Valkyrie at sea
By Diana the Valkyrie (c) 1998; Valkyrie@TheValkyrie.com
Part 8 - Cavorting in Cadiz, and a Jolly Game of Hockey
Update: 21/09/1998 to valkyrie


At dinner that evening, I swapped one of my old biddies for Linda so we 
could be at the same table, since I wasn't so worried about her as 
competition any more, having already gotten my claws into a very decent 
bit of trouser, plus I had her non-aggression pact. Plus, having been 
through so much together we were Best Chums now. After dinner, still 
feeling somewhat umpty from all that running (Valkyries aren't built for 
speed, as you'll find out if you ever get to chase one) I followed Linda 
down to the theatre and watched her performance. 

She didn't seem to be affected by our adventures at all. I'd noticed on 
the tender, that she wasn't even out of breath, and on stage, wearing 
high heels, hair up and an eighteen inch feathered headdress on top of 
that lot, she looked simply magnificent, absolutely dwarfing her dancing 
partner, and when I looked around at the way the blokes were looking at 
her, I felt really quite proud of her. 

By midnight, I was feeling pretty much recovered, and knocked on the 
door of the Captain's Cabin. Stevie let me in, and then said "I need to 
talk to you." "What's up?" I asked, innocently. "It seems that two women 
were arrested, one of them about seven feet tall, for indecent 
exposure." "Seven feet tall? Wow. Even Linda's only six nine." He looked 
at me. "And then they escaped from jail by bending the two inch thick 
steel bars, slugged a guard unconscious, and ran away." "That's awful" I 
said. "I expect they'll be searching for them." "Yes, they are. And 
since one of them is a blonde, they were wondering if I had them on my 
ship." "Only one of them's a blonde?" well, I call it blonde. "So what 
did you say?" "I asked for their names, but unfortunately they didn't 
know the names." "Hmm, difficult. So I guess you have to watch out for 
two women, one seven foot tall, and the other one carrying a hydraulic 
jack." "Something like that." "I bet she didn't slug him, I bet she just 
squeezed him in her arms till he passed out." 

"I heard about your strong-man act last night." "Yes, the contortionist 
got a bit damaged, so I stood in for him." "And how did the 
contortionist get damaged?" "Now that definitely wasn't me, I never 
touched him." "Glad to hear it, Diana. I heard about the stunts you did. 
Pretty impressive for a girl." "I'm not a girl." "Woman" "Valkyrie" "All 
right, pretty impressive for a Valkyrie." I grinned. "No, not really." 
"But it was all arms and hands, you weren't using your legs." "That's 
more impressive, is why, men love to see upper body strength."  "Yes. 
You must have thighs like a hydraulic jack, Diana." It was dark, so I 
didn't bother blushing. "Aren't they?" and he stroked the top of my 
thigh.  This was more like it, so I stroked the top of his, and then we 
had a bit of a wrestling match, which obviously he won, and if you can't 
work out why it's obvious that he'd win, you haven't been paying 
attention, but somehow in the tussle his trousers came adrift from their 
moorings, and one thing, as things do, led to another. 

At the climactic moment, we both screamed. Him for the usual reason, me 
because I'd just brought my legs together with him in between, and it 
was like someone stuck a knife in both legs. And when afterwards he was 
being a bit too smug about how noisy I'd been, I explained that it 
wasn't entirely for the reason he was thinking. He turned on the light 
and had a look, and there was this huge black, blue yellow and green 
bruise running across the inside of each of my thighs. So Stevie got 
some sun cream and rubbed it on, which felt very good, although I didn't 
find out it was sun cream for a while, and Stevie said "You should have 
used a couple of pieces of wood to spread the load." "Hmm, good idea, I 
hadn't thought of that. I'll remember that, next time I have to bend a 
two inch thick steel bar between my legs." "Two inches?" I nodded. 
"Really?" he said, stroking the insides of my things. "They feel so 
soft, so silky." I stretched my legs and tensed the muscles. "Yes, I see 
what you mean, I'd hate to be caught between those nutcrackers when they 
decided to close." "No, it's different when there's a man there. I'm 
very gentle, really I am." "Yes, I know. The fact that I don't have any 
cracked ribs proves that." "Not cracked, broken, you don't have any 
broken ribs" I murmured as I fell asleep. 

Next day, we berthed at Cadiz, where Sir Francis Drake had singed the 
King of Spain's beard. But four hundred years later, we were all good 
friends, and Linda and I walked round the town gawking at the sights, 
while the locals gawked at 220 centimetres of California's Finest. 
Linda, of course, didn't even notice the stares, I suppose she assumed 
that everyone behaved that way. But although we weren't in Morocco any 
more, Spain wasn't used to sights like Linda, and after a fairly 
spectacular car smash that I was pretty sure she'd caused, I started 
counting the accidents. Mostly it was people walking into each other, 
into trees, into lamp posts and tripping over dogs, but there was one 
delightful muliple collision involving a bicycle, a dog and two 
pedestrians. 

It was jolly hot, so we found a cafe‚ and sat down to cool off and have 
a coffee. A couple of locals came over and started chatting us up. Linda 
encouraged them, of course, by flashing her eyes and tossing her hair, 
but then she made the mistake of doing her stand-up-and-tower-over-you 
thing, and they looked up at her, stood up, found they were still having 
to look up more than twelve inches, more like eighteen inches, and they 
skulked off. 

Linda looked surprised. "That usually works" she said. "Spaniards" I 
said. "Different cultures behave differently, Linda. Your Socal guys go 
gaga over giantesses, but Southern Europeans like the smaller feminine 
types. Let me handle the next lot." 

Two more swarthy little chaps sat down; seated, you can't really see 
just how tall Linda is, unless you notice how high her knees are, or see 
the length of her arms. We ordered four cans of coke and sat there 
sipping and flirting, until we felt rested and ready to see some more of 
Cadiz. But the two slightly rat-like Dagoes wanted to join us. I looked 
at Linda, she looked at me, I shook my head slightly, and she grimaced, 
so I ordered another can of coke. When it arrived, I took one of the 
empty cans and crushed it in my hand, so the two guys had to show that 
they could do the same, squeezing up the empty aluminium cans into a 
crumpled ball. Then I took the unopened can, and squeezed it in my right 
hand, grunting slightly as I put on the pressure, until suddenly it 
burst, spraying coke all around, and the two Spaniards set sail for 
Seville and all points South. "Impressive" said Linda. "Heh heh heh" I 
chortled. 

We got back to the ship in time for the afternoon game which was hockey, 
another game that I'd played quite a lot at school until the regrettable 
incident with Roger Guthridge and Sidney Cartstone, which was absolutely 
not my fault in the slightest, and I'll dispute with anyone who repeats 
the totally untrue rumours. 

Anyway, as far as I could rememeber, the rule was that you mustn't raise 
your hockey stick above shoulder level, and you mustn't hit your 
opponents. Apart from that, I don't think there are any rules. So we 
played the Blues against the Reds as usual, with me captaining the Blues 
and Linda the Reds, and never mind about not being allowed to hit your 
opponent, I couldn't even catch her. 

On the other hand, as long as I stayed in front of the goal, I could act 
like a brick wall, and no matter how often Linda flicked the puck at me, 
I warded it off. Goal is a great place to play if you're not built for 
speed, and if Roger and Sidney hadn't decided to both come at me at once 
... but as I say, that's all in the past and there's no point in raking 
it up again. Anyway, Roger was walking quite soon afterwards, albeit 
with the help of a stick. And what's the point of having first aiders 
around anyway, if they aren't for patching up injuries on the field. 

There's only one problem with a defensive strategy; you can't really win 
that way. But eventually, someone passed the puck back to me, and I set 
it in front of me, raised my stick to not quite shoulder level, and gave 
it a mighty whack towards the opposition. 

The opposition, sensibly, possibly remembering the cricket ball, and 
including their goalie, got out of the way. So we won, one-nil. 

Linda's contortionist joined us for dinner, and I was trying to find out 
from him exactly what he'd been doing when things went wrong, and what 
exactly it was that he'd broken, or dislocated, or what. He, of course, 
we being totally coy about it, and Linda wasn't helping. The captain 
sent over a bottle of Bolly to our table, which I thought was jolly nice 
of him, so I sent a bottle of Moet back. Then I discovered that the 
contortionist was ticklish, and from then on it was very easy to get a 
full and frank confession from him. Although why Linda wanted his legs 
behind his neck I can't imagine. 

That evening, instead of a variety show, they put on a play. They did 
"The Importance of being Earnest", one of my favourites, and Linda was 
Lady Bracknell, and although I've always thought of her as a small but 
commanding presence, seventy five inches, plus a high-plumed hat to add 
another fifteen or so, turned her into a tall, commanding and stately 
figure who completely stole the show, and I've never heard "A handbag? A 
handbag???" done quite so well.