Diana's twin 
By Diana the Valkyrie
Diana has a twin sister, Linda. Or does she? 


This is the eleventh in the series of stories by Diana. I'd just 
like to emphasise that, although I am rather stronger than the average 
girl (or even than the average man), what follows is entirely a fantasy 
of mine. I made it up. It didn't actually happen. And I don't have a 
twin sister, evil or not. 

Well, the young guy on the underground is history, he didn't make a move 
when I smiled at him and he doesn't travel on my train any more. But 
this older guy I mentioned, he isn't *that* old, the cute one I told you 
about, he's definitely noticed me, and we've started to good-morning 
each other. Maybe it'll lead to something, maybe not. Summer's here, I 
can wear summer dresses and no coat, and that should help. Cross your 
fingers for me. 

If sex and violence isn't you, then don't read this. 



(C) Diana the Valkyrie, 1996. Email me at valkyrie@thevalkyrie.com




I expect you've watched all those movies where the rather shy, mousy and 
plain-looking librarian with her hair in a bun, falls in love, and 
decides to get herself noticed by the hero, and by doing her hair 
differently, putting on makeup and a sexy dress, is transformed into a 
beautiful woman? Well, I have, and I always like that bit. I guess every 
girl thinks that, if she really wanted to, she could be beautiful. And 
an awful lot of women think that they're unattractive, it's a very 
common self-confidence problem. I think that's one of the reasons why 
men find Amazons like me so sexy and attractive  - self-confidence is 
definitely not a problem, so I stand tall and proud, and flaunt my 
assets, and entirely adequate assets they are too - outstanding, even. 
Lots of people tell me so. 

But not all librarians are women, and in my local public library, the 
person who stamps my card is a man. And he's mousy, rather plain-
looking, terribly shy, and whenever I go to get a book out, he seems to 
suffer from shortness of breath when I talk to him. I know this symptom. 
It's caused by fear. And he's got no reason to be scared of me, I mean 
it isn't like I've done some of the things to him that Vicky does to 
men. Vicky's awful, just terrible. Ever since she found out the 
dominating power that a strong woman has over men, she's been going 
absolutely wild. I hope she gets it out of her system soon, before she 
tears up every useful man in the county. 

Vicky's my chum, I met her by accident, literally, I nearly ran over her 
in my Morgan. And she transformed herself from a mouse into a woman, 
just by discovering the effect that a strong woman could have on a man. 
It boosted her self-confidence to know that just by hugging a man hard 
enough to make him pass out, she could make him do anything she wanted, 
and she hasn't looked back since. She's cutting a swathe through every 
man in town, as far as I can see, but I expect she'll get over it soon, 
I hope so. Otherwise, one of these days, she'll go too far, I don't 
think she realises how fragile men are, physically and especially 
mentally. 

She called round for a visit last week, and she had her latest conquest 
in tow. I mean, that literally. He acted like a conquest, and she had a 
leash attached to a collar round his neck. I don't know where she gets 
these ideas from, it certainly wasn't me. Well, there was nothing 
special about the collar and leash, they were standard dog gear, but 
fancy putting them on a man! I've never felt the need to. He spent the 
whole visit crouched on the floor like a dog, and he wasn't allowed to 
speak except when he was spoken to, and he wasn't allowed to look at 
either of us, these were Vicky's rules. He called Vicky "Mistress 
Victoria", and he called me "Mistress Diana", although I'm perfectly 
happy to be called "Diana" (but not Diane or (ugh) Di, if you don't 
mind). She called him "Rover". I asked Vicky about him, but she changed 
the subject. Well, I like my men to stand on two legs (or even better, 
lying down, of course), certainly not on all fours. Still, I expect 
she'll get over it. And it's so nice to have Vicky to compare notes 
with, and it gives me hope. Well, it stands to reason, two is an 
impossible number. If I were the only one, I could believe that, but if 
there's two of us, there must be more - maybe even some males of our 
kind? Wouldn't it be nice to be able to hug someone as hard as you can, 
and still be hugged back. Well, I can dream, can't I? 

So where was I? Oh yes, in the library, talking to Ronnie, who was 
acting like he was terrified of me, for absolutely no reason at all, and 
all I wanted was a good duck cookery book, so I can expand my range, 
which is a bit thin at the moment, mostly involving chicken and ovens, 
and if I can do chicken, duck can't be that hard. And I thought he was 
kind of cute, and I thought I'd need someone to try out some recipes on, 
and I came on to him a bit. After half a minute, he just rushed off 
without so much as an excuse-me, leaving me to fend for myself. I'm not 
used to that, usually men are all over me, especially if I display 
myself a bit and flirt a bit. I did notice a rather attractive bulge in 
the front of his trousers as he departed though, which got me somewhat 
interested, as one might expect. 

So when I got home, I had a bit of a think. I looked in the mirror, and 
everything was where it ought to be, my hips a touch broad, but not 
excessive, my chest large and deep, but not unduly, he couldn't see my 
arms or legs, so it couldn't be that, and my breasts adequate, not huge, 
not at all huge. And although my waist isn't what you'd call tiny, it's 
definitely there, and maybe I'd like it to be a couple of inches less 
than it is, but I'm not barrel-shaped. So I thought, well, not all fish 
need the same bait; some like worms and some like grubs. Maybe I need to 
change the lures for some guys. Maybe there's a good reason why so many 
men seem to be scared of me, and that's even before they've seen me bend 
a six inch nail with my strong hard hands. Maybe I look *too* sexy for 
some men, and my appearance frightens them. Anyway, Ronnie isn't getting 
away that easily. Nor is that rather exciting-looking bulge. 

So I went shopping for clothes. I asked Vicky to come with me, because 
she's my chum, but I insisted that she leave her latest specimen behind, 
just the two of us, I mean, dogs can be such a nuisance when you go 
shopping, so she left Rover behind at home, I expect she chained him to 
something. We met in the mall, and I told her I was intending to get a 
whole new look, more demure and modest. It wasn't just the guy in the 
library I had in mind, there was the guy on the underground, and one or 
two others who I'd seen looking at me out of the corner of their eyes, 
but they seemed to be too scared to make a move, and when I made a move, 
they'd run a mile. "I want to look less scary" I told Vicky. She 
couldn't understand, having just changed her image from dowdy and dingy 
to flamboyant and sexy, why I would want to go the other way round, but 
if that was what I wanted, she'd go along with it. 

