Diana's Quest - Diana buys a hat
By Diana the Valkyrie
In Italy, you need something to keep the sun off



After you've eaten turbot in Rome, what else is there? But since I was 
in Italy, I thought I might as well visit the south, as I've heard it's 
very different from the north. More Mediterranean. More passionate. And 
hotter, too. So I packed my bag, pulled Cherie off whoever it was she 
was enjoying, and pointed Maxxie the Mazda south. 

Driving a rag-top is great anywhere; driving it in a hot country with 
good roads is as much fun as you can have in a car that's too small for 
fucking in. But golly, the sun was bright and in my face. When you come 
from a country that mostly sees the sun as a bright patch behind the 
clouds, southern Italian sun is just too much. Cherie was more used to 
it; they get some sunshine in France, especially in the south, and it 
was her idea that what I needed was a hat. But not just any hat, she 
said. And certainly not one of these baseball caps that children wear. 

So when we got there, we found a suitable parking place for Maxxie, and 
hit the town, looking for hats. Cherie had distinct ideas about what was 
needed. "Something big and floppy, with a huge brim to shade your eyes, 
Diana." English women don't tend to wear hats, except of course at 
Ascot, so I let her rattle on. She was looking for a hat shop, she said, 
which I found surprising, because how can a shop survive just by selling 
hats? When we located one, I found out. By making them absurdly 
expensive. 

We sailed into the shop, me a few metres behind Cherie, and there was 
no-one there. Cherie rang the bell on the counter, a door opened and in 
walked a creature that was presumably the proprietor. I say "creature" 
because at first I wasn't sure what its gender was, although the fact 
that it walked on two legs and didn't have a hairy face meant it was 
definitely human. It looked at Cherie, looked at me, decided I was in 
charge, and addressed me with "Can I help you, modom" which is what they 
teach them in Harrods. Then I blinked as I realised that he was speaking 
with the Harrods accent, too, plus he must have realised that I was 
English. 

"Er, yes. I want a hat." He nodded, and didn't say anything like "If you 
wanted anything else you'd be wasting your time here". "A big hat" I 
explained. He nodded again, waiting for further and better particulars, 
but in vain, because that was all I knew. I looked round for Cherie, but 
she was at the far end of the shop with something extremely silly on her 
head. 

Speaking of silly, I hadn't realised that anyone these days actually 
wore a cravat and what looked like a silk dressing gown, but which I 
vaguely remembered was called a smoking jacket. I looked down, thinking 
of Arthur Dent and half-expecting to see slippers, but what I saw 
instead could only be called spats, and made me think of Noel Coward 
instead. "I need it to go out in the midday sun" I explained, hoping 
that the joke wasn't too obvious. "Well, you are English" he replied, 
and pulled out a big hatbox. 

The next three hours were spent buying a hat. You might think that such 
a thing could be done in three minutes, and of course it could, but I 
wasn't in any hurry to get anywhere, Tristan (his mother was a Wagner 
fan, and he told me he was lucky, he was nearly called Siegfried) didn't 
have any other customers, and I hadn't heard an English voice for ages. 
And more importantly, someone who shared my culture, and would giggle in 
all the right places. Plus, he made me laugh. I think it was mostly for 
my benefit, but he camped it up something rotten, acting like a cross 
between Danny LaRue and Julian and Sandy. So I camped it up too, acting 
as the Eric to his Ernie, the Ollie to his Stan. 

Cherie sat and watched us, and I don't think she understood one word in 
three. It wasn't just that we were speaking English, it's that we were 
throwing bits of English culture at each other; everything from ITMA to 
Mr Bean. You simply can't do that with someone from another culture, and 
it had been a long time for both of us. Eventually, I chose a big floppy 
blue-and-white confection, and as he put it into a box for me, I 
explained the deal. "At that price, Tristan, it includes a bed for the 
night." 

