12/1997 to misc3


Supper was over and the little ones were in bed.  As large 
fluffy snowflakes floated endlessly past the cottage windows 
in the winter night Andy the Eomhs and his dear wife Val the 
Valkyrie shared a quiet night of solitude together. Val sat in 
the large gingham wingback gently going about her crewel work 
while Andy sat in his favorite leather chair covered with the 
warm afghan she had made for him, his mug of cocoa steaming on 
the winetable at his side. The dying embers of the fireplace 
flickered in the dark corners of the room as Andy looked up 
from his leather volume of Edgar Allen Poe to regard his 
beautiful wife sitting opposite of him. She was sewing with 
her knees modestly together engrossed in her task, her face a 
study in innocent concentration, her long blond hair gathered 
back in a demonstration of how sensible practicality only 
enhances beauty.   

The cat snoozed on the ottoman before her having chosen a spot 
suitably  close to it's mistress for its feline reveries. She 
was a picture of the perfect madonna of the household, which 
he would not defile by gazing at, his eyes returned to the 
arabesque oddities of the dead author which accented the 
perfected happiness of his home. Yet, he chanced to glance up 
from his tale of horror to see that the cat had opened its 
eyes, which glared at him with the evil demonic intensity of 
which feline eyes were prone.  Knowing the wisdom of cats to 
be an illusion, he did not look into its eyes but rather 
returned to his book, discomfited, as if the strange horrors 
of the author were somehow leaking into his happy home. He 
sensed, however, an air of menace in the room, and shyly he 
lifted his gaze from his book again, as if to inquire again of 
the instincts of the tabby cat. Yet upon seeing his eyes the 
cat suddenly fled, wanting no part of the situation in the 
room, what chance of warning had fled with the cat?  Looking 
up, he saw his dear wife had opened her eyes and regarded him 
with a gaze more deep and menacing than that of any cat or 
spectral creature.  Like unfathomable  burning coals her eyes 
regarded him, but with the fearlessness of the predator 
acknowledged his own vision not at all. Sheepishly returning 
his gaze to his book he felt himself shrinking in the great 
blue leather chair.

Nervous, unable to find his place, he glanced up again and saw 
his familiar wife transformed into a figure of gigantic poise, 
her movements were as slow and powerful as a titan, and still 
she regarded him with those  eyes, which had become even more 
awful, glaring above her flaring nostrils.  

Suddenly, as some primal goddess summoned in a trance by some 
unknown force, she stood and stepped toward him, and he 
respectfully laid his book aside at her approach.  His face 
partook an expression of an expectant penitent, as he hoped 
that he would merely be accused of some minor dereliction of 
his duties for which he could apologize, but his hopes for 
ease of egress were in vain.

"Andy.." she began softly, "do you think my chest is 
flat?"Stunned, he tried to absorb the awful question.

"Well,"  he began hopefully to she who was after all both his 
lover and best buddy, "They do tend to flatten when you're in 
training, but off season they get bigger." 

"You mean they look even worse when I'm in training" she said 
in an accusing tone, fit for a small child.

"Well, no, I mean, I meant,  you know..." he stammered, hoping 
for some clue as to what to say.

"If I know, why am I asking you? What do you think?" she 
countered evenly.

He realized that no matter what he said it was going to be 
wrong,  either he was going to say that her breasts were too 
big or two small, and either way she would be unhappy with 
him, he couldn't flatter his way out because he could see no 
prompt for what she wanted to hear.

"Well, what do you think of my breasts? You have noticed them, 
haven't you?" she gently demanded, with an air of menacing 
irritation.

"Yes, I've noticed them..... they're really nice boobs, 
really." he stammered."Breasts." 

She insisted, then: "So you've noticed them" she began a bit 
sarcastically, "The question is what do you think of them?""

They're nice..." he peeped. 

"Breasts!""Are they too small?" she patiently insisted.

"No, they're not too small." he answered with a ray of hope.

"But you are saying you've always thought they are small." she 
bore down on him.

He sat motionless in his chair, as if his very own flesh would 
not acknowledge the needs of a spirit driven to that special 
depth of hell devoted to the unappreciative, the dishonest, 
and the cowardly, who lived their lives  bamboozling women 
until caught shame faced on the day of judgement.  He wanted 
to be honest, but was scared, he wanted to lie, but was 
honest, he wanted to reassure her with true lust, but he knew 
that was mindless, and she demanded an opinion. "No.....I 
haven't......" he offered.

"Well, does that mean you think they're too small now?" she 
said, almost, but not quite, helpfully.

"Uh no. I uh.. eye... yey, uh, uh," he managed somehow.

"So you used to think they were too small?" She taunted.

