Diana's steed 
By Diana the Valkyrie
Diana realises that a Valkyrie needs a suitable mount. So she gets one


If you haven't read "Diana's Heritage", you really ought to, then you'll 
understand this story. As usual, I'd like to emphasise that this is 
fiction; I don't really behave like this. Although I have the same urges 
that any other human being has. And I *can* ride a motorbike, and enjoy 
the sensation of speed you get. 

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



So, you'll remember that I came back from Narvik, at last understanding 
why a sturdily-built blonde girl would be so much stronger than the men 
around her - it's because she's a Valkyrie. Descended via the female line 
from the nine sisters, the Choosers of the Slain, the warrior maidens 
who harvested the fields of battle for dead heroes to fight again in 
Valhalla. Riding winged horses, wearing helmets and carrying swords and 
spears; beautiful, powerful and sexy as hell. 

I don't want to boast, but when I wear a short summer dress, heads turn 
as I pass. Powerful? Well, most men can't even bend a six inch nail, let 
alone bend it back and forth until it breaks. And sexy, well, thank 
Wotan for the Pill and the condom, otherwise I'd be buried in babies by 
now. Don't get me wrong, I adore babies, but they do slow you down. 
Maybe one day. No, make that definitely one day. But not just yet. 

A Valkyrie needs a flying horse, a helmet and her weapons. You can't 
clank around with a sword these days, unfortunately, I'd quite fancy 
wearing a sword. And a spear has got to be the most awkward accessory a 
girl could lug around. But I carry a rather wickedly sharp dagger in a 
scabbard in my hair, it looks like a hair clip. Well, it is a hair clip, 
when I pull it out, my hair falls down round my shoulders, which is a 
useful distraction as I cut off most of your tie (Freya taught me that, 
it's like a symbolic castration, and it's antislavery effective). 

But I felt a strong need for a flying horse, and since they're slightly 
extinct, I went for the next best thing. A motorbike. 

Not those little commuter bikes, that putt-putt along, taking Jeremy 
into the City and Cedric to college. No, a real bike, a lean mean 
machine, one that would rear and roar, one that would go at least three 
times as fast as most men would dare to travel. A superbike. 

I explained it to Hassan. I picked Hassan up in Narvik, although he's 
actually from a place that is much warmer and rather sandy. Hassan is a 
great convenience, I don't know how I managed without him. Now, when I 
have a sudden attack of the randies, I don't have to go through the 
whole process of getting dressed up, picking up a bloke, persuading him 
that he doesn't have to spend for ever courting me, and shagging his 
kidneys out. I still like to go out hunting, the thrill of the chase, 
the fun of unwrapping your prize, it's just like closing your eyes and 
taking a chocolate out of the box. But sometimes, I can't be bothered 
really to go through the whole ritual. Instead, I just crook a finger to 
Hassan, he drops his trousers (shorts, actually, he looks really darling 
in somewhat baggy shorts) and it's Yo ho ho and Away Silver. 

His shorts are baggy, because they have to be. Poor little Hassan has 
got balls slightly larger than the kind you play tennis with, and of 
course a whole lot softer. But if anyone hit poor little Hassan's balls 
with a racquet, they'd have me to reckon with, and an angry Valkyrie is 
not something you want pointing in your direction. Especially a Valkyrie 
who is angry because her nookie been injured. 

I've squeezed a lot of balls in my time (gently, of course, Valkyries 
have to be gentle with our heroes, otherwise they start crying) and I've 
never come across anything like Hassan. His prick is quite normal - 
four/five inches, maybe six when I get him going, but Hassan's testicles 
are what makes him special, and are the reason why I keep him. 

They say size isn't important - well, within limits, penis size doesn't 
matter. My vagina is normally tight enough to bar entry to a pencil (and 
there are a few of those around). But I can easily expand up to cope 
with a cucumber, and if you know where babies come from, then you know 
that (theoretically in my case) I could get an entire baby in there. No, 
penis size isn't critical. But the glands in your testicles produce 
testosterone, and that affects your sexual capacity. Let's make this 
simple - big balls means plenty fuck. 

And Hassan was a copious fuck. Coming doesn't change anything, he has a 
recovery time of zero. Yes, of course physical stamina would be a 
problem, but sexual stamina isn't, not when you have balls about three 
times normal size like Hassan. Because three times normal diameter, 
means 27 times normal volume, work it out yourself if you like. And I 
said physical stamina would be a problem; fucking is hard work if you do 
it right, and men need to rest quite a lot between rounds, I've found. 
Hassan is no different there. But I worked out a way round that problem 
ages ago, I just don't let them do the hard work, I do it for them. 
Women are built for baby-making, men are made for having sex with women. 
Baby-making involves living through pain that no man can ever 
understand, for about 24 hours. And throughout that time of pain, the 
woman has to make tremendous efforts, working harder and for longer than 
any man ever has. It isn't really surprising that any man is helpless in 
the hands of a strong woman. 

I usually let them do the first one themselves, man-on-top, me fairly 
passive (until I start orgasming, of course). Then, when they collapse 
triumphantly on top of me and I've finished telling them how wonderful 
they were, I roll us over, and the second round starts with me on top, 
the man passive. And I don't let him do *anything*, I say "You just lie 
there and enjoy yourself darling", because it's always safest to call 
them darling, they hate it so when you get their names wrong. 

So when my strong body has pounded them into the bed for my second 
climax, they aren't so sure about the advantages of being underneath a 
Valkyrie, you can get a bit squashed and bruised, so the third time is 
back to man-on-top, but the difference is that it's the strong woman 
underneath who is clearly in control, and it's her strength that is 
being used in the fuck. And that's the way I keep it from then on; man 
on top, woman in control. That way I can make what little stamina they 
have last and last until their balls are bone dry. 

So Hassan's lack of stamina isn't a problem, we just use mine instead. 
And it's hours before I drain him dry, absolutely hours, and I don't 
have to train him, he already knows what he's in for, and I don't have 
to pretend he's in control, and I don't have to spend ages telling him 
how great he was afterwards, to get him ready for the next bout. Yes, 
Hassan ranks above my dishwasher, even though he isn't as versatile. 

But you can't have a sensible conversation with him. Life isn't all 
fucking, you know. Sometimes you just want to talk with someone. Hassan 
wasn't very bright, and because he came from a different culture, he 
hadn't heard of people like Maggie Thatcher, Wonder Woman, Boadacea, 
Catherine the Great. I couldn't talk about politics, religion, art or 
finance with him. His idea of foreplay was to lick my breasts; nice 
enough, but a girl wants a bit of variety. And, like all men, afterplay 
consisted of falling asleep. 