So, I bought a bra that didn't fit me, that stopped my breasts from 
sticking out so prominently, and changed them from very adequate to 
slightly insufficient and non-threatening. And a loose twinset, a 
sweater-cardigan combination that covered them up even more, and also 
made sure my arms couldn't be seen. No shoulder pads, my shoulders are 
broad enough as it is. And then a long skirt, mid calf. Not totally 
dowdy, but not sexy either. Flat heeled shoes, they were wonderful, the 
loss of height would make me look so much littler and less imposing. And 
I did my hair in a sort of pony-tail with a twist, so it didn't sit on 
top of my head making me look taller, and it didn't fall round my 
shoulders making me look sexier. But then Vicky suggested a wig, 
shortish, medium brown and mousy, and that sounded like the image I was 
after. No perfume, just plain soap. And no make-up, make-up is an 
announcement of availability, and that's frightening to some men. And I 
practised standing differently, not stooped over exactly, but not 
straight and tall like my normal stance. My shoulders down a little, my 
back more relaxed than usual, and my eyes lowered modestly. And I tried 
folding my arms under my breasts, like I've seen other girls do, and it 
hides them rather well, making me even less threatening-looking, which 
is why I expect so many girls do it. 

You can see the effect I was after. Mousy and a bit dowdy, but most of 
all, lacking in the sort of self confidence that every Strong Woman has 
bags of. Well, when a man says something slightly insulting or 
aggressive to you, and you look at him, and think that in ten seconds 
you could have your hands on him and his body twisted into an agonising 
shape, and in no more than a few more minutes you can have his mind 
completely subservient to you - well, it does wonders for your self 
confidence, doesn't it? So, the biggest difference was that my new 
persona lacked confidence in herself, and everything followed from that. 

So I looked at myself in the mirror, and the strong, confident Amazon 
had gone, instead there was a smaller, shy, uncertain girl-next-door. 
Honestly, the things some girls will stoop to just for the sake of a bit 
of trouser. And then I looked some more, and that wasn't Diana in 
the mirror, no way. So who was it? And I thought of Clark Kent/Superman, 
and Bruce Wayne/Batman, and I realised that what I needed was a Secret 
Identity, a meek mild-mannered alter ego. How about Wendy? 
Wendy's a nice sort of a name. Or what about going the whole hog and 
using Sharon, or Tracy? But Vicky said "Don't be silly Diana, it's 
obvious that you have to call yourself Linda. "Linda? Why Linda?" I 
asked. Vicky sighed. "Linda, as in Linda Lee, of course." Oh. Of course. 
OK, Linda it is then, same surname because then I could still use 
credit cards and suchlike without it causing problems. Plus, Linda is 
almost an anagram of Diana, one less A and one extra L. Well, I like 
that sort of thing. "So who is Linda?", I thought, "I need a story". So 
here's the plan. 

Linda is Diana's twin sister, but I won't tell anyone that unless they 
notice the coincidence of names. Unmarried, unengaged, maybe a virgin, 
maybe not, she isn't going to discuss that, but at least she's not 
terribly experienced. She works in an office doing something boring, 
loves to cook, sew, knit. Likes reading books, Beatles, Bach and 
Beethoven. She drives a Mini, no way would Linda drive a Morgan! She 
spends most evenings at home, in her little flat in the unfashionable 
end of Battersea, although she calls it Chelsea. And she isn't an 
Amazon, she isn't the sort of Strong Woman that makes men go soft at the 
knees and hard in the penis, she's just a nice, ordinary sweet girl, 
with no social life, a bit of a geek, really, but nice. Nice. 

So next time I went to the library, it wasn't Diana, it was my 
new persona, Nice Linda. It wasn't easy. A man pushed in front of me in 
the going-in queue, and I wanted to put my hand on the back of his neck 
and squeeze until he fell to his knees and apologised, but Nice Linda 
wouldn't do a thing like that, she couldn't do a thing like that, and 
wouldn't if she could. So Linda meekly waited in line, waiting for 
Ronnie to finish with the boor in front. 

Then it was my turn, and I didn't see the bulge, and Ronnie didn't seem 
to recognise me, which isn't too surprising, because now I had short 
mousy brown hair instead of long wavy blonde, and I'd lost a few inches 
of height, with lower shoes and my stance, and I was talking a lot more 
quietly. So I explained I was looking for a cookery book with duck 
recipes, and he still didn't twig. He showed me where the cookery books 
were, and there weren't any specifically duck ones, but he found one 
that showed how to do crispy duck, and another one that had duck a la 
orange, and duck with black cherries, and I took those, thanked him 
prettily, and left. 

Diana, of course, would have asked him out and had him horizontal before 
you could say "knife". But Linda, shy modest Nice Linda, wasn't forward 
like that. And as I went home, I wondered how girls like Linda manage. I 
mean, if you don't make the first move, you're going to have a lot of 
solo nights, aren't you, because men are hopeless at that sort of thing. 
Then I thought, I bet Vicky knows how to do this, she used to be a 
mouse. So I phoned her up and asked her. "Vicky, Linda can't just rub 
herself on a man and ask him if he's been fucked recently like Diana 
does. How does a mousy girl get a man to take her out?" 

It's difficult, apparently, and as Vicky explained the tortuous process 
you're supposed to go through, I thought how much better my way is. I 
mean, why be subtle, men don't understand subtlety anyway? Hair in his 
face, breasts on his chest, hips against his groin, leaving your hands 
free to help his erection along if necessary, which it hardly ever is. 
They usually get the general idea, and you can be hammering away within 
the hour. 

Vicky explained to me about flirting, well, yes, I know about flirting, 
I've just not bothered much. I know what a hot glance and an eyelash 
flutter is for, it's just that I've always found that a groin grab works 
even better. Why accidentally brush your hair against his face, with the 
danger that he might think it really was an accident, when you can ram 
your breasts against his chest and grab his balls, and he knows you did 
it on purpose! OK, OK, I know, Nice Linda doesn't do that sort of thing. 
Shy glances, small smiles, appealing looks. OK, OK, I can do that. So I 
put on my mouse wig, mouse makeup and mouse clothes, and went back to 
the library. 

Ronnie was on duty, and I put my cookery books down, and kept my eyes 
downcast, whispering "Thank you" when he put them through. "Did you find 
any good recipes?" he asked. I blushed, and whispered "Yes, thank you, I 
did." "There are some more books with duck recipes in, I did some 
scratching around. Shall I show you?" I nodded, and meekly followed him 
to the shelves. 

You're probably wondering how I blushed. It isn't the sort of thing you 
can just switch on, of course. Spencer Tracy could cry on demand, but I 
doubt if anyone can blush as required. So what I did was, I didn't 
really blush. I just lowered my head a bit more, and brought my hands up 
to cover my eyes. I'd practised this in the mirror, Linda's the sort of 
girl who would blush, and I practised until it looked natural. So, 
although I didn't actually go red, it was a pretty realistic blush. 
Well, plausible enough. I mean, no-one's going to say "Hey, you just 
blushed but your face didn't go red!" 

When I got home, I phoned Vicky. "I'm doing quite well at getting books 
with duck recipes, but not a nibble with Ronnie. Help!" "Drop a hint", 
said Vicky. "Drop a hint that he can take up and ask you out." "What 
sort of hint?"  I heard a rather loud groan in the background, rising 
into a scream of pain. "Sorry, Dee, I've got someone hanging on" and she 
hung up. "Vicky", I thought, "You're taking this B&D stuff much too 
far." I thought I'd better explain to her, you aren't actually supposed 
to hurt them, well, not very much, men aren't very good at dealing wioth 
pain, not like women. But what to do about Ronnie? 

I was very tempted to go see him without the wig, as Diana, just march 
up to him, put a hand inside his trousers, and ask him to drop whatever 
he was doing and come round and see me that evening. I've found that's a 
technique which often gets results. But I've put so much effort into 
seducing him, it would be a shame to give up now and just rape him. So I 
visited the library again, to use Vee's idea (and unless she stops 
calling me Dee, I'll keep calling her Vee). 

I took the books back to the library and Ronnie asked me how I was 
getting on. I whispered that I'd tried a few dishes, and they seemed to 
be working, but that was just my opinion, and they were probably quite 
awful in reality. I've heard other girls do this, so I was pretending 
that I had no self-confidence whatsoever. And it provoked the usual 
response "I'm sure that your cooking is absolutely delicious", and I let 
that hang in the air between us and nibbled my lower lip, trying to look 
like I was trying to gather my courage together. "Would you like, er ." 
I petered out. "Yes?" said Ronnie. "Most of the recipes are for two 
people." I said, obliquely. No way is Linda going to take the lead on 
this. "I tell you what", said Ronnie. "Next time you cook something like 
that, invite me round and I'll give you my unbiased opinion." Linda 
would have blushed, so I did my head in my hands trick again, and then 
looked up at him, gratefully. "Oh, would you, would you really?" He 
nodded. "Yes" he said, generously. "I was going to try duck a la orange 
on Friday..." come on Ronnie, come on, Linda doesn't ask boys out, 
you've got to do it. Come to that, Diana doesn't either, but she doesn't 
have to, and she certainly doesn't have to resort to this rather 
transparent kind of thing. Not that most men notice. He pretended to 
think for a bit. "I'm free on Friday," he said. Well, that's probably as 
close as he's going to get. Let's pretend he's actually asked me, and I 
said yes, that's the way to handle this. "About eight o'clock?" I asked. 
He nodded. YES! YES!!! 

And so it came to pass, that on Friday evening, Diana was 
disguised as her non-existent sister Nice Linda, in mousy wig and too-
tight bra, although you couldn't see it was too tight, it just made my 
breasts a lot less perky, long skirt and the sort of twinset that your 
great-aunt might wear, because that way he couldn't see the tight bra, 
flat shoes and hardly any makeup (even Nice Linda would put on a touch 
of lipstick for this kind of event). Just one fly in the ointment. I'd 
done one of my deals that afternoon, and I was so randy, I was 
practically climbing the walls. 

I think I've explained this before, but I'm quite proud of what I do, so 
I'll explain it again. I work for a large bank, in Corporate Finance, 
and one of the things they do is they buy things and sell things. Big 
things. Things like deep sea oil rigs worth hundreds of millions, 
factories, hotels and even entire companies. And what do I know about 
things like that? Nothing whatsoever, of course. I don't need to. And I 
don't know anything about finance either, I don't need to. Or the legal 
side. No, I'm involved in the most important aspect of any deal, the 
price. We call it "the consideration", people like us never use dirty 
words like "money" and "profit", we say "funds" and "margin" and nice 
words like that. Anyway, I was explaining. Suppose we're buying (which 
we were in this case, it works much the same way if we're selling). By 
buying, I mean, we're acting for the buyer, we don't actually buy 
anything, we just charge someone else to do it for them, and get a fee 
plus a percentage of how far the price is below the buyer's limit as a 
bonus (that's called our commission), which incentivises us to get a 
good price. The seller is represented by another bank like us, so all 
the difficult stuff is done by professionals. 

So how is the price decided? Well, before we got involved, the buyer had 
a quiet chat with the seller, and both the buyer and the seller hinted 
at some figures, and someone else thought that they're not too far 
apart. Then the buyer briefs us on how much he's willing to pay, and we 
agree the fee, and the commission (which is *very* important to us, of 
course). The seller does the same thing for his guys. Then, we all meet 
in a room, we set aside two days for this, because it's so important. Of 
course, we could do it in about an hour, but then the clients wouldn't 
feel they had good value for money. 

So we all go into a meeting room, and there's coffee, and mineral water, 
and air conditioning, and a flip chart. And each side has an accountant, 
a lawyer, a banker and a negotiator. The negotiator does all the 
talking, the negotiator is the mouthpiece, and it's the negotiator's job 
to get the best deal possible. Usually, the negotiator is the team 
leader, and the other people do what the negotiator wants. I'm the 
negotiator. It's a very important job, and ridiculously well-paid. 

On that afternoon, we'd been finishing the arrangements for the sale of 
a chain of supermarkets to a competitor. Well, of course, a supermarket 
isn't worth more than a few mill, but there were a few dozen of them, 
and with a million here and a couple of million there, we were talking 
around a quarter of a billion for the consideration. Well, a quarter was 
what I was aiming for, they wanted more like a half. If billions bother 
you, then think of it in millions, that sometimes helps. I knew they 
were keen to sell, and our client was *desperate* to buy, at almost any 
price, which is why we don't allow him anywhere near the negotiation. He 
explained it to me, "If I don't buy this chain, then one of my 
competitors will, and they'll get better economies of scale, drop their 
prices, and my margins will go through the floor. Please, Diana, don't 
let them walk out the door without a deal." Actually, his explanation 
wasn't important, what was important was his tone of voice and how much 
he needed this deal, and I could tell it was a lot. So why didn't he 
just pay the half-billion they were asking? Because even if I only got 
them down by ten mill, that was worth having. Ten mill might not sound 
like very much to you, but save ten mill here and ten mill there, and 
pretty soon you're talking real money. 