He was cornered and beaten, his only response was to look at 
her with big pathetic eyes and hope for mercy.  He remembered 
on their honeymoon when she had chased him into a corner with 
her whip and how he had cowered and cried in horror, he longed 
to have at least his tortured and painful flesh between him 
and her .  

He remembered the time she made him watch the video on 
"Improving YOUR Relationship,"  that had been much worse than 
the whip, but at least then he had been guided as to what he 
was to confess and exactly what liberating insights he was 
supposed to have. How he longed for the safe, sane structure 
of that once unsurpassed humiliation, but tonight he was 
clueless  and  naked.

"When are you going to answer me?"

"Uh, now..."

But he had no answer, he felt himself descending into a 
whirlpool of abject despair and ruin, then a voice from 
somewhere whispered to him "Outsmart her."  Abandoning all 
hope of being intelligent and reasonable he accepted his 
complete humiliation and determined to placate her as best he 
knew how.

With surprising suavity he cheerfully offered:" Uh, breasts 
can't be considered in isolation from the rest of the body, a 
body (he resisted the evil impulse to say feminine body, which 
would have been gratuitous guile) a body should be considered 
as an esthetic whole."

She beamed at him in exultation, now she would explore every 
crevice of his sorry little soul and carry off every truth he 
held, however secretly, as spoils of her victory tonight.  And 
he smiled back at her with that open hearted gleeful smile of 
a crazed masochist who relished the thought that he would be 
tormented for months for everything he said tonight, but deep 
in his most hidden mind, he had a plan. "A body," he began 
hopefully, hoping he would think of something to say, "Can 
only have a single perfect feature in order to be perfect in 
itself." Her beaming visage confirmed his inspiration, he was 
on the right track so far. "With you...." he began softly, 
reverently, "Its your ass." Her look was appreciative, but 
ever so slightly wary. "To appreciate your breasts, one must 
appreciate your ass." 

This was better than he thought, she knew she had a great set 
of glutes.  Gently he eased himself down out of his big chair 
and knelt in front of her in an attitude of humble devotion. 
Prayerfully he clasped his hands together and shyly dropped 
his tongue out of his mouth in a private gesture he knew she 
would understand.

She did understand, she was basically a kindly woman, and she 
accepted his shy request to do her homage. Slowly she turned 
around, smiling over her shoulder at her kneeling mate, she 
raised her heavy cotton house dress over her rump, revealing 
her panty clad bottom.  Knowing what to do he crawled forward 
on his knees and gently took the elastic band of her panties 
in his teeth and began carefully working them down over her 
muscular ass, down her thighs, until they fell to her feet.

Then he planted several gentle kisses over her buttocks, here 
and there, and there, gently, softly.  Then, his tongue began 
to wetly caress her backside in long loving arcs of devotion, 
while she purred in satisfaction like a great cat.  His own 
sighs became whimpers as he lost himself in his devotion.  He 
teased but did not explore the cleft between her buttocks for 
his role tonight was that of the devoted esthete, not the 
abandoned debauchee.  Flesh consoled flesh and strength and 
weakness nourished each other, until, in a slightly dizzy 
stupor he paused, as if sensing some cue.  

Pleased, she turned to him, dropping her skirt. As he knelt 
before him she kissed her index finger and touched the crown 
of his head which he bowed for her. Having thus granted her 
absolution to her self effacing mate, she told him to brush 
his teeth and get ready for bed.

As she left the room, he took several deep breaths and 
regained his alertness quickly.  It had gone well. Rising, he 
retied the sash on his robe and cheerfully raided the cookie 
jar on the way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth more 
thoroughly than usual, but forbore thinking about what she had 
in store for him tonight, he would deal with that when, in 
time, it transpired.

Entering the bedroom, he saw her in the darkness, illumined 
only by the light from the hallway, lying naked on the bed 
with a towel at her side, smiling mischievously at him with an 
upraised finger which was well lubricated.  "You haven't had 
your prostate massaged in a long time, dear, you know its good 
for you and you need it, don't you?"  As if to betray him, his 
crotch spasmed in agreement. This could have been worse.

Submissively he endured the methodical indignity until his his 
masculinity spastically surrendered to her. Tonight, it 
appeared, he would not be called to the higher task of 
satisfying her.  She  delighted in inducing ejaculations in 
him which she seemed to collect as inspirations for her own 
more elaborate needs, it  was a pattern which he had come to 
accept. In his weak post orgasmic stupor she kissed him on the 
forehead to bid him rest and recovery.  Instead of recovery, 
however, he drifted directly off into sleep and dreamed of his 
steaming mug of cocoa, this time with marshmallows, as the 
woodlands outside their cottage filled with snow.