So why do I call him "poor little Hassan" when most men would give their 
right arm to be in his position? Well, he is little (except where I've 
already explained), he's only five foot two, three inches less than me, 
and he's really skinny, about sixty pounds less than my 183 pounds. He 
loves it when I lift him up with one hand, something I can't usually do 
with most of the lads I go out with. So why "poor"? 

Because one of these days, I'm going to meet someone wonderful, someone 
to have babies with, someone to love. And then I'll have to throw Hassan 
out, because it wouldn't work to have a big-balled sex machine around, 
it would make my beloved feel terrible that he couldn't do the same. Men 
are like that, I'm afraid, and if you want to get the most out of a man, 
you have to take that into account. And then what will happen to Hassan? 
Vicki's shown interest in him, but I feel sorry for any man that falls 
into her sadistic clutches, she likes inflicting pain on them. On the 
other hand, a normal woman won't be much use to him, he's used to having 
a strong Valkyrie wrapped around him. So I don't know what will become 
of my poor little Hassan. Hassan doesn't know any of this, of course, he 
just lives from climax to climax, bless him. 

Anyway, even though he doesn't understand, I tell him things. After I 
get home, after I've pulled off his shorts and spent a few hours playing 
hide-the-sausage, I tell him about what happened in the office, about 
what Vicky told me she did, what was in my email from Freya - all the 
things I used to tell Roger. Roger is a stuffed dog, and Roger 
understood about as much as Hassan does. Still, somehow I feel better 
talking to a human being. 

So I told Hassan about being a Valkyrie, about how I felt so strong and 
free, how I loved finding heroes to bring back to my little Valhalla for 
feasting and fucking "with you for afterwards, Hassan, you give me what 
they can't". He understood that, and nestled closer to my breasts. 
Hassan's favourite position is snuggled close to me, his head between my 
breasts, and he makes me feel all maternal when he does that. 

Next day, I went shopping. I left Hassan at home, he'd only get in the 
way. Because this was a rather special purchase - this was going to be 
the steed of a Valkyrie. 

I went to Rex Judd, because they're the biggest bike shop in London. I 
wore a T-shirt and jeans, although jeans are a bit difficult for me 
because of my thighs, but Hilde gave me a great tip, which I'll pass 
along. If your thighs are disproportionately large (personally, I think 
other women are disproportionally skinny) then buy jeans for someone 
several inches taller than you, and cut the legs shorter. Then you'll be 
able to get your thighs in, unless you're *really* big. And none of the 
Valkyries I know are that big, if you're that big, I guess you *have* to 
wear a skirt. And the nice thing about knitted T-shirts is that when you 
put them on, they mold themselves to the shape of your body, and even 
give your breasts some support, should you need it, which I don't. 

I don't think the salesman (sorry, that should be salesboy) had ever 
seen a Valkyrie before. He just gaped at me, mouth open, eyes as big as 
saucers, and a delicious erection tenting his trousers. "Is that a 
crowbar in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?" I Mae Wested, 
squaring my shoulders back to see if I could cause a wet patch. Yes, 
there it was, just a hint of damp, not an ejaculation yet, just pre-come. 
I smiled. "I want to buy a motorbike. I want something big and powerful, 
hot and throbbing between my thighs", and I ran my hands down the front 
of my jeans to how him what thighs I was talking about. He moaned, made 
a strangled noise, and rushed out of the showroom. Honestly, some men 
have no self-control. Others, like this boy, had some, but they aren't 
used to being flirted with by a Valkyrie. After a couple of minutes, he 
came back and started giving me a story about a phone call, which made 
me laugh, so I told him not to be so silly, that he shouldn't be ashamed 
of a perfectly natural reaction, and I reached down and gave his groin a 
friendly squeeze, and it leapt up to greet me like an affectionate 
puppy. "What's your name, sweetie?" "Kevin" "Well, Kevin - sell me a 
motorbike." 

He showed me a Suzuki 125 cc machine. It was nice and shiny, but kind of 
small. "Kevin, I'm looking for a big bike, big and powerful. I want to 
to go so fast that my shirt is stretched over my body, and to have so 
much acceleration, it flattens my breasts." He was sitting on the 
Suzuki, and he looked up at me. "Nothing could flatten those." What a 
sweet boy. So I showed him how a man's head could flatten them, if it 
was hugged hard enough against my nipple, and he struggled a bit, but by 
the time I let him go it was too late and he'd wet himself slightly 
again. It's a common problem, I don't know why men make so much fuss 
about pretending it isn't happening. 

"So you want a big machine?" I nodded, and asked "What's the biggest, 
most powerful bike you've got?" "It isn't a girl's bike" he warned. "I'm 
not a girl" I retorted. He looked at my breasts, confused. Or maybe he 
just liked looking at them, men seem to find them entirely adequate, and 
I do flaunt them a bit. So I supposed I'd better enlarge. "I'm not a 
girl, I'm a woman" I explained and he looked relieved. I thought it 
wasn't really the right time to explain that I wasn't the sort of woman 
he was used to. "OK, come and look at this." 

I looked. She was big, black and beautiful. Her curves excited the eye, 
and she was obviously one very fast lady. Oooh. "She's magnificent" I 
agreed. "Can I?" Kevin nodded. So I gripped her handle bars and sat in 
the saddle. "It's a Honda Valkyrie, 1520 cc, top speed..." "A what?" I 
interrupted. "A Valkyrie." 

You know the feeling you get when you know the answer, and you know it's 
right? I knew then that Black Beauty was going to be mine. She was so 
right, so elegant. So big, so beautiful. As I sat in the saddle trying 
not to listen to Kevin prattle on about the six carburetors, I imagined 
myself on the open road, pushing towards 200 mph, my hair streaming back 
in the fierce wind, and something from Wagner playing on the CD player. 
Even before I knew she was a Valkyrie, I knew she was going to be my 
mount. A Valkyrie on a Valkyrie; I wonder if the woman who designed this 
stunning machine had Valkyries in mind as the buyers? I stroked her huge 
headlight, caressed her petrol tank (five gallons). "Kevin?" Kevin 
salesed on blithely, absorbed in his standard pitch. I turned in the 
saddle and gripped his genitals lightly, as one does. He shut up, 
abruptly. "Unh" "Kevin, how much, with all the extras and accessories, 
on the road?" "Twelve thousand, three hundred," said Kevin. 

Poor little Kevin. I doubt if he'd ever experienced a real woman before, 
let alone a strong Valkyrie whose business was negotiating deals. He was 
like putty in my strong hands. I made him sit on the bike, facing me, 
and I brought my legs up, wrapping them round his soft, defenseless 
waist. I opened his trousers, it's so thoughtful of men to have that 
easy-access zip, and took a double-handful of soft vulnerable genitals. 
Then, holding him in place between my thighs and playing with that 
lovely sensitive delicate flesh, I explained the situation to him. 

"See, Kevin, the thing is this. I'm a big strong Valkyrie, and you're a 
soft, weak man." I showed him how soft and weak he was with a squeeze of 
my thighs round his waist. "Unnhh" he said, as his waist reduced from 32 
inches to 30. "And that means that I can do anything I want to you." I 
clenched my thighs a bit more, and his waist came down to 28 inches. 
"You've got a lovely little waist, Kevin, neat and taut, even smaller 
than my thigh now."  It needed a bit more force to get him down to 26, 
but he wasn't putting up any resistance any more. "Ooh, Kevin, your 
waist is tiny, smaller than mine." I have to say, I wish my waistline 
was a few inches smaller. People don't notice, because if they look 
North, my breasts make my waist look smaller, and if they look South, my 
thighs give the same effect. But I know, and I wish I had a couple less 
inches round the waist. Kevin, on the other hand, was wishing that he 
had several more. 

So I turned the screw again. The Spanish Inquisition had a device that 
did the same job; they called it the "Fem de fer", which roughly 
translates to Iron Maiden. I read about it once, and it sounded like 
something I ought to know about. They put it round your waist, or round 
your ribs, and then they turned a screw to increase the pressure until 
they got a confession. It was a very simple machine, just two wooden 
logs the thickness of telegraph poles, linked by a hinge at one end, and 
separated by a screw thread at the other end. Don't let anyone tell you 
that the Spanish Inquisition lacked a sense of humour; at the junction 
of the poles, there was  carved wooden figure of a woman's torso like a 
ship's figurehead, rather voluptuous she was, too. So, they would turn 
the screw, then leave it at that setting, while the poor victim endured 
the pain and struggled to draw each breath. They'd leave it like that 
for a few days, and the victim would gradually come to terms with the 
pain and difficulty in breathing. Then when he was beginning to cope, 
they'd turn the screw again, and once more the agonizing pain would 
drain all the strength from the man, and lack of oxygen would befuddle 
his brain. 

But one thing was always clear to the Iron Maiden's prisoner. The screw 
was easy to turn, and there was plenty of pain yet to be experienced. 
And eventually, they always confessed. The Iron Maiden was the 
Inquisition's best torture device, because it worked slowly but 
inevitably, with plenty of time for the accused to think about the 
delights to come. And when the accused was in court, the Inquisitor 
merely had to open and close two fingers, like scissors, to remind the 
heretic of his old friend. 

Well, here's my problem. I really don't like hurting men, they're all so 
sweet really, but obviously you have to find some way to impose your 
will on them. I know lots of girls do that just by withholding sex, but 
I'm hopeless at that, I just lick my lips and say "Yes please". And, as 
I've discovered, it isn't just me, all Valkyries have this problem. So I 
need something that hurts them without hurting, well that's impossible, 
of course, so I need something that lets me carefully control how much 
pain I give, and doesn't do any permanent damage. And the Iron Maiden is 
perfect for that, except instead of wooden poles with an iron screw, I 
use my thighs. 

So I turned the screw again, and got him down to 24. When a man's waist 
is down to 75% of the original size, you're crushing his diaphragm so 
badly, he can barely breathe, plus the pain from your legs is making him 
incoherent. So what you do next, of course, is more pressure. 22 inches 
is small for a slim woman, for a man, it's like an iron vice, stopping 
him from breathing in, and thereby causing him to black out from oxygen 
starvation. 

"In particular, Kevin, it's a big mistake to get between my legs unless 
I like you."  Of course, it's important to relax the pressure once they 
black out; lack of oxygen can kill if you keep it up. I prefer to let up 
just before they black out so that they can enjoy the entire experience. 
"Fortunately, Kevin, I think you're a sweet boy, and I like you. Do you 
like me?" 

Well, what would you say in Kevin's position, the Iron Maiden still in 
position round your devastated body? Right. "Unhh, ahhh, unhhh, ahhh". 
Kevin was discovering the ecstasy of being able to breathe freely. So I 
gently took him down to 30 inches again, and somehow, he instinctively 
did the one thing that could get him out of the Iron Maiden's crushing 
embrace. Kevin started crying. 

It's probably my worst weakness. A crying man brings out all the 
protective maternal feelings, and I just want to cuddle and soothe away 
his tears. This has gotten me into terrible trouble in the past, I know 
it's irrational and silly, but no matter how awful a man has been to me, 
as soon as he starts crying, I turn to jelly. 

So I let my legs drop to the ground, and moved forward towards him, so I 
could cuddle his head into my breasts, which is the best way I know to 
stop a man crying. And it worked for Kevin. His wails turned to sobs, 
then to sniffles. I helped him blow his nose. "Oh, Diana, I've never met 
anyone like you." Well, of course not. There aren't that many Valkyries 
around. "So, Kevin, do you like me? This does" and I gave his penis a 
very gentle, friendly squeeze. He tried to bury his head deep in my 
chest. "You're the most wonderful girl I've ever met." "I'm not a girl, 
Kevin. A woman. In fact, I'm not even a woman. I'm a Valkyrie." 

There. That as the first time I'd told a man that, not counting Hassan, 
who isn't a real man, in spite of his three-inch-diameter balls and 
extraordinary sexual potency. So then I had to explain it to him, as we 
sat side by side on the motorbike, my arm round his shoulders, his face 
buried in my breast. "And I want my flying steed, Black Beauty. What's 
the best price you can do?" 

It's completely unfair to expect a man to be able to negotiate with a 
woman four times as strong as he is, especially if he's just had 
personal experience of that. They just turn to mush, and you can do what 
you like with them. Kevin crumbled just like they all do. "Eight 
thousand, two hundred" he said. And I knew that he'd just named his buy-
in price, and he really couldn't go below that. How did I know that? 
Because Kevin had the look on his face that men get after you give them 
the treatment. He was no longer interested in anything except me, and he 
was like a little puppy, just wanting to please. So I pulled out my 
credit card, and flexed my financial muscles. 

Kevin started doing the paperwork while I sat on Black Beauty, read the 
manual, and thought about Valkyries on winged horses. When I looked up, 
I saw tears running down Kevin's downy cheeks. I walked up behind him, 
molded my body round his to cheer him up, and wiped the tears from a 
soft downy face that surely had never seen a razor. "What's the matter, 
Kevvy love?" 

He turned round in my arms, and fitted nicely into my embrace. "I love 
bikes and I love you, and when you walk out of here, I'll get fired, and 
I'll never see you again." Oh dear. That's one of the problems with 
being gentle with men, they fall in love with you. On the other hand, 
Vicky's never gentle, and they still fall for her. One thing at a time. 
"Kevvy, why will you get fired?" "Because I'm not allowed to give such a 
big discount, that's our buy-in price." Yes, I knew that. But I didn't 
want my sweet little Kevvy getting fired on my account. "Let me have a 
word with the Boss" I said. "Diana will fix it for you." He looked down 
at me, his face full of hope. "Of course I will. And, you're coming home 
with me. You're still a virgin, aren't you?" He hung his head and 
nodded. "Not for much longer, sweetie, not for much longer." He gasped 
and something hard started digging into my crotch. "Boss" I reminded 
him. "This way. But ..." "Don't worry, Kevvy, leave it to me." You have 
to look after men, they can't look after themselves, can they? 

Kevvy knocked at a door. "Come" said a deep voice. We walked in to a 
plush office. A large balding man in a large battered chair glowered at 
us. "Whacha want?" he growled. "Hello," I smiled at him. He ignored me. 
"Er - this is Diana, and she ..." Baldy interrupted. "Ain't got 
no jobs for no tarts, now take yer bint an' get back ter work." He 
started looking through a drawer. "Er ..." said Kevvy. Baldy looked up. 
"An' close the door after yer. Nah, fuck off, you an' yer cunt." 

I don't think I have a short fuse. In fact, I'm a very patient girl, 
except when it looks like a man is going to take for ever to bed me. But 
being called a tart, a bint and a cunt in fifteen seconds is a bit much. 
And I may be wrong about this, but I think there are good theoretical 
reasons why you don't tell a Valkyrie to fuck off. So I told Kevvy to 
leave, because he wasn't old enough to see what was about to happen. You 
have to protect young virgins like Kevvy from scenes of violence. 

I explained the situation to Baldy. I walked round his desk, round the 
back of his chair, and as I went behind him, I slapped the back of his 
head with my open hand, and said "I'm not a tart". That scrambled his 
brains, but without doing the horrid damage that a face slap would have 
caused, and I have no idea what happens when a Valkyrie punches a man in 
the face, because I don't think I want to. 

Then I spun his chair so he faced me, put a hand round the back of his 
neck, and pulled him towards me, out of the chair. Except as he came 
halfway out, his belly met my fist, and he said "Oof" as all the air 
came out, yes they really do say oof, and he kind of collapsed like 
Roger does when I carefully empty his kapok stuffing so I can wash him 
(he gets a bit rank, on account of his preferred sleeping position 
between my legs).  "And I'm not a bint." 

Between the white hot agony in his belly and the dizziness from my slap, 
he wasn't in any condition to stop me lifting him up and dropping him 
onto his rather untidy desk with a splat, and yes, he bounced a few 
inches before lying still. "And I'm not a cunt, although I do have 
rather a nice cunt, which you're going to meet in a minute." 

As I came round the desk to teach Baldy a couple more facts, I saw that 
Kevvy had disobeyed me, and was watching from near the door. I stopped 
handling Baldy for a moment; it really is important that young innocents 
like Kevvy don't see sadistic scenes of torture and suffering. He's 
still a child, even though his sexual equipment was full and firm. I 
frowned at him, I do a good scary frown "Kevvy - scat." He scatted. 

I pulled Baldy so that his head just dangled over the edge of the desk, 
and pulled off my jeans. I hardly ever wear jeans, a skirt is so much 
more feminine, plus you get the accessibility, plus thigh size isn't a 
problem. I had to go and wear jeans on the day I need access. Oh well, 
you know what they say about buttered toast. Have you ever wondered what 
would happen if you strapped a slice of buttered toast to the back of a 
cat, then dropped the cat? Then I straddled Baldy's head, fitting his 
nose comfortably into my crack, and explained to him "And you don't tell 
a Valkyrie to fuck off", emphasising each word with an increasingly hard 
squeeze of his skull. I *knew* there was a theoretical reason for that 
rule. 

I held him like that, his nose buried in my vagina, his face deep in my 
crotch. He started to struggle after a few moments, he was getting short 
of air. I've never done this before, it's something Freya told me about, 
and she was absolutely right, the more he struggled, the nicer it felt. 
I let him get enough air to stop him from passing out, all that wiggling 
and jiggling felt so delicious. After a while, his struggles grew weaker 
and weaker, and finally he just lay there, passive, exhausted, defeated 
by a Valkyrie's vagina. It really doesn't take that much to tame a man. 
So I stepped back, and as I put my jeans back on, I explained a few more 
things to him. 

"I'm sure you're a nice man really, you've just got a lot on your mind. 
I'm not looking for a job, I'm a customer, I just bought a bike from 
you, Kevin sold it to me, he gave me a nice discount, he's a good 
salesman, and you should give him a rise. He's a friend of mine, you 
will be nice to him, won't you?" Baldy groaned. I don't think he could 
make his neck work after what I'd done. I looked down at him, and tears 
were dripping up his forehead, he was crying upside down. Oh shit. A man 
crying. Sigh. OK. 

I put my arm round his shoulders and helped him sit up, so his neck 
wasn't being stretched. He winced as his belly folded, he was still in a 
lot of pain from that punch. So I picked him up very carefully, so as 
not to hurt his damaged body, and helped him lie down on the carpet. 
"Breathe in and out, but don't breathe deep. I know it hurts, but you've 
got to breathe, and shallow breaths will hurt less."  I massaged his 
belly, trying to stop the cramps that were tearing him apart. "In, out, 
in, out." 

Oh, Wotan, I was getting wet between the legs. Not now, Diana, sex would 
probably finish him off. So I stayed just long enough to make sure that 
he was breathing regularly, then went back to the main showroom. As I 
left the room, the doorknob nearly took Kevvy's eye out. The little 
rascal had been watching through the keyhole. Oh well, men have to lose 
their innocence some time. Speaking of which, it was time Kevvy learned 
what sex is all about. 

He'd done the paperwork, and Black Beauty was all mine, ready to be 
mounted. Oh. Crash helmet, it's a legal requirement. But sweet Kevvy had 
thought of that. I couldn't believe it, but there it was. "Kevin, where 
in the world did you get a Viking helmet?" and I kissed him, he deserved 
it. He grinned. "Actually it's a standard model, off the shelf. You're 
so pretty, you don't want a visor hiding your face except when you pull 
it down for speed, and it doesn't come too far down at the back, so you 
can let your hair stream out." "Yes, but the horns, I can't believe 
they're standard." "No, I glued them on with Superglue. You're a 
Valkyrie, so you should look like a Valkyrie." Actually, modern opinion 
is that Vikings didn't actually wear those horned helmets, too 
impractical, and they didn't have Superglue. But that's what a Valkyrie 
looks like in Wagner, that's what everyone thinks a Valkyrie looks like, 
so that's exactly the look I wanted. "But isn't it going to be illegal? 
I mean, those horns could do a lot of damage in an accident." So Kevvy 
showed me how they were actually soft plastic, and wouldn't hurt a baby. 
So I kissed him again, put on my helmet, then leather gauntlets (to 
protect my hands from gravel rash if I came off), then a leather jacket 
which didn't remotely fit round the bust (made for a man, hopeless), and 
Kevvy looked a bit crestfallen at that, but I kissed him again to cheer 
him up. 

Then I yanked Black Beauty's 700 pounds off her stand, turned the 
ignition, and kicked the engine into life. Yes, I know there's an 
electric starter, but Valkyries don't use it. Roar, roar went the 
hundred horses inside the engine. Mmmh, lovely. "Come on, Kevvy, jump 
on!" I yelled above the thunder of the exhaust. He got on behind me, 
holding on to the seat. I reached back and pulled his hands round my 
waist. "Hold on tight" and he snuggled close to my back, I could feel 
his genitals against the small of my back, and golly that's an 
astonishingly erotic feeling. Clutch in, first gear, clutch gently out 
with a bit of throttle, and Whoops! Wow! Sorry, Kevvy, I didn't mean to 
do a wheelie. I could hear him screaming incoherently behind me as I 
started off again, this time I was expecting Black Beauty to rear up, so 
I was able to keep control, and we accelerated down the road. 

I'd forgotten how exhilarating a powerful bike between your legs could 
be. Those Valkyries on flying horses couldn't have had as much fun as I 
did. And you can grip it really hard with your thighs without having to 
worry about breaking anything. I swear I didn't exceed 70 mph on the way 
home, but it felt like flying. Yes, I know you're only supposed to do 
thirty in town, but Black Beauty had other ideas, and I just let her 
rocket along. 

When we got home, I put Black Beauty on her kickstand, and tried to 
dismount. But something was clutching round my waist with a grip like 
steel. I had to dig a finger into the inside of his wrist to make him 
let go, something I wouldn't normally do to someone I like because it 
hurts like hell, but I couldn't dislodge his grip any other way. And 
then, when I got off, he sat there, eyes closed trembling and whimpering. 
Oh shit. I think I must have scared him. Why do men scare so easily? 

Well, I'm fairly used to dealing with scared men, and although Kevvy 
looked pretty far gone, he wasn't nearly as bad as some of the terrified 
rabbits that Vicky brings round sometimes. Well, she does it on purpose, 
she says she *likes* to hear a man sobbing with terror. Chacun a son 
gout, but I wonder sometimes whether with an attitude like that Vicky 
really is a Valkyrie. Freya and Hilde feel the same way I do, you have 
to be gentle with men. 

So I kissed him, and shushed him, and picked him up, he was unable to 
move under his own power for the moment. And I took him to my bedroom, 
and then I realised that the usual remedy wouldn't have the usual 
effect, Kevvy being a virgin, fucking him would just make him even more 
scared. So I helped him get undressed for bed, and he didn't want to be 
naked in front of me the darling boy, and of course I didn't have any 
pajamas he could wear, so I lent him one of my plainest silk night 
dresses, and coaxed him into putting it on, and then tiptoed out and let 
him sleep. 

As you can imagine, by then I was as horny as a Viking helmet, and 
daren't take it out on Kevvy, for fear of causing permanent 
psychological damage. Fortunately, I have an excellent emergency supply 
of erect penis, in the form of my Eveready Hassan and his giant balls. 
Except there was a somnolent Kevvy in my bed. No problem, I just waited 
till he was properly asleep, then picked him up in my arms and carried 
him into the lounge, onto the settee. He was asleep, he wouldn't mind, 
and it was my bed he was occupying. As I laid him out, he looked so 
darling in my night dress, I wonder why men don't wear night dresses to 
bed. They used to, you know, a little as 100 years ago. Maybe I should 
re-introduce the fashion. I bet Hassan would look smashing in a silk 
nightie. 

But right now, Hassan was looking irresistible in baggy shorts, although 
they weren't as baggy as they had been a little while ago, in fact they 
were getting distinctly tight. You know what a bell tent looks like, a 
cone of taut canvas stretched tight by a huge central pole? I get wet 
whenever I see a bell tent. Or a cucumber. Or a slide rule. Or a train 
going into a tunnel. Or ... no, lets not get into a list of what turns a 
Valkyrie on, we'll be at it for ever. Excuse me a moment, there's just 
something I have to attend to - see what you've made me do? 

Uh, that's better, where was I? Oh yes, randy as a goat, Hassan ready 
for action. So ... 

Oh. Did you want a description of Diana the Valkyrie having sex with Hassan 
ibn Fahd? You don't really, it's very boring and repetitious. Hassan 
doesn't have much imagination, and I have to admit, I so much prefer 
man-on-top, I like to feel a bit of weight on me. I suppose I shouldn't 
use the word "boring", because the Pun Police will get me. Oh, Ok, if 
you insist. 

Well, we do a bit of foreplay first, I fondle his balls, I love their 
soft and heavy feel. And I've taught him that a Valkyrie's weakness is 
her breasts, lick my nipples and I'm anybody's. So we do a bit of that, 
then after a few minutes, it's so hard to maintain the postponement of 
gratification with someone like Hassan, when you simply *know* there 
will be another one along in a minute, so there's no real reason to make 
each one last. So I very soon bring him to orgasm, and that great hot jet 
fills me up and brings on my orgasm, and the contractions of my vagina 
makes his dick hard immediately, and by the time my orgasm is over, his 
next one is starting, and when he erupts again it triggers my climax, 
and then the clenching and release of my cunt makes his dick hard again, 
and the feel of a stiff prick is the most erotic feeling a woman can 
experience, especially if it's inside her, so Hassan gets my body 
aroused ... I told you it would be boring and repetitive. 

After several rounds we're both soaking wet and bone dry. Why do I read 
so many erotic stories where the bed is soaked by semen? It simply isn't 
like that. Sure, there's some, but even a copious ejaculator like Hassan 
only squirts a couple of teaspoonsful (teaspoonfuls? whatever). No, 
almost all the moisture is the sweat that pours off both our bodies. 
Fucking is the hardest work you can do, if you do it right. If they paid 
you to fuck, you'd demand blood pressure tests every day, full medical 
tests monthly and hazard pay. And the right to strike for better working 
conditions. Not that you'd ever actually strike. I mean, can you 
imagine it? "Down tools!" No, hang on, that's not right. "Everybody 
out." Er - maybe not. Or perhaps you'd just do a go-slow? Hmmm, tricky. 
"Are you in the union?" Well yes, I mean that's the whole point, mate. 
And so on. Have you ever noticed, there must be thousands of words for 
describing sex, but only one for chastity. Whoops, here come the Pun 
Police. 