He looked serious for a change. "Diana, you're very nice, but honestly, 
I'm not, er, um" "Not what, Tristan?" I asked, all innocence. "Um, well, 
I have a boyfriend at home. An Italian job." "Well, that's OK Tris, I 
have a girlfriend with me. A French connection." He looked very 
relieved, and I guessed he'd gotten entirely the wrong idea about me and 
Cherie, but I thought, I'll let it go for now, we can always sort it out 
later. 

So we all piled into Maxxie, once again demonstrating the 
impracticabilities of a two-seater, with Cherie sandwiched between 
Tristan beneath her and the hatbox on her lap. And I could see her doing 
the wriggling thing she did when she sat on a man, and I guessed that 
Tristan was getting The Treatment. And it seemed to work; after she got 
off him, it was a few minutes before he was able to get out, and I 
guessed that at least some of the limp-wrist stuff was an act, and that 
he did have some useful talent down there. 

As we walked in, Tristan was being assaulted by Antonio, both with a 
torrent of voluble Italian (why are foreigners always so voluble?) and 
physically. I caught the drift, something to do with inviting people for 
dinner without any warning, which I could sympathise with. Antonio was a 
small, slim, dark and intense Italian boy, very pretty, rather feminine, 
and with the longest eyelashes I've ever seen. The assault went on and 
on, though, long after it stopped being amusing, and I could see that 
Tristan was getting embarrassed. So I caught Cherie's eye, nodded 
towards the domestic spat, and said "The dark one's yours". She grinned, 
I grinned back, and she came up behind Antonio and wrapped herself 
around him the way I'd shown her. 

There's a way a woman can totally subdue a man without hurting him, well 
not too much anyway. Especially a soft weak little lad like Antonio. 
Technically, it's called a full nelson plus body scissors, but what it 
means is that you hold his body helpless with your arms, and exert 
pressure with your legs while you try to tuck his head between his 
knees. Cherie soon had him on the floor and was doing a great job at 
folding him double (which makes it hard to breathe) while crushing in on 
his body with her legs, which also makes it hard to breathe, and 
inflicts a nicely controllable amount of pain. Tristan and I watched as 
Antonio's struggles got feebler and more desperate, but Cherie 
controlled him easily, and bore down, compressing him into a helpless, 
moaning, pain-wracked mess. 

Tristan was watching aghast, and I thought, maybe this isn't really 
suitable for him to watch, especially what she might do once she had him 
suitably cowed. So I grabbed his hand and pulled, explaining that if 
there wasn't enough food, two of us would have to eat out, and it might 
as well be us, and I just towed him out of the room, without giving him 
a chance to argue. 

"What's she doing to him?" he kept asking. And I really didn't want to 
answer, partly because I didn't really know exactly what Cherie would do 
to a man once she had him powerless, and partly because I rather worried 
that I did know, and that it wasn't suitable for Tristan's tender ears. 

So we went to a local trattoria, which is Italian for slow-food 
restaurant, and I had osso buco (which translates literally to broken 
bone) while Tristan nibbled on some healthy rabbit food. "Diana, it 
really did sound like he was in pain." I looked up at him and smiled. 
"Tristan, that's probably because she was hurting him. Even an ordinary 
girl like Cherie can do quite a lot of damage with her legs, especially 
if she's built them up for a while." "And has she?" "Oh yes, sweetie. 
Cherie is very good with her legs, she's had lots of practice." Tristan 
wriggled a bit in his chair. "What do you mean?" he asked. 

"She used to be a dancer", I replied. "Oh, is that all" he said, looking 
relieved. "Yes. Of course, that was before she became a prostitute." 

Tristan coughed, I think a piece of lettuce had gotten stuck in his 
throat. "Are you all right, Tris?" He spluttered a bit, and drank some 
water. And looked at me, aghast. "But why?" he asked. I sniffed, and 
munched on a breadstick. "It's a living." "And, and ..." I raised my 
eyebrows. "And you, Diana?" 

"Me? No, I've kept my amateur status. Why do you ