Diana's Quest part one - Paris
by Diana the Valkyrie, Valkyrie@TheValkyrie.com
Diana goes on a quest for a Valkyrus, and acquires a sidekick
Update: 20/09/1997 to sagas



I've gotten into the habit of turning the introduction into an update on 
my other life. It's been several months since I wrote  story, and a lot 
has happened. I started a web site, and if you're reading this, you 
probably already know about http://www.TheValkyrie.com from going there. 
The web site is huge, and still growing fast, and very well known, and 
now almost everyone knows me as Diana the Valkyrie. So now there's three 
of me, there's the public Diana you know, who runs the web site, there's 
the private Diana that you don't know at all, and there's the Diana that 
you're going to read about in the story that follows, unless you're 
under age or dislike sex and violence, in which case I suggest you watch 
TV or go to the movies. 

Email me at Valkyrie@TheValkyrie.com 



You know how sometimes you get bored with the same old same old? Variety 
is the spice of life, and I started wondering how I let myself be tied 
down by Kevin and Hassan. Darlings both of them, but they always made me 
feel vaguely guilty when I brought some guy home. And neither of them 
was a Valkyrus. 

Things came to a head one day when Kevin brought me my morning coffee in 
bed, and accidentally spilled it all over the guy next to me, scalding 
him and almost waking him up. He pretended it was an accident, and I 
decided I'd better go along with the pretence, because I do hate having 
to punish either of them. But it made me think. 

I went round to visit Judy and Michael that evening, and Judy confirmed 
my fears. "Diana, you're in danger of turning into a family", and looked 
pointedly down at my tummy. 

"Me?" I squeaked. Other people's babies are fine, but I don't think I 
want one just yet. Michael laughed, and sat next to me, putting his hand 
on my belly. "Oh yes," I said, "you're brave enough while Judy's around" 
so Judy stood up and went to put the kettle on, and I showed Michael why 
it's unwise to mess with a Valkyrie, until she came back from the 
kitchen and rescued him from being tickled to death. 

"No, seriously Diana" she said, while Michael buried his head in her 
lap. "You're in a routine. You need to do something different." And I 
knew she was right, the wanderlust was in me. 

Next day, I packed a bag. Skirts (I look terrible in trousers), T-
shirts, a heavy sweater in case it got cold, a posh frock in case I went 
somewhere formal, a sexy silk night-dress in case I got lucky, 
hairbrush, toothbrush and a spare hair-ribbon. I put it all in one 
shoulder-bag, and thought about money and credit cards. Judy's idea was 
that I take nothing, just a change of clothes. Taking cash or plastic 
would be cheating. 

And then I explained to the boys that I was about to go walkabout, 
viking they used to call it, and I didn't know when, or even if, I'd be 
back, and they'd have to fend for themselves. 

There were tears, of course, mostly from Hassan who kept saying "What 
about me?", but I knew what I wanted. And after a while, I just stood 
up, kissed Kevin goodbye (Hassan was still exhausted from me comforting 
him) and walked out of the door. 

Wow! What a sense of freedom. And then I thought, well, what now? No 
plans, no tickets, no money. But, on the other hand, no committments, no 
obligations, no dependents. Just me, and the whole wide world. Look out 
world, here comes Diana the Valkyrie. 

So I started walking. I went south, because I knew I wanted to get off 
this island, it's a nice island, but it's a bit limiting. Walking, 
because you can't get a taxi without cash, or even a bus. And heading 
for Dover. 

Eventually, after a few hours of Shank's Pony, the citified part of 
London began to look more like leafy suburbs, and I decided it was time 
to start hitching. So I adjusted my skirt to a more daring level, put on 
my best smile, and held out my thumb. 

I struck lucky quite quickly. A car pulled up, the driver leaned over 
and pushed the door open, and said "OK, darling, jump in." Darling? Oh 
well, I suppose he calls all females that, I can always educate him if I 
need to. So I jumped in and slung my bag in the back. He watched me as I 
got in, looking at my legs until I smoothed my skirt down, and then the 
car started off again. 

"Where to, darling?" "I'm Diana". "Hi, Di, I'm Harold" "No, not Di, 
Diana. Diana the Valkyrie." "Diana the what?" 

As we drove south, I explained to him what a Valkyrie was. In the hitch-
hiker/driver relationship, I believe that there's an unspoken agreement 
that the hitcher should provide some sort of entertainment for the 
driver. So I explained about Homo Valkyrensis, and in particular how I'd 
decided to go a-viking. 

And then he put his hand on my leg. Sigh. I don't think my obligations 
go that far. "Keep your hands to yourself, Harry." He grinned and 
squeezed my leg. "Stop the car, Harry." "Why, fancy a bit of fun then 
darling?" he grinned at me, and wasn't about to stop. So I yanked the 
handbrake on hard, put the gear lever into neutral, and let Harry steer 
while the car came to rest. "Nice talking to you, Harry, cheerio." 

I unbuckled my seatbelt, and reached into the back to get my bag. Harry 
gave me a great push, tumbling me into the back, then followed, landing 
on top of me. "Fancy a bit of a rough and tumble then, darling?" 

I was in a fairly awkward position, head down in the back of the car, 
hands on the floor, legs in the air, and Harry on top of me, stopping me 
from straightening myself out. "Come on, darling, it's just a bit of 
fun". Yes, right. 

"Harry, this plus a complaint from me gets you five years for rape." He 
giggled. "It's just your word against mine, darling, and who do you 
thing they'll believe, an honest citizen like me, or a little tramp like 
you?" Poor argument, but obviously I wasn't going to stop him that 
easily. Time for plan B. 

"OK, heartface, tell you what. I'll spread my legs, you get your head in 
there." "That's more like it, darling." 

So, still head-down in the back of his car, I carefully moved my legs 
apart, and soon I felt his face against my furry bits. Great. So I 
linked my ankles, tensed my muscles, and straightened my legs, putting 
pressure on his head. "Mmmmff" he said. So I squeezed harder, "MMMphhhh" 
he said. "I can't hear you, heartface," I replied. "What's the matter?" 
and I squeezed again. I could feel his hands pawing on my thighs, and 
his body squirming, trying to pull his head out of the terrible vice 
that my legs had become. 

"mmmmphh" he repeated. "Heartface, I can't hear you, could you speak 
up?" I reached up and got my hand behind his head, slackened the grip of 
my thighs, and pulled his head tight and snug against my fur. Again, I 
locked my ankles together and flexed my thighs, turning them to steel 
round his skull. I wiggled and wriggled, jerking his head around against 
his body. Now he was so cosy against me, I could barely hear his muffled 
moaning. I tried to straighten my legs while my ankles were locked and 
his trapped head came under pressure like a nutcracker crushes a nut. 

I tensed my legs once more, and I felt his hands fall away and his body 
go limp. I relaxed, and he didn't move. So I parted my legs and let him 
go, and then scrambled round until I wasn't head down, and got myself 
sitting on the back seat of the car. 

Whew! What a wimp. I pulled my bag out from under his unconscious body, 
and pulled out my hairbrush, and started to fix my hair, which had got 
rather untidy in the melee. While I was retying my hair ribbon he 
started moaning and groaning, and his eyes fluttered open, "How do you 
feel?" "My head hurts" he moaned. "Good," I said. He moaned again. 
"Remember that pain, that's what it feels like when you try to rape a 
Valkyrie" 

"I wasn't going to rape you, I just wanted a bit of fun." "Me too, 
heartface, and I really enjoyed crushing you head between my thighs. 
Want some more?" He flinched, shook his head, and a look of agony 
screwed up his face. "Headache?" I asked. He groaned. "Bad one?" I 
asked. He groaned again. "Worst you've ever had?" He closed his eyes and 
moaned. "Then don't ever tangle with a Valkyrie again". He opened his 
eyes. "And how do I know who's a Valkyrie?" I smiled. "Yes - a problem, 
isn't it? Now you're going to take me through the Channel Tunnel." "But 
I'm not going to France."   "Tell you what, sweetie. How would you like 
me to wrap these thighs round your sore head again and show you what a 
real headache feels like." 

He started crying. I hate it when men do that, it makes me feel all 
gooey and protective inside, and I took him into my arms and cuddled him 
till he calmed down a bit. Then I told him to blow his nose, pull 
himself together, and we'd get going. 

I've never been through the tunnel before. I thought it would be kind of 
exciting, but it was just like going through a long tunnel. As we set 
off from the terminus, I told Harry that he was about to buy me dinner, 
and he obediently followed me into the dining car and watched as I ate 
my first meal of the day. "Aren't you hungry, Harry?" "No, I have a bit 
of a headache." I grinned. "Count yourself lucky; if I'd squeezed you 
lower down, you'd have a couple of cracked ribs, you'd be moving very 
carefully for several weeks." He grimaced. And then he looked at me, and 
I recognised the look. 

Most men don't like women who are stronger than they are. In fact, 
nearly all men, maybe 99%. So a Valkyrie can adopt either of two 
strategies. The first, and commonest, is to lie low and pretend to be a 
fluff-bunny, agree with everything the man says, and say "ooh, aren't  
you strong" at appropriate moments (but not too often or he'll smell a 
rat. That gives you access to those 99%. That's what I used to do, until 
I realised that it was suboptimal strategy. 

The other strategy is to flaunt the fact that you're a Valkyrie. Tearing 
a telephone directory in half works well, quarters is even better. And 
then the men present divide neatly into two groups, the majority that 
want nothing to do with you, and the tiny minority who suddenly lose 
interest in any other female. Having no competition is great. Between 
being a covert Valkyrie and an overt one, I prefer to flaunt it every 
time. 

And Harold was looking at me with the look I get from that minority, the 
half-fear, half-lust look that they get as the realise that they've just 
encountered sex and violence in one feminine package. Sex and violence, 
the two primary human occupations (often called romance and action, or 
love and adventure, but let's call a spade a spade here). Sex and 
violence. I can see them thinking, what's it like to bonk a girl like 
that, and would she put me in hospital for trying? 

I munched on a dessert apple, sipped my coffee, and told him he was 
right on both counts, that I probably was the best fuck he'd ever meet 
"you see, Harry, it's quantity as well as quality, I could make you last 
for hours" but that it was a bit of a risk "of course, once you're 
between my thighs, who knows what might happen". 

Oh Diana, what a wicked little Valkyrie you are, I had him practically 
wetting himself. 

The train pulled in to Paris, Le Massif Central. I stood up, grabbed my 
bag, and left. Harry couldn't follow me, with the condition I had him 
in, he couldn't even stand up. 

Paris! City of love, home of the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and a rather 
unpleasant cold wind that reminded me I had nowhere to sleep. I got my 
sweater out of the bag, which helped a bit, and looked around. It was 
evening, but the street light made the boulevard like day. I looked 
around, and I could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance; that can be 
for tomorrow. Right now, the question was, where do I sleep? 

That isn't usually an issue. Most people have their own little home to 
go to, with their own little bed and their own little bloke (or two). 
And there's usually an offer or two if I don't feel like gong home. But 
what does a girl do when she's on her own in the middle of Paris? And, 
more importantly, what does a Valkyrie do? 

I walked around a bit. I could see what the locals did, they inhabited 
cardboard boxes under bridges, sleeping wrapped up in bundles of rags. I 
didn't have a box, or a bundle of rags, and I didn't think I'd sleep too 
well anyway. 

Fortunately, there's another activity that goes on around Le Massif 
Central at night. So I found myself a lamp-post, tidied my hair a bit, 
pulled my skirt up beyond the high water mark, and tried to look as 
bored and unsexy as the other girls. 

My idea was, get myself picked up, back to some hotel, make sure he pays 
for the room, tell him all he can do is look and not touch, and simply 
go to bed. Alone. 

Pretty soon, one of the prostitutes minced over to me (in her shoes, 
mincing was the only possible form of locomotion) and unleashed a 
torrent of French at me. "Er, excusez moi, je suis de Angleterre" je 
parle. She sneered at me. "Hah, Angleesh" "Oui" So she gave me another 
stream of French. "Je ne comprenez pas" "Cette position, ca c'est 
Annette". Ah. She was telling me that Annette owned that streetlamp. I 
see. Territory, yes, I could understand that. "I'm just borrowing it for 
tonight", je dit, "Une nuit, seulement une nuit". She shook her head 
"Quand Jean arrive, tu es hamburger". When Jean arrives, I'm a 
hamburger? I wish I'd been a bit better at French, this conversation has 
just gone pear-shaped. "J'aime le Hamburger" je dit. Yummy, I could just 
go a nice hamburger. She shrugged her shoulders and minced back to her 
lamp-post. 

Then a moustache arrived, followed shortly by the rest of the guy. He 
blew some foul black smoke in my face, and gave me the torrent-of-French 
treatment, followed by the universal thumb-signal for "get lost". "Vous 
etes Jean?" I enquired, using the polite second person case as I'd been 
taught in school. "Oui ..." and I didn't catch a single word after that. 
Why do they speak so fast? "Bonjour, Monsieur Jean, je m'apelle Diana la 
Valkyrie ..." but that was as far as I got before he slapped my face. So 
naturally I kicked him in the balls. 

Maybe you think that's a bit extreme, but in my experience, once 
violence starts, it's best to end it as quickly as possible. And a good 
hard kick between a man's legs not only ends the fight, it does so 
without hurting him very much. I mean, there's no broken bones, no torn 
ligaments, no blood. Quick and clean and definite. None of this patent 
leather to the face stuff; even if I could kick that high, one small 
movement on his part and I miss. Forget the head, go for the balls. 
Strongly recommended, even if you aren't a Valkyrie. And I already had 
my skirt hitched up. 

He did his bit beautifully. The strangulated cry/groan, the slow 
doubling up as he sank to the pavement, the twitching as he lay there. I 
stepped away, in case he decided to retaliate by vomiting all over my 
shoes. Some of them do that when the second wave of pain arrives, after 
the shocked nervous system has had a chance to work out what happened 
and sends appropriate signals. 

One of the prostitutes minced over, had a look at him, and spat on him. 
Yuk. Then another one arrived and kicked him. I guess they didn't like 
him much. Then three more arrived, and all five of them started voluble-
Frenching again at me, and the word Hamburger kept popping up, and 
somehow I didn't think they meant he was going to buy me one. They all 
started kicking him then, not very hard, but looking like they meant to 
spend some time at it. Jean just tried to curl up, and twitched as they 
kicked him. 

Another prostitute arrived, and I started to wonder how many Jean had in 
his stable, and the others started talking to her and pointing at me. 
"Bonjour, je m'apelle Diana la Valkyrie et je suis ..." "I speak 
Anglish", she said. "I am Cherie, this is Jean, and you are in 
trouble." "I am?" She nodded. "When this little shit gets himself on his 
feet again, he's going to want to slice you up like salami." I wondered 
where the hamburger had gone. Cherie bent over Jean's body, and pulled 
out a flick-knife. She handed it to me, and I presses the catch. A very 
wicked-looking blade flashed out, and I looked at Cherie. "Hamburger?" 
I asked. She nodded. 

The other girls got tired of kicking Jean, and minced back to their 
lamp-posts. "Aren't you taking a bit of a risk just talking to me?" 
"No", she said, "he isn't my pimp." Ah. 

I went through Jean's pockets, to see what other little toys he might be 
carrying. A pack of cigarettes ("Galoises Bleu" of course), a lighter, 
and a bunch of francs. I decided that I needed compensation for the slap 
in the face, and helped myself to his francs. "Might as well be hung for 
a sheep as a lamb, eh?" I said to Cherie. She grinned. "Where's a 
decent hotel, I can afford a proper room now." "Suivez moi" she said, 
and started off, so I suivezed her. 

She took me to something that looked rather posh, that called itself 
"L'Admiralite", and I went up to the front desk and asked for a room for 
the night. The desk clerk looked at me, sneered, and said. "Pas de salle 
pour tu, au reviour." Cherie stepped forward and hit him with a torrent 
of French, and he went very pale, and checked me in. "What did you say 
to him?" I asked her. "Oh, I said when my pimp heard about this he'd 
want to cut off someone's balls." I chuckled, "Yes, that's usually a 
good threat." 

"You want to bath first, Diana?" After all that travelling, I could 
really do with a bath, so I nodded. I ran a nice hot bath, carefully got 
in, and relaxed, letting everything go limp and closing my eyes. I 
opened them again when I heard the door open, and saw Cherie naked in 
the doorway. Suddenly, a whole bunch of things made sense. 

"Cherie, you're very nice, but I prefer men." She smiled. "Let me see 
if I can persuade you to revise that opinion." Damn damn damn. How do I 
get into these situations? She knelt by the bath, and started soaping 
the flannel. I sat up in the bath, and she got a good look at my upper 
body for the first time. 

"Mon dieu, Diana, qu'est que c'est! Tu est enorme!" Yeah, thanks, I 
already knew that. But she didn't look put off at all, in fact she was 
looking rather admiringly. She touched my shoulder, my upper arm. "Si 
grande, si forte". Then she started washing me with the soapy flannel, 
and I have to say, it did feel rather good. She did my shoulders, then 
my arms, then my back, and by the time she got to my breasts, they'd 
surrendered and gone nubbly, as they do in such circumstances. Ummmm. 

So then I stood up in the bath, closed my eyes, put my hands behind my 
head, and let Cherie see my legs. "Sacre bleue, quelle jambes!" Huh, 
they really do say "Sacre bleue". I thought that was just Tintin. And 
the soapy flannel moved in a Southerly direction, bringing lovely warm 
feelings with it. I stood in the bath, legs slightly apart, almost 
purring; she seemed to know exactly what to do to me, which I guess she 
did, since she had the same equipment that I do. Less of it, but the 
same basic design. 

And then I let her dry me off with a fluffy towel, except that she was 
doing a bit more than drying me, and then I picked her up, and carried 
her to bed. 

That night, she didn't exactly change my mind about men, I still much 
prefer them. But she did show me that maybe I shouldn't totally ignore 
the alternative. And we fell asleep together, exhausted and happy. 

Next morning, I woke up in the big bed, with a small brunette head 
snuggled up to my breasts. My wakening woke Cherie. "Diana ..." Mmmmm. 
"Diana, I need your help." She was stroking my arms as she spoke. "What 
is it, Cherie?" "Look ... " she said, and showed me her bruises, and 
some of them were black and blue and yellow and green. 

I did the sharp intake of breath thing, and asked her how she got them. 
"Claude, my pimp. If I don't earn enough, he beats me." Cherie 
explained to me how the system worked. Each pimp had a stable of 
prostitutes, and they paid him a percentage of their earnings, about 
80%. In exchange, he gave them protection, nominally against the Johns, 
but mostly against the other pimps. Some were better, some were worse, 
but all of them enforced their position with their fists. Claude was 195 
centimeters, about six foot four, 110 kilos, about 240 pounds, so he 
really could take on any of the other pimps, and that was how he'd 
acquired Cherie from another guy. 

I ran my finger over her bruises, and she shivered slightly. "Diana, we 
all saw how you dealt with Jean, so quick, so brutal. And now I've seen 
your body, you're so big, so strong. Your fists would make short work of 
Claude, he's had it so easy for so long. Diana, how do you make your 
body so powerful, how can I be like you?" 

I looked at her. Five foot three, and 100, maybe 110 pounds I guessed, 
all soft and cuddly. If she spent a year working hard in a gym, she'd 
maybe lose the puppy fat and get to 120 pounds, just enough to get 
beaten to a pulp by a guy twice her size. Well, maybe if she also took 
some fight training, built up her aggression, lost the fluff-bunny 
attitude, then in another couple of years she might survive the first 
fight before getting splattered in the rematch. I sighed, I didn't want 
to encourage her, and so I told her so. "No, Cherie, forget it." "But 
Diana, if you can so can I. You weren't afraid of Jean, and I bet you 
could even handle Claude. How can I be like you, it you can, so can I." 

"No, Cherie, it doesn't work like that." And I explained to her about 
genetics, and my Valkyrie heritage, how some women are just born 
different. I showed her the layer of muscle round my waist, I flexed my 
arms and showed her the bulge of muscle, but also the displaced tendons 
that sacrificed speed for strength. "Current thinking is that we aren't 
actually Homo Sapiens, we're a different subspecies, Homo Valkyrensis. 
We can interbreed with Sapiens, but Valkyrensis genes are dominant, and 
emerge every other generation." 

Cherie listened intently, touching my arms and legs occasionally, and 
looking at me wide-eyed. "What I'd really like is to find a male 
Valkyrensis, but I'm not really sure how to find him. That's why I'm 
travelling the world, it's a Quest." I hadn't really thought about this 
until now, but as I explained it to Cherie, it clarified in my mind. 

"A quest?" I nodded. "You're looking for a man like yourself." "Um, 
well, it isn't that simple, Cherie. The male of the species isn't like 
the female." Cherie closed her eyes. "Oh, he would be so big, so 
strong, so sexy, oh Diana I hope you find him, you're so lucky." "No, 
Cherie, you've got it the wrong way round. The male Valkyrus is small 
and not strong, weak and helpless, that's why he needs me so badly, to 
protect him and look after him." Just thinking about it got me all 
gooey. "Oh, Diana, I'm so small and weak, maybe ..." I smiled at her and 
ran my fingers through her silky hair. "No, Cherie. You're nice, and 
last night was quite educational, but I still prefer men." She looked 
downcast. "You're really nice, Cherie. Very talented." She still looked 
sad, so I asked her why. "I have to go back to Claude then." 

We both sat and thought about that, my thoughts being distracted by a 
small hand  stroking the underside of my right nipple. Then she sobbed 
"Oh, Diana, je t'aime" and buried her face in my bosom. I held her and 
stroked her hair, thinking. 

Batman has Robin, Sherlock Holmes has Dr Watson, Tony Hancock had Sid 
James. Maybe it would be more fun travelling with company, and Cherie 
could certainly solve the ready cash problem. And if we slept rough, 
then two would sleep more warmly than one. And she'd be someone to talk 
to, And she probably had a bunch of skills I could learn. I bet she 
didn't clamp her men between her thighs and using brute force tear 
orgasms out of them. I bet she could show me how to be gentler with men, 
which would be great for my Valkyrus when I found him. 

I lifted her head up, she'd been crying. "Oh, Diana ..." "Cherie, 
listen. This Quest is important to me, but you can accompany me if you 
like." "Oh, Diana!" "Understand, though, Cherie, I'm looking for a 
mate, a lover, and you aren't what I'm looking for." She nodded. 
"Vraiment. But while you're looking ..." and a small hand found it's way 
between my legs. "Maybe, Cherie. I do honestly prefer men, though." She 
nodded again, smiling. "But sometimes, if it's just us ... ?" I 
chuckled, and gave her a hug. 

"Diana, first I want my things, back at the flat." I brushed my hair, 
and let Cherie tie my ribbon in, and we  walked back to her flat. She 
opened the door and let me in first, and I found myself facing an eighth 
of a ton of angry Frenchman. Claude, I guessed, and as voluble as a 
fishmonger. He reached for Cherie, who dodged and kept me between her 
and Claude, so Claude tried to take the short cut to her by going over 
me, or through me, or something, I think he expected me to get trampled 
underfoot, but a Valkyrie doesn't trample easily, and he sort of bounced 
off me. I'm heavier and more solid than I look. I'm only 5'5" (if you 
thought I was taller, it's the way I stand) and you'd expect me to be 
about 130 or 140 pounds maybe. The extra 50 pounds surprises people, as 
does the fact that it isn't fat, it's bone and muscle. I'm a Valkyrie. 
And Claude sort of bounced off me. 

Claude was not a happy frog. His best tart had been off work all night, 
and now this little girly was standing between her and retribution. 
"Allez-vous, vite" he said. I shook my head, and launched into my 
standard warning. 

It's my British sense of fair play, I think. Never kick a man when he's 
down, keep your hockey stick below the waist, always take your turn in 
queues. I have this standard speech I give in this sort of situation. 

"Claude, please don't fight with me, because I'm a Valkyrie, and you'll 
get hurt, possibly quite badly. I don't really want to hurt you, so if 
you back down right now and apologise, I won't have to break any of your 
bones". 

I didn't work. It never does. The trouble is, I really need at least 
fifteen minutes, with demonstrations, and they're always too impatient 
for that. He just waded straight in with a fist that came in a big curve 
from the right, aimed straight at my belly. 

The correct response is to dance a couple of steps sideways letting the 
fist sweep through the air, and while he's off balance and facing the 
wrong way, you do a high kick so the toe of your shoe smashes into his 
head, end of fight. But there's two problems with that when I tried to 
do it. 

You probably think I'm graceful and deft, fast and light on my feet. If 
only! I'm more like a carthorse than a racing filly. The Valkyrie 
structure sacrifices speed for strength, and did you ever see the hippos 
dancing the Nutcracker in Fantasia? I did the two-step-sideways dance, 
but one foot tripped over the other one, and by the time I got that 
sorted out, his fist landed bang on target, and two kilograms of muscle 
and knobbly bone slammed into my tummy. 

Fortunately, it's quite difficult to hurt a Valkyrie that way. Anatomy 
again - there's a thick belt of muscle all the way round, and I think he 
probably hurt his hand more than my stomach. Meanwhile, part two of my 
move was starting, as my foot swept up towards the impact with his head 
that would end this little scuffle. 

Oh, Diana, when will you learn? As my right foot rose, I lost my balance 
backwards, so by the time it was waist high, my left foot had started to 
move upwards too. Unfortunately, even a Valkyrie needs at least one foot 
on the ground. Preferably two, and if there were some way to have three, 
maybe I wouldn't fall over so often. So conservation of angular momentum 
rotated me backwards, and gravity pulled me downwards, and I landed, 
winded, on my bum. 

There was a roar of triumph, and the eighth of a ton of garlic-eater (no 
doubts in my mind about that) landed on top of me, expecting to finish 
me off by sheer impact. But actually, I rather like feeling the weight 
of a man on me, and I automatically put my arms round his upper body, 
parted my legs and raised them until my thighs were gripping his waist. 
It felt good like that, so I hugged him close and gripped his waist 
hard, moving him down into position. But he didn't co-operate, silly 
boy, he was struggling like he hadn't realised that the game had 
changed. So I hugged him a bit harder, partly to make sure he could feel 
my breasts against his chest, and partly to stop him wriggling. 

But he kept on struggling, so I linked my ankles behind him, and 
explained that if he carried on being a silly garcon, he could get hurt. 
He didn't take any notice of that, either, and he kept on struggling, so 
I kept my ankles linked and straightened my legs, crushing in on the 
sides of his waist, while at the same time hugging him really hard so he 
couldn't breathe. 

It didn't make enough difference. Some men are just too tough for their 
own good, and don't know when to quit. He kept right on struggling in my 
arms, so I gradually tightened my embrace, wanting to give him every 
chance to submit so I could fuck him the way I wanted to. But it didn't 
work. There was that horrid CRACK as one of his ribs went, and then he 
stopped struggling, and before I could do anything, he just went limp. 

I pushed him off me and stood up. "Rats. He's wimped out on me." I stood 
looking down at him, the horny feeling unsatisfied, and feeling very 
frustrated, Why are they so bloody fragile? 

"Diana?" A small voice made me look up from he useless man on the floor. 
"Diana, maybe I'm confused, but it didn't look like you were fighting, 
it looked more like ..." I sighed and looked up. "Look, Cherie, I was 
trying to fight, but I'm really not very good at it, and when he jumped 
on me like that  I wanted to fuck him instead, but he would keep 
struggling, and now look at him! And I'm as horny as a rhino now, he 
really got me worked up." 

She moved close to me, one hand lifted my skirt, and the other hand felt 
like butterflies on my fur. "Diana, I saw him punch you, that must hurt 
terribly" "Yes, Cherie, but it's his hand that hurts." And Cherie ran 
one hand over my belly, and the other hand deep between my legs. "Oh, 
Diana, tu es magnifique..." and her hands weakened my knees until they 
buckled and we sank down to the ground, or rather to Claude. Cherie 
carefully sat herself on his face, her buttocks over his nose and her 
vagina covering his mouth. I lay crossways over his chest, and simply 
surrendered to Cherie's expert hands. 

After she'd given me two delicious orgasms, she explained what she 
wanted for a finale. By now, poor Claude was conscious again, although 
what with the rib I'd cracked with my thighs, and the oxygen deprivation 
effects of Cherie sitting on his face, he was as weak as a kitten. So 
resistance wasn't really an option when Cherie gripped his head by the 
hair, and rammed it into the junction of my spread legs. 

Have you ever been nose-fucked by an expert, or at least by someone 
under the control of an expert? The nose isn't long, but it's 
satisfyingly stiff, and doesn't lose that lovely stiffness at the moment 
that you least want it to. As Cherie used his nose on my crutch, she 
used her other hand on my nipples, and it felt like kilovolts of 
electricity coursing between them. And as she slowly moved me up the 
mountain, there was nothing in my universe except that hand and that 
nose, with the hand moving from one breast to the other, keeping them on 
the edge. "Hold it back, Diana, don't let it come" she said, except that 
she was taking control of my body with those fluttering butterfly hands 
and that huge hard nose that was increasingly dominating my world. 

And then she pushed me just a fraction too far, and the orgasm struck me 
like a thunderbolt, like an earthquake, like a volcanic eruption. My back 
arched and my body spasmed, totally out of control. I think I was 
screaming, I think she was urging me on, "Yes Diana, more, more, let it 
all out, let it come, don't hold back, I want it all..." 

And after the main orgasm, there were aftershocks, like jolts of 
electricity, but gradually getting weaker as she wrung all the sensation 
from my body. 

Finally we just lay there; I for one, was all tuckered out. Cherie 
stood up and started packing a bag, while I reflected that having her 
around could be rather fun. And then I pushed the head out from between 
my legs, and gasped. 

He was a mess. That proud Gallic nose was broken and mashed flat, there 
was blood all over his face, and his jaw didn't look right. I thought 
back to the recent past; that head had just been in the most dangerous 
place in the world, at the worst possible moment. At least he was still 
breathing. So I picked him up in my arms like a little baby, and carried 
him to the bed, and laid him on his side (so that if he vomited, he 
wouldn't choke on his own vomit). His arm was at a funny angle too, and 
I wondered how I'd done that Then I looked to see what Cherie was 
doing. 

She'd packed one suitcase, and was halfway through filling the second. 
"No, Cherie. One small bag." "But Diana ... " "Cherie!" But I smiled 
as I said it, how could I be strict with someone who handed out 
devastating orgasms the way Cherie did? "One small bag, Cherie" and I 
chose a small shoulder bag for her, made sure she packed one heavy 
sweater and let her choose the rest of the contents. 

The only luxury she took (she regarded make-up as a necessity, which in 
her profession I suppose it is) was a small picture of a boy of perhaps 
seventeen. I asked her about that, and she said "Georges" in a tone of 
voice that made me reluctant to ask more. 

We were ready to leave, at last. I just popped into the bedroom to check 
that Claude was OK; he was conscious, saw me, flinched and whimpered 
"non, non" so I knew he wasn't too badly hurt. I got Cherie to call an 
ambulance for him, because a broken nose, broken jaw, cracked or broken 
rib and dislocated or broken arm added up to injuries that he probably 
shouldn't be expected to heal from without help. 

And it was still an hour before noon when Cherie and I got on the 
Metro, heading for the south of Paris and the road to Marseilles.