And bone dry? Yes - after you've sweated off a couple of pints, you need 
to replace it. So Hassan and I developed a code, whereby "no" means 
"yes", and "please no" means "mm, yes" and "Diana please stop for a 
while" means "Please don't stop". I'm not going to tell you our secret 
word that really does mean stop, you can make up your own. So we stop, 
and I put on a nightie and slippers, and Hassan his Jelebia, and we 
creep into the kitchen and raid the refrigerator, because that's where 
the cold milk is, I love cold milk, and maybe a bit of a snack, and 
while we're drinking and eating I reach surreptitiously under the table 
and fondle Hassan's balls, they're worth a good fondle, and he  
retaliates against my breasts, he knows my weakness, and one thing leads 
to another, and pretty soon we're bonking like rabbits again, at it like 
knives. Oh, sweet Hassan, how on earth did I manage before I found you, 
it's like I used to eat Walls ice cream, but now I've discovered Hagen 
Dazs. 

So I worked off the accumulated randiness of the day on Hassan, until a 
few hours later both of us were sated, well I could have managed several 
more, but let's not be greedy, and poor little Hassan is beginning to 
look worn out - tomorrow is also a day. And I fell asleep with Hassan 
cuddled close to my breasts and Roger (he's stuffed, before you get 
worked up about cruelty to animals) acting as a sponge between my legs. 
Yes, I know I said it's mostly sweat and only a couple of teaspoonsful, 
teaspoonfuls, er, um, hell, ten cc per ejaculation. But those 10 ccs 
soon mount up, it only takes a hundred to make a litre, although half a 
pint is more typical (typical for Hassan that is). And half a pint 
oozing slowly out from between your legs is yucky. I can't control it, 
honestly I can't, because if I try to clench it in, I get a spasm like a 
jolt of electricity, and my muscles cycle and it all leaks out anyway. 

But since I started bedding Hassan, I also started letting him sleep in 
my arms, and I'm not sure how wise that is, because all the dog training 
books recommend against it, and men aren't really that different from 
puppies, you can learn a lot from dog training books. But by the time 
we're done fucking, he's so tuckered out, I haven't got the heart to 
kick him out of bed. But snuggled in my arms  is where Roger used to 
sleep, and he got *very* sulky about it, until I had a word with him, 
and told him "Roger, I've got an important task for you" which was to 
act as a sponge at my vagina, and Roger could see what an important and 
responsible job that is, so he agreed to do it. Which is why I have to 
wash him rather often. 

So next day I leapt out of bed and showered, and put a soggy Roger in 
the washing machine. Here's a secret. Roger isn't alone. After I 
promoted him to his new role of sponge, I rapidly discovered that he 
needed helpers, so now there are seven Rogers, all called Roger, one for 
each day of the week, and I do the washing twice per week One of these 
days I'll teach Hassan how to use the washing machine, there really is 
no reason why men can't be useful s well as ornamental. Hassan was dead 
to the world, of course, a randy Valkyrie is an exhausting prospect. 

So I woke up Kevvy, who was feeling a bit better today, I think his mind 
had simply buried the terrifying experience of being my pillion 
passenger. And he did look so gorgeous in my nightie, I wanted to gobble 
him up. We had breakfast and I told him I planned to take Black Beauty 
out for a real burn-up, and Kevvy looked green, and asked if he could be 
excused pillion. "Of course you can, Kevvy, I'll take Hassan. He 
swallowed, gulp. ""Please, Diana, can I come?" Heh heh. 

We went slowly, I didn't want to scare him again. Deep into Epping 
Forest, down bridlepaths until we reached the secluded sylvan glade I 
had in mind. Then I brought a Fortnum's hamper out of the rear carrier, 
and I fed Kevvy on quail's eggs, smoked salmon and cold game pie, with 
strawberries for desert and ice cold strawberry ice cream, followed by 
hot Diana the Valkyrie for afters. There under the ancient trees that acted 
like they'd seen it all so many times before, accompanied by the song of 
the birds who had their own agenda (mostly to do with food and sex, not 
very different from ours, come to think of it) and the occasional creak 
from Black Beauty as she cooled down, the old, old story of a man and a 
woman (or in this case, a boy and a Valkyrie) was re-enacted. 

You have to be so gentle with men, tender and delicate with boys, but 
you have to be soft as satin with virgin boys. It's a big 
responsibility, his first experience will set the pattern for his 
sexuality for the rest of his life. So you mustn't be too dominating, or 
he'll turn into a wimp, but you mustn't be submissive, or he'll expect 
all other women to be like that. Obviously you've got to make it good 
for him, otherwise he'll never try it again, but you mustn't make it too 
good, or he'll spend the rest of his life being disappointed. He'll want 
to go off like a Roman Candle (another of the things that make me go all 
gooey) and he has to be shown how to pace himself, but you mustn't 
expect the sort of self control an experienced lover will have. One of 
my best ever bounces was with a guy pushing fifty, yes, fifty.  He was a 
single-shot for sure, but he knew it, and he had such fantastic self 
control, I could only make him come before he wanted to about half the 
time. Normally, when I want them to come, bang. But Icky (well, you 
can't call someone Ichabod in bed, it doesn't sound right, "Oh Ichabod"? 
I don't think so). Icky closed his eyes so he couldn't see my erotic 
body, closed his mouth so he wouldn't breathe in my pheromones (I must 
tell you about Valkyrie pheromones some time), and I expect he closed 
everything else too. Because even though I squeezed and pulled like a 
demented milking machine, if Icky thought "not yet", then "not yet" it 
was. Well, some of the time. We had a wonderful two weeks together, and 
he recovered really well from the heart attack, and we're both quite 
sure it wasn't me that caused it, but all the same. I mean, you can't be 
too careful, can you? I mean, how would you like to wake up in the 
morning with a corpse on top of you, you know I love to sleep with a man 
on top, it's like a big heavy blanket, yummy. Not that I've ever had 
that happen, of course, and I want to keep it that way. However, where 
was I? Oh yes, if you know any experienced men, age 40 to 50, must have 
a clean coronary history, could you give them my email address? 

There's a lot to be said for an experienced lover, but you really can't 
beat a young juicy virgin. Kevvy was young; out of school, but not 
shaving seriously yet, you know? He shaved because he wanted to, not 
because he had to. And he was juicy, I could almost feel the juice 
bursting to get out. So I unpeeled him like a banana, all the time 
kissing him and reassuring him that he'd be great, don't worry, I know 
what to do, leave it to Diana, I'm a Valkyrie and I know how to handle 
men (men! he was just a little boy, but now wasn't the time to remind 
him). "Diana, I've never done it before" which is always a difficult 
admission for a virgin, but it's good if they can get it out in the 
open. So I told him to leave the difficult stuff to me, I knew what went 
where. I shudder to think what happens when two virgins get together, 
how do they know what goes where, when and how? Although I suppose 
virgins are so rare you'd never find two together. "You just relax and 
lie there and enjoy it, it'll be just like masturbating only better." 
which gives him a frame of reference. "Diana" whispered Kevvy. "Mmmh?" I 
mumbled, my mouth full of something soft. "I haven't" "Haven't what?" 
"You know. What you said," 

I was so shocked, I nearly bit it off. All teenage boys masturbate, 
don't they? Apparently not. He wasn't lying, he couldn't. There are some 
situations where men actually cannot lie, and I had Kevin in one of 
them. Golly. So what I was playing with wasn't just a well-loaded gun, 
it was a high pressure fire hose. Fire hoses - no, I won't tell you what 
the sight of fire hose does to me, especially when they have that big 
brass nozzle, and you know if you turn the valve, a jet is going to 
blast out, and I really must stop having erotic thoughts about inanimate 
objects. Except I don't know how to stop having erotic thoughts. But 
I've never fucked a fire hose, honestly. "So you've never had an 
orgasm?" He shook his head, looking miserable. "Hey, cheer up Kevin, 
don't look so down in the mouth." I expect he'd been trying to shave 
again; down in the mouth is an occupational hazard for young shavers. 

Well, he was nicely stiff, and I was nicely wet, and what's the point of 
waiting? I did what you do to his prick, because I'm not ready to have a 
baby just yet, and I don't want to rely on the pill working, who knows 
whether they work on Valkyries. Then I lay down and pulled him on top of 
me, because the ground was hard, and I didn't want him to be 
uncomfortable, I'm quite soft to lie on really. I spread my legs, lifted 
them up, and locked them round his waist. And he immediately moaned and 
softened. Oh. Silly of me. He's thinking of what I did to him yesterday, 
in the showroom. So I stroked his hair and whispered to him a bit, and 
the warm breeze played over our bodies. "I'm not going to hurt you, 
Kevvy, not now. I only did that to establish the hierarchy, now it's 
established I don't need to hurt you ever again. Oh, Kevvy, sweet little 
Kevvy, I don't like hurting men, I only do it when I have to. Look, feel 
how soft my breasts are, you can touch them, yes, like that ..." And I 
lay back and closed my eyes, and thought beautiful thoughts. Freya told 
me she was the same, catch her breasts just right and she melts. 

As he played with my nipples, I felt his erection returning, you can't 
keep a good man down. And slowly, I lifted my legs up again, and just 
rested them lightly on his waist and hips. Actually, I was taking most 
of the weight of my legs on my thigh muscles, I knew his waist must 
still be feeling very sore and tender from yesterday, even though I'd 
been so careful not to crack any ribs, because cracked ribs take so much 
longer to come right than bruises. And I used my hands to urge him 
carefully into position, and he wanted to go like a piston engine at 
once, of course, but I didn't let him, I pushed him away when he tried 
to push down, and I held him in with my legs when he tried to pull out. 
He knew the simple stuff instinctively, of course, but he had no concept 
of delayed gratification. After a few minutes, he started crying out, so 
I just locked everything down tight and wouldn't let him move a 
millimeter until he calmed down a bit. Then I relaxed my legs a bit and 
let him draw out, relaxed my arms a bit to let him push back, and he was 
off like a steam locomotive. Have you ever looked at how the wheels are 
driven, there's this steel rod connecting the driving wheels, and 
another huge hard steel rod driving the wheel round, connecting to a 
piston that forces it in and out. I get moist just thinking about it, 
it's just as well they don't have locomotives like that these days, 
otherwise I could never travel by train. You'd think they'd put a skirt 
over it or something, cover it up. Look, it's not my fault, I didn't 
design the thing. It looks like it was designed by a woman in heat, to 
show men how it should be done. Maybe that's why it's so naked. 

We stayed out there till the light started to fade. It was getting a bit 
chilly, and I could see mosquitoes marauding, and I didn't want Kevvy to 
get mosquito bitten and pneumonia. He was resting on top of me, I'd 
taken a lot out of him, but I *still* hadn't let him come, because you 
know what virgins are like, you only get the one from them, that first 
time. So I gathered him in close to me, legs round his hips, arms round 
his chest, so he couldn't move an inch. Then I kissed him, and told him 
to take a few deep breaths, if you get the blood oxygenated, you can go 
without breathing for longer. Then, when I felt he was ready, I started 
to pulsate my vagina. Clench-relax-clench-relax, about one cycle per 
second, to start with. That's 1 Hertz, you measure cycles in Hertz, 
which are the same as cycles per second. Then I started to move under 
him, rocking from side to side, with him held firmly in my arms and 
legs, still pulsating at one hertz. 

Then I added a push from my arms and a pull from my legs, so he was 
sliding in and out a little way, he was struggling now, trying to take 
over, but I wouldn't let him, of course, so he started moaning "Please, 
oh please." I didn't know what he was saying please for, but it didn't 
matter, because he hadn't the foggiest idea about how to do this anyway, 
being a virgin. Then I unwrapped my legs from his waist and put them on 
the ground, so I could arch my back to meet his thrusts, supporting our 
weight on my head and my heels. I ratcheted the pulsation up to about 
two hertz, and he started to scream. 

That's the point, the peak of the mountain. Now the big trick is to keep 
him there for a while. And the way you do this is to listen to the 
noises he makes, and just allow him enough stimulus to keep his pot 
boiling, without letting it cool off or boil over. Of course, men always 
want to boil over as quickly as possible, it's their instinct. So you 
have to control their bodies, not letting them do what they want, and 
that's why a strong Valkyrie is so much better at sex than an ordinary 
woman. I knew you were wondering why, so now you know. And I think men 
know that instinctively, that's why the sight of a woman with a 
powerful-looking body is such a turn-on for them. 

Anyway, I held him at the mountain-top for several minutes, and then 
rather than just let him slide off into the abyss of orgasm, I threw him 
off, strong and hard. We turned over, so that I was on top, and I simply 
rammed myself onto him, and with the ground behind him, there was 
nowhere for him to go. I turned the motor up to three hertz, and pounded 
as hard as I could, well, not as hard as I could, but you know what I 
mean. And he responded beautifully, orgasming and screaming and yelling 
and bucking - he nearly threw me off! But I kept pushing even though his 
orgasm was running full strength, until before long, the sensation got 
too much for him and he passed out. 

That's how I like it. When you've been fucked by a Valkyrie, you know 
you've been fucked. I left him unconscious on the blanket, and started 
packing everything up. By the time I was ready, he'd woken up and was 
groaning slightly. I picked him up and cuddled him a bit, and he kept 
panting and saying "Oh, Diana, Diana". "Do you think you're up to riding 
pillion on the way home?" He nodded weakly, so I wrapped the blanket 
round him, I didn't feel up to helping him get his clothes back on, and 
helped him onto the back of Black Beauty. I pulled her off her stand and 
kicked her into life, and Kevin fell off. Blimey, he didn't have the 
strength to hold on to me. So I had a bit of a think, he's too large to 
go in the panniers or the back box. Could I leave him here and go and 
get Fay, my car? No, he might be eaten by a vole or something. Maybe a 
crow would mistake him for a dead animal, and he didn't look like he had 
the strength to fight off a newborn kitten. 

So I put him onto the bike, in front of me, but facing me, and told him 
to get his head between my breasts and hold on round my waist, and I put 
my legs over his to grip him in place, and in that rather awkward 
position, I rode slowly home. Of course, he was fast asleep when we got 
home, so I transferred him gently to my hip, I find that's the best way 
to carry an unconscious man, arm round his waist, head against my right 
breast, and took him upstairs and put him to bed. 

You may have spotted that in all the above, I hadn't yet had an orgasm 
of my own. That's right. I don't get to deflower a virgin every day, and 
when I do, I want to do it properly, and properly means you don't have a 
climax yourself. but that isn't as big a sacrifice as it sounds, because 
Hassan was there, and Hassan is like a 24 hour milk bar. Except it isn't 
milk you get out of him. 

Of course, all that activity with Kevvy had made me ravenous, and I 
don't mean for food. So Hassan got quite a workover that night, even by 
his usual standards. And no, I'm really not going to give a blow-by-blow 
of me and Hassan, because it really is dull and repetitious. 

Next morning I was woken up by a wonderful smell, and when I walked into 
the kitchen, I was greeted by a simply wonderful sight. Breakfast. Sweet 
Kevin had gotten up early, and in spite of the aches and pains that he 
had to be feeling, he'd made me breakfast. And he must have talked to 
Hassan about what I liked, because it wasn't your wimpy coffee-and-
croissants sort of breakfast, or even processed cereal and milk. There 
was a large steak and a heap of eggs, the steak almost raw and very 
bloody, I'm gentle but I'm carnivorous, and several pints of milk, 
because I'd lost a lot of fluid the previous night, sweating like a pig, 
and plenty of orange juice, the kind you get when you squeeze an orange, 
not the kind that comes out of a bottle, and nice crusty rolls, and real 
butter, because I can't believe anyone would put some synthetic inside 
them, and Proper Tea made in a Proper Teapot, and if I gave you all the 
details of my breakfast, that would be almost as repetitive as bonking 
Hassan. And while I was eating, Kevin washed plates, and cooked 
omelettes, and made more Tea, and it was good, strong Tea, the sort that 
you can leave a spoon standing up in. And he made toast, just golden 
brown and crispy, and he spread honey on some, and more toast with 
Marmite on it, and if there's one thing that turns me to a gibbering 
wreck, it's Marmite, there's nothing like it, although I'm told Vegemite 
comes close. Then he knelt by my chair, and proposed marriage to me. 

That doesn't actually happen every day, you know. Not to me, anyway. I 
suppose it's the morals of the age. But the gist of Kevin's pitch was 
that he loved me, that he'd taken advantage of me last night, that he 
loved me, that he wanted to spend his life with me, that he loved me, 
and would I marry him? Meanwhile, I'm trying to wrap myself round a huge 
amount of food, necessary to replace the huge number of calories I 
burned yesterday, while trying not to appear so callous that I'd eat 
while a declaration of eternal love was being spoken up at me. So I told 
him, Oh Kevin, this is all so sudden, I'll have to think about it. 

Which gave me a bit of a problem. My normal modus operandi is to love 
them and leave them, bonk, bang, bonk and on to the next one. The world 
is full of men, all of them are different, but all of them have one 
thing in common, they like Valkyries. That and the thing between their 
legs, of course. And if I get all attached to one, I'll be missing all 
the others, won't I? And one day, I'm going to want to have a baby, and 
by then, I'll have to have found the father, and he'll need to be 
someone rather special. And I haven't found him yet. So I have to go on 
looking, and getting all tangled up with Kevin would slow me down 
terribly. I'm a Valkyrie, and I need a Hero to love, a Siegfried to my 
Brunnhilde, see Wagner if you don't know what I'm talking about, someone 
strong and wonderful, someone I can look up to. Not someone I have to 
worry about whether I'm holding him too tight, and whether his screams 
are sexual release or pain. Some day my Hero will come. 

So I was eating my way through a monster meal, I don't eat that much all 
the time, otherwise I'd be as fat as a pig, my waist is slightly too big 
as it is, although people don't notice, because other parts of me are 
even bigger. And while I was eating, Kevin alternated between kneeling 
at my feet with his head in my lap, and making more toast, and more Tea, 
and more eggs, until I told him to stop, stop making food, that is, and 
I sat feeling very good with his head in my lap, stroking his hair, and 
wondering what to do with him. 

"Kevvy, would you like to cook for me?" I don't know why I did that. I 
suppose it was partly I was still tingling slightly from Hassan's 
efforts last night, he'd done well, the sweet thing, and partly that a 
full stomach puts a woman in a very good mood, and I was feeling very 
warm towards Kevin who was the immediate cause of the good feelings in 
my tummy. He looked up at me, made his eyes go big, nodded hard, and 
whispered "Yes, oh yes Diana." 

Hassan didn't mind. I pointed out to him that Kevin would do all the 
cooking, and the laundry, and the other housework, and he'd be unlikely 
to have more than a couple of shots in him at night, so Hassan wouldn't 
be losing much. Well, he still pouted a bit, but I worked on him for a 
couple of hours, using a delicious combination of sex and almost pain 
but not quite, I'll have to explain some time how you can have a man 
almost in pain, and he knows that if you squeeze a little harder, or 
bend him a bit further he'll be in real pain, but he isn't yet, and the 
thought of being so helpless in a woman's hands is very exciting. Maybe 
I'm more like Vicky than I thought. 

So Kevin's happy. He still works at the bike shop, and he's done a 
custom paint job on Black Beauty, he added a fairing in plain black, and 
then he painted a Valkyrie on a horse, with winged helmet and a huge 
sword (they actually carry spears, but the sword is more dramatic), and 
she's in the middle of swinging the sword. She's bare breasted, of 
course, and that's definitely unrealistic if you think about the ambient 
temperature in Norway, but you mustn't be picky about that sort of 
detail. The swinging sword makes her breasts stand out far more than is 
realistically possible, although Kevin swears that he based it on me, 
but I think her arms are much larger than mine, although I think my 
thighs have got hers beat. And for sure she's got my face, and I've seen 
people look at Black Beauty, look at me, look down again at the Valkyrie 
painted on the Valkyrie, look up at the Valkyrie riding on the Valkyrie, 
and practically cream themselves. 



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