So we went into the arena, sorry, that's what we call the room where the 
negotiation is done, and I knew I had a good team backing me up, I'd 
trained them myself. When I took them on, they didn't have the faintest 
idea, they thought it was all about logic and profitability and loan 
notes and clever things like that. I taught them differently. I taught 
them that it's just like an arm wrestling match. It doesn't actually 
matter what reasons you give for the demands you make, the only 
important thing is the demand. It doesn't matter how you justify the 
price, the price is all that matters. You can use logic if you like, or 
you can use illogic, it doesn't matter. You can "prove" anything with 
figures. Figures don't lie, but they don't tell the truth either, they 
just sit there on the page, saying nothing whatsoever. 

So here's the tactics for a two day event. Day one, you circle each 
other like knife fighters, throwing the occasional calculation at each 
other like a swordswoman throws a feint at her opponent. Then, in the 
afternoon, we clinch a little, like wrestlers feeling out each other's 
strengths and weaknesses, chucking terms and conditions about, and 
financial arrangements. But the main issue, the consideration, we 
carefully avoid. The objective is to get the other side so emotionally 
involved in the minor details of the deal, that when you go for the 
jugular, they don't even notice. I play along with this game, although 
it's completely irrelevant to my strategy. 

Day two, in the morning (or if it's a one day event, just after lunch), 
I make my move. I stand up, which draws attention to me. My side all 
shut up at this point, they know what's coming. I take off my jacket. My 
negotiating clobber is a pinstripe business suit, skirt just above the 
knee, not tarty, but sexy, with black stockings and high heeled black 
shoes. Round my waist I wear a special belt, which I'll tell you about 
in a minute, and above the belt, I'm wearing a well-cut white silk 
blouse, open at the neck, with some lace and some frills to look more 
feminine, and with a silk scarf round my throat. No bra. I don't show 
any cleavage, that's too obvious. I don't need to. Without a bra, the 
white silk clings to my breasts like a smooth skin, and outlines my 
nipples so that you can see I'm sexually aroused, which I am by this 
time. It doesn't take a great deal to get me going, and I've got special 
thoughts that I can think that just make my nipples hard and my breasts 
firm. What thoughts? Blimey, can't you guess? 

And then, while I'm standing in front of the half-dozen fascinated men, 
I take off my belt. I make a bit of a production of it, like a stripper 
would, although I'm not actually showing them anything, except the belt 
of course. And slowly it dawns on them that my belt is actually a rather 
vicious whip, the sort of whip you might use to inflict terrible 
punishment on a naughty boy, the sort of whip you would use to lash a 
slave until his back and front were running in blood. The sort of whip 
you would never, ever, use on a horse. 

The whip was made from a bull's hide. The handle is long and thick, it's 
the bull's penis, and the lash is fifteen feet long, and I wear it wound 
five times round my waist and knotted in place. So as I slowly unwound 
the lash, seven pairs of eyes were following my every movement. And 
seven penises were getting harder as they looked at my breasts, which 
are just fine for this sort of thing, then softer as they looked at the 
bull's penis, then harder again as they thought about what sort of woman 
would wear a bullwhip round her waist, then softer again at the thought 
of what a woman like that might do with a bullwhip. Well, some softer, 
some harder. Some men like being hurt, or so Vicky assures me. But I do 
know what every man likes. 

Next, I pull a bunch of six inch nails from my handbag. By now, the 
silence is deafening, and their concentration is total. And I take one 
of those nails in my hard hands, and bend it like they would bend a 
paperclip. That usually gets at least one moan, and sometimes a nice wet 
patch on the trousers. Then I hand the nails round, and they all try to 
bend them, and they never can, not even the slightest dent, because they 
don't know how, and even if they did, they don't have the strength. Then 
they give me the nails back, I bend each of them double, except for one, 
which I bend backwards and forwards until it breaks. And by then, 
there's a few wet trousers around the table, because they've all had 
enormous ejaculations that they can't control. 

It's sex and violence. It's a woman whose body can give you either 
incredible pleasure or six weeks in hospital, whichever she fancies. Sex 
and violence dominates the bookshops (usually called "romance" and 
"action"). It dominates the cinema and the television, and they don't 
mince words about what they're showing. And the reason for this, is that 
sex and violence are two of mankind's greatest obsessions; money comes a 
feeble third. So here's me, as sexy as you've ever seen and as violent 
as I want to be. They can see for themselves that they wouldn't last 
five minutes with me. And a fight wouldn't last long, either. 

Something breaks inside them. When a man is faced with a Strong Woman 
like me, his will turns to mush, and he does whatever I want. Try it, 
try sitting in your wet underpants, facing the woman who just caused 
your ejaculation, who has just shown you that she's so strong, you can't 
even begin to guess how many times your strength she has, and her 
prominent breasts are giving you another hard-on just after you came the 
first time and she's quite pretty, and appallingly dominant, and now try 
defying her, try saying "No" to something she wants. You simply won't be 
able to do it, I can promise you. 

And that's exactly what happened here, and we all agreed on a price of 
275 mill, because I have to give them *some* self-respect, and I don't 
want them to lose their jobs, because there's a good chance they'll be 
involved in another deal with me some time, and just think how easy that 
one is going to be! So I saved our client 225 mill, so the bank got 
1\2%, which is 1.125 mill, and my team got half of that between us, 
which we divided up half for me and the other half split between the 
three guys, because although they knew and I knew that I'd done the 
whole thing, I wanted them to share at least some of the gravy, because 
you'll never know when you might need friends, and I was the most 
popular negotiator in the bank, for three obvious reasons, all of which 
had to do with figures. 281,250 for a couple of days work, not bad. You 
can see why I like my job, and why I'm so good at it. 
 
But it left me terribly horny. Horny? A rhinocerous would be limp 
compared to how horny I was feeling. You know how when there's a feeling 
inside of you, like a high pressure wanting to get out? That's how I 
felt. I wanted to surround something long and hard, grip it like a vice 
and squeeze it dry. I kept thinking of bullet trains zooming into 
tunnels, of hard bananas being crushed to soft pulp, and I simply 
couldn't get rid of the thought of cucumbers, long and thick, green and 
hard, with those wicked ridges and bumps down the sides, and I thought 
of how if you just make a slight nick in the end, and then you squeeze 
the length of it really hard, like if you wrap something round it and 
really squeeze hard, then it sort of bursts open at the end, and all the 
sap and seeds and juice squirts out like a jet ... I'm sorry, I really 
am, I have a thing about cucumbers, sometimes I get wet in the 
supermarket even. And as for marrows ... 

And that's the condition I was in as Ronnie Clarke knocked at my door. I 
was dressed as Linda, and butter wouldn't melt in my mouth, but inside 
there was a raging fire burning, the sort of fire that needs a fire hose 
to put it out. Oh hell, I knew I shouldn't have started thinking about 
fire hoses. You know those beautiful brass nozzles, and when you turn 
the valve, water rushes out under incredible pressure, and ... unh. 
Look, don't get me wrong, I don't go around impaling myself on fire 
hoses, it's just the thought of them. 

The big strong Ronnie opened the bottle of wine, and it didn't even 
occur to Nice Linda to take the corkscrew off him when he struggled with 
it. Actually, one of my party tricks is to get someone to bet that I 
can't open the bottle with my hands, without using a corkscrew, and 
you'd be surprised how often I can get some guy to bet his trousers that 
I can't. Because they're thinking I can't even get my fingers on the 
cork, and it doesn't occur to them I can just break the top off the 
bottle, and that's got it open. And then I get someone else's trousers 
by promising that I'll open another one without breaking the glass, and 
what they didn't know is that you can open a wine bottle by using your 
thumb to press the cork *into* the bottle. And once a couple of guys 
have been persuaded to take their trousers off, the party can develop 
quite nicely, I find. Wouldn't it be nice if men wore skirts, it would 
make them so accessible. Sorry, back to the evening with Ronnie. 

Ronnie *loved* the Duck a la Orange, which didn't surprise me, I knew he 
would. I got it from "Le Canard Enchaine" down the road, and they're 
well known for the quality of their cuisine. But I did the boiled 
potatoes, all by myself. And the peas. Ice cream for afters, followed by 
coffee. We went into the lounge to drink it, and I sat at one end of the 
sofa, giving Ronnie the choice of sitting on an armchair, or sitting on 
the same sofa, and if he sat on the same sofa, how far away from me to 
sit. 

We sat and talked. Well, he talked. He talked about literature, I 
thought about erotica. He talked about the cinema, and I thought about 
pornographic videos and fucking. He talked about food, I thought about 
cucumbers. What with the activities of the day, a successful deal always 
gets me going, and what with all this erotic talk, I could feel a 
distinct dampness between my legs. Well, let's be honest, if I had to 
sit there much longer, I'd be sitting in a puddle. 

Now obviously, Diana isn't the sort of girl who will sit there 
tamely while a man flaunts his erudition in front of her. But Linda, 
Nice Linda's different. Linda isn't the sort of girl who would hurl 
herself onto a man and wrap herself round him as thoroughly as a banana 
skin wraps a banana. I'm afraid not. The alter ego I'd created was shy 
and timid, and I kept reminding myself of that. Girl next door sort of 
thing. Let the man make the first move sort of thing. Except Ronnie 
wasn't making any moves. 

So what does a girl do? I'll tell you what Diana does, she hurls 
herself onto a man making sure that she winds up underneath him, and 
gets his prick surrounded with something wet and soft, makes it nice and 
hard, then slowly makes it nice and soft again, very very slowly. But 
that isn't what Nice Linda does. So what does a girl like Linda do when 
things aren't moving? I'm blowed if I know; I think they don't do 
anything, they just hope. So that's what I did. 

Round about midnight, hope turned to despair, and Ronnie shook hands 
with me to say good night. Shook hands? I wanted to pick him up and 
throw him down on the bed and rape him, and what did I get? A rather 
limp handshake. No, make that a handshake with all the firmness of a 
blancmange. As soon as he'd gone, I rushed to the mirror to see what was 
wrong, and a rather mousy Linda looked back at me. Yes, I can see why 
she wouldn't arouse much passion. Add that to the events of the daytime, 
which had gotten me thoroughly turned on, and I was left with the worst 
case of Randy Diana I'd ever had, so even though it was gone midnight,  
I ripped off the Linda-wig, threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and 
drove round to the first ex-boyfriend I could think of, Gary Knight. I 
rang his bell till he woke up and answered the door. "Jesus, Diana, do 
you know what time it is?" "Yes Gary. Gary, I'm so horny, I think I 
could make you orgasm eight times tonight, and pass out after each one." 
"I'm got my girlfriend here, Diana." I just stood and looked at him, my 
hands moving gently by my sides, clenching and unclenching my fists, 
moaning quietly. He stared at me, at my hands, and my breasts, and I 
stared back. I could see his erection beginning to build. He groaned. 
"What will I tell her? I told her it was over between you and me." I 
continued to just look at him, thinking, I'll give him just one minute 
to get his mind straight, then I'm off. "Oh, Diana, you're impossible," 
and he wrote some note for his girlfriend, and started getting dressed. 
"No, Gary. Here." I was feeling kind of urgent, you know? I could feel 
my clitoris practically filling my panties, and I felt like I was about 
to explode. And I told Gary that, and he looked behind him, and said 
"But Nadia's in there", so I said, "But she's not in here", and once 
again a sheepskin rug made a convenient love nest. I think it was round 
about his third that he couldn't keep his mouth shut any more, and his 
shouts of orgasm woke up Nadia. I assume it was Nadia. She looked kind 
of horrified; pretty, but appalled, probably because of what her 
boyfriend was doing with me. "Gary", she screamed, and he looked over 
his shoulder, saw her staring at us, and detumesced, which is a fancy 
word for changing a firm cucumber into limp string. 

Well, you can imagine that there were conniptions, and I thought, not 
much hope of any more screwing, time to pop off home, so I pulled my 
jeans and T-shirt back on, and left just as Gary made the classic and 
completely insupportable claim "I can explain everything, darling." I 
didn't fancy a one-sided cat fight with Nadia. I wasn't finished, not by 
a long chalk, but at least I'd had something inside me, and I wasn't 
clawing the walls any more. 

Next day, while I was at work, I hatched a plot, Plan B. I still wanted 
to get my hands on that fascinating looking bulge in Ronnie's trousers, 
plus I felt that he owed me a big one by now. I knew that Diana scared 
him silly, while Linda left him lukewarm. But Linda says "please" and 
"thank you", whereas Diana says "Now". Linda shakes hands, and Diana 
fucks. I needed a mixture. So I hatched a plot. 

I visited the library again, dressed as Linda, and dropped hints about 
crispy duck until he expressed an interest, then I invited him round for 
another dinner. And while we were eating, I told him about my twin 
sister. Yes - my evil twin sister. Yes, I know it's corny, I know it's 
been done a million times, but the oldies are the goodies, and I doubt 
if many boys read the Sweet Valley books. "Her name's Diana," I told him 
as we munched the crispy duck. "She isn't really evil, she's just, well, 
she's too interested in, you know... boys. Talks about it all the time." 
Linda doesn't say words like "sex", let alone "fuck", she uses words 
like "boys". "So she looks just like you?" he asked. That's not such a 
silly question, I hadn't said we were identical twins, we might have 
been fraternal twins. "We're identical twins," I explained, "But 
actually we look quite different. She stayed blonde, and I wear a 
brunette hairpiece, so I don't look so brassy. She wears very sexy 
clothes, flaunts herself like a strumpet. And she looks three inches 
taller than me, because she wears heels. And she shows off a lot." 
Ronnie looked serious. "She never goes to church," I added, which isn't 
a lie, because I didn't actually say that Linda did. "Why do you think 
you're so different from each other?" he asked. "I don't know," was the 
obvious answer. "She's much more outgoing than me, I'm more the shy 
stay-at-home type, she's the fun-loving party girl. But I think the 
world of her, she's my sister, after all." 

We talked some more about my naughty sister Diana, and I showed Ronnie 
some photographs of her. "I think you're prettier," he said, so I did my 
pretend-blush, then smiled up at him, and said "Thank you kind sir, 
flattery will get you everywhere", and the idiot didn't kiss me. 
Clearly, I did need to proceed with Plan B. 

The next time I was at the library, Ronnie asked me out to a restaurant. 
We were beginning to be a bit of an item, but it was all going so 
incredibly slowly. On the other hand, I think that this is what most 
women have to put up with, it's either that or else do some of the 
running yourself, like I usually do. But which Linda obviously wouldn't. 
And he took me home, and as I went inside, he kissed one of my hands, 
and I pressed my knees together to still my pounding heart. You see, 
I've read Mills and Boon, and I even knew how to fake a pounding heart - 
you put one hand over your right breast and look tired. 

And then, the next time, at my place, it was time for the Big Event. I 
told him that we'd be a threesome that evening, as my sister Diana would 
also be there, and you're probably wondering how I managed that. Have 
you never seen a French farce? I laid the table for three, and when 
Ronnie arrived I told him that Diana was late, as usual. So we had a 
glass of wine while we waited for her, sitting in the lounge. Then the 
front door bell rang, and I went to let Diana in. Immediately, I ran 
back in, grabbed my handbag and flew out, shouting "Must dash, Diana 
will explain" over my shoulder. Once outside the room, I whipped off my 
wig, stripped off the sweater and skirt, revealing a silk blouse and 
rather shorter skirt underneath, slipped on my heels, and walked 
confidently into the lounge, saying " Hello, you must be Ronnie. Linda's 
told me all about you." 

Ronnie stood and looked at me, open-mouthed. I'm quite impressive to 
men, I know, but I think it was the speed at which Linda had scarpered 
and Diana had arrived. I say I'm quite impressive, but I wasn't wearing 
a bra, which gives my nipples the freedom to express themselves under 
the silk blouses I love to wear, and my nipples are quite audacious, I 
think, competing with my breasts to capture men's eyes. And his eyes 
slid down to my skirt, which I was wearing quite short today. "Linda 
says it's all in the oven, I just have to serve up. Come into the 
kitchen, you can help. Linda's just dashed out to help a friend of ours 
who's suffering from extreme exhaustion, brought on by too much sex." 
And I smiled, making it clear who had caused the problem. 

It definitely is not true that a man's place is in the kitchen. A man's 
place is in the bed, preferably on top of a girl, and screaming hoarsely 
as she coaxes one more orgasm from his exhausted body; one more for him, 
and one more for her. I find that my orgasms are so much nicer if the 
man is coming at the same time, it makes them move more vigorously, and 
I adore that squirty feeling inside of me. Anyway, I got Ronnie to take 
the roast out of the oven, and as he bent over, I rubbed the front of my 
skirt against his firm bottom, and when he stood up and turned round, he 
collided with my breasts. I can tell you, it was such a relief to stop 
being Nice Linda. 

We never did eat that dinner. I cornered him in the kitchen against the 
cooker, and laid my body against his, then reached down and put my hands 
inside his trousers, grabbing a handful of something soft and delicious, 
followed by a double handful of something that wasn't quite so soft, but 
still totally delightful, and then a few seconds later it was much more 
than a double handful, and it was absolutely divine to hold, and I told 
Ronnie that unless I got that thing softer and smaller, I'd never be 
able to hold it. So we went into the bedroom, and I practically tore his 
clothes off, I've *never* understood why they make trousers so 
difficult, and it be nice if men wore skirts, it'd be so much easier to 
get your hands on the important bits. I ran him into the bedroom so 
fast, he didn't get a chance to ask me where Linda had rushed off to. 

And then I did the thing I do so well, with him on top to give him the 
illusion of control, it's *so* important to a man to feel in control, 
and held steady between my thighs, while I enveloped him with my warm, 
wet pussy, and gripped and pulled, relaxed and pushed him out again; 
clench and wrench, release and withdraw, all to the tune of "The ride of 
the Valkyries", and this time it was so good, it wasn't just in my head, 
I was actually singing it, rather loudly, but not very well, I mean it's 
difficult to sing well when you're working your way up to an orgasm. And 
I timed it just right, so that he ejaculated just as I reached my peak, 
and it was like a duet, because he was making rather a lot of noise, 
too. 
 
Well, of course, any woman can do that to a man, if she wants to and if 
she practises a bit. You can even learn to sing in tune. But it takes a 
woman with fitness and stamina to do it twice more, and it takes a 
Strong Woman to go for five, long after the man is as limp as spaghetti, 
because he'll want to stop and go to sleep, and you have to do all the 
work for both, not to mention overcoming any temporary reluctance on his 
part. 

I stopped at five. Not because I didn't want more, not because I 
couldn't do more, but because Linda would be really upset if I did 
something bad to his mind. If a man realises that a woman has more 
physical and sexual strength than he does, it damages something deep 
inside them, I'm always having that problem, it's a machismo thing, you 
have to be ever so careful. So I picked him up, and carried him to the 
settee, tucked him up in a blanket, and went to bed alone, because if I 
let him sleep with me, I'd wake up in the middle of the night and I'm 
not very good at resisting temptation, and a naked man in my bed 
definitely constitutes temptation. 

Next morning, I woke up feeling great, and got dressed up as Linda. 
After I had breakfast, I woke Ronnie up, whizzed round like a whirlwind 
giving him no chance to talk to me, and shot off to work, my Diana-
clothes in a bag. He had no chance to ask me where I'd been last night. 
He was gone by the time I got back that evening (dressed as Linda again, 
in case he was still there), but he'd left me a note. 

"Dear Linda, 

I'm really sorry about last night, I never got a chance to ask you where 
you had to go, but I've got a confession to make. Your sister and I hit 
it off really well, and I've fallen in love with her. Please don't feel 
bad about this, these things happen. Please give the enclosed note to 
Diana. 

Ronnie

The bastard! Just like a man, all mouth and trousers, and goodbye when 
they don't want you any more. Well, that was that as far as I was 
concerned. Leave him alone with my sister for an evening and he forgets 
me completely. I don't need him! 

So then I took off my wig, fluffed my hair out, and put on a slinky 
summer dress that makes me feel really sexy. Then, as Diana, because 
obviously it wasn't meant for Linda's eyes, I opened Ronnie's letter to 
me. 

I won't give you the gory details, it would embarrass you. It would even 
embarrass those sad people who write birthday card poems. It was all 
gooey and lovey-dovey, I don't know. One encounter with a sexually 
sophisticated woman, and he was in love. One night with a powerful, 
passionate amazon capable of wringing orgasms from his body long after 
his strength had given out, and he was head over heels. The gist of it 
was that he was in love with me, and wanted my phone number and address. 
Silly boy. It isn't my custom to have long romances with boys, it's 
wham, bam, thank you sir, then on to the next man. But I thought I'd 
better give him some contact details, to stop him thinking about my twin 
sister. So I gave him an email address that goes via an anonymity 
server, and winds up at my mailbox. 

Also, I had a idea that I wanted to try out. Ronnie's a librarian, and I 
wanted to establish a library of stories, available by email, you may 
have heard of it, it's called DREAMS, Diana Really Efficient Amazon Mail 
Story-server. If you want to get stories from it, email the robot, on 
na644546. But a thing like that needs a librarian to look after it, even 
if it's automated. Writing the mailer to send out isn't too difficult, 
nor is it hard to write an automatic robot to parse requests and send 
the story requested. But someone needs to spell check submissions, write 
a summary for interested readers, handle all the administrative details. 
And Ronnie was perfect for the job, I just needed to persuade him. And 
I'm rather good at persuading men to do things for me. 

Next day, I phoned him up. I ignored his request for my phone number; I 
could hardly tell him that I lived at the same address as Linda. But we 
made a date for that evening, and I told him I'd pick him up from his 
place. I also told him what to wear, and he said he didn't have any, so 
I told him to go out and get some. 

I turned up that evening dressed for bear. I wore my long black evening 
dress; it has straps, but the way I wear it, I make it obvious that the 
straps aren't doing anything. They certainly aren't holding up the top, 
there isn't much top to hold up in the first place, and in the second 
place, I think it always looks better if your breasts are holding the 
dress up, not the other way round. Black high heels, a little black bag, 
Hair up, looking quite the debutante. Ronnie looked delicious as he 
opened the door, he was wearing a shirt and tie, a nice nautical blazer, 
and shorts. And I don't mean knee-length, either, I mean proper short 
shorts. 

I admired his outfit, and told him he was dressed just right. "But you 
look so sophisticated, Diana, shouldn't I put a proper suit on?" I put 
my hand on his knee, slid slowly up his thigh, entering his shorts via 
the right leg, and fondling a few of the things I found inside. "No, 
Ronnie, you're dressed just right. See how convenient this is?" Ronnie 
made a squeaky sort of gargling noise, trying to hold himself in, and I 
let go and pulled my hand out before I ruined his shorts. "Later, 
sweetheart." 

We got into my Morgan, and I drove down to a pub in South London, not 
far from the Elephant, called Lace. Lace is one of my favourite bars, 
because it's a place I feel I can relax in. It's always so funny when 
someone walks into Lace for the first time and looks around. Because 
although I swear that you can't tell some of them from women, some of 
the less effeminate types wearing five o'clock shadow and a basic black 
dress give the game away. No, it isn't a gay bar. It's a cross-dressers 
bar. 

It's a bit of a shock at first, but my philosophy is, I won't make rude 
remarks about your clothes, and you don't make rude remarks about my 
friends clothes. And please don't call them transvestites, they don't 
like it. Bu they're all so friendly towards me. I'm not sure what they 
think I am, because one doesn't ask. There are people here that are 
definitely men dressed as women, and obvious women dressed as men. But 
there are some very ambiguous specimens. Jill is dressed as a woman, and 
if I met her in the street, I wouldn't think twice about it, but here? 
Either she's *very* good at cross-dressing, or else she really is a 
woman. One doesn't like to ask. It's like they say, if you need to ask, 
it can't be important. And Jill isn't the only one it's hard to be sure 
about. 

It's a good hunting ground, though, partly because not many women come 
here looking for a screw. You see, just because a man dresses in women's 
clothes, doesn't mean he's gay. In fact, the reverse. But a woman has to 
be quite confident of her femininity to go to bed with someone whose 
sexuality is slightly ambiguous. I don't have a problem with this 
myself, some of my best fucks have come from this bar. And if the woman 
you take home turns out to be really a woman, then never mind, better 
luck next time. I'm not into screwing women, even women dressed as men. 
I like men. Real men, even the ones who like to dress up as women. 

Ronnie definitely looked male, although he didn't have the grey stubble 
look. But in the short trousers, there was a definite ambiguity, I mean 
real macho men don't go to cross-dressing pubs wearing shorts, do they? 
And Ronnie is an ambiguous name, it could be either Ronald or Veronica. 

Ronnie twigged quite soon. "Diana, some of these women are men." "Quite 
a lot of them, sweetie. And some of the men are women." He looked 
thoughtful, trying to look around without seeming to gawk. Then Jill 
came over to the table, and said "Who's your nice little boy then?" and 
I introduced Ronnie. Jill sat down, and we started talking about who was 
doing what to who. 

Pronouns are a bit of a problem. When you don't know whether to call 
someone "he" or "she", you can't just call them "it". So we've invented 
a new pronoun, "um" which means "he or she" As in. "You know Sally? 
Well, um has just walked in, and doesn't um look great today?" Oh, and 
you can't tell by watching which toilet they use, because there is only 
one door, marked "People". 

No-one has even asked me straight out what I am, although the ones I've 
gone home with will have twigged by the time my vagina started milking 
the last drops out of their penis. I think the word must have spread, 
because I get wound up something rotten. Jill was one of the worst, she 
was telling me how good my breasts looked today, and did I know where 
she could get a wig like my hair. So I played the game by explaining 
that I'd put extra cotton wool in my bra, and she could get really 
excellent wigs in Selfridges. "And Jill, I like the way you've put on 
your mascara today." 

Then Freda came and joined us, and Freda is definitely a he, and Freda 
started trying to flirt with Ronnie. It's pathetic, watching someone 
like Freda trying to act coquettish, he's at least six foot two, and a 
hunk. But I know Freda, I've been back to his flat once, and he won't 
forget that evening in a hurry. So I took his hand, squeezed it gently 
to remind him what I could do if I wanted to, and led him over to the 
fireplace. Then I got him stood up against the wall and rubbed my back 
against his front until he could barely stand upright. Then I left him 
standing there to recover. 

Meanwhile, Jill had um hand right up Ronnie's shorts. OI! Get off, I 
found him, he's mine. I frowned at Jill, but Jill just laughed, and said 
"Ronnie's been telling me all about you, Diana." And then Charlie the 
barman came over with the drinks. Charlie's the landlord of this pub, 
the cross-dressing idea was his. He doesn't try to fool anyone about 
what sex he is, he wouldn't stand a chance. But he wears some very 
pretty frocks. And he said to me, "Four pounds fifty, or would you like 
to go a round for it?" 

It isn't that I'm short of a fiver, but I find it hard to resist a 
challenge. It isn't as if I have to prove anything, unlike every man 
I've ever met, who always have to prove themselves again and again. But 
the Honour of the Dianas is at stake. So I stood up, Charlie and I put 
our arms round each other, we each took a deep breath, Jill counted to 
three, and we hugged. 

Charlie's a big, heavy man, but he isn't a Strong Woman like me, and 
after my arms had crushed the air out of him, I held on until he passed 
out. Then I sat down with him in my lap until he came round, I didn't 
want anyone else to take advantage of him till he'd recovered. He tried 
to get back to the bar, but I wouldn't let him until I was sure he was 
all right again. And then he didn't want to move, because I had one hand 
up his skirt, and he definitely was a man, well, I already knew that. I 
think more men should wear skirts, it makes them so delightfully 
accessible. 

Then Vicky walked in, Vicky's another Strong Woman, and Vicky's my best 
friend, and I whispered to Ronnie to stay well clear of her, she liked 
to hurt men rather more that I thought was necessary, and he slid closer 
to me on the bench, and I put my arm protectively around him and stared 
at Vicky, who got my drift. But Jill went for Vicky like a steam train, 
and once again I wondered what Jill was, sexually speaking. And what she 
thought Vicky was, because Vicky is tall, nearly six feet, and very 
broad shouldered, and she was dressed in leather all over. Vicky's into 
S&M, or is it B&D, I can never remember which, maybe it's both. 

I got involved in an argument about carburettors, and fuel injection 
systems, and the relative merits of each, and I didn't see what Vicky 
was doing until there was a small scream from Ronnie, and I turned and 
caught Vicky red-handed. I'm not sure if that's the right word. Anyway, 
she had a hand up each of Ronnie's shorts legs, meeting in the middle, 
where there was a large wet patch. Vicky looked pleased with herself, 
Ronnie looked guilty,  and I was annoyed with both of them, Vicky for 
doing what I'd just told her not to, and Ronnie for letting her do it. 
Yes, he'd let her do it, he was sitting next to me, and if he wanted her 
to stop, he could have nudged me or something. So I thought up a fitting 
punishment for them both. "Vicky," I said, pushing Ronnie towards her. 
"Take him home and give him a seeing-to?" 

Vicky grinned, I knew she wanted him. She took him by the elbow and led 
him out. Actually, Vicky is quite capable of  making her own conquests, 
she only wanted Ronnie because she thought he was mine. Except that I 
didn't particularly want Ronnie, I'd already fucked his brains out once, 
and it was time for pastures new. Which left my hands free, so I picked 
up a man in a perfectly adorable floral print dress, took him home with 
me, and showed him that although being a woman is quite nice and 
certainly it's exactly what suits me, there are a lot of advantage in 
being a man, especially when a Strong Woman decides to take you home and 
turn you into a sex machine. Well, I suppose, to be more accurate, it's 
me that's the sex machine, but you know what I mean. My score that night 
was two voluntary fucks, then one with some persuasion, then one with a 
lot of persuasion and some careful tongue-work, and then three rapes. 
Well, you can't baby them all the time, can you? 

When I got home next day, I phoned up Vicky. "Can I talk to Ronnie, 
please?" "Er, he's a bit tied up at the moment, Diana, could you call 
later?" Unlucky Ronnie, I knew what that meant. I let her keep him till 
the afternoon, then I went round there to rescue him. Poor lamb, he 
certainly was tied up. She had him naked and spread-eagled on the bed. I 
couldn't see any blood, but he was sobbing softly, and there was a nasty 
bruise on his left arm. When I untied him, he almost leapt into my arms 
"Oh, Diana, I'm so pleased you're here." I soothed him down a bit, 
stroking his hair. "Diana, please don't leave me here, she's so, oh, 
oh..." "Linda was worried about you, that's the only reason I came to 
get you. That, plus the job you're going to do for me." "Oh please, 
please, I'll do I, anything you want, don't leave me alone with Her." 

So I explained to him about the DREAMS and the story-server, and he said 
he'd be honoured to take care of it for me, and would I apologise to 
Linda for him, he couldn't face her. So I kissed him, and told him that 
Linda forgives him, which was true. And that's how come DREAMS, GLOBES 
and various other little projects of mine are being looked after by 
Ronnie Clarke. 

And Linda is too good to waste. I'll be using Linda again, it's nice to 
have a secret twin sister. 




Diana the Valkyrie 
Email me at valkyrie@thevalkyrie.com
Or via alt.amazon-women.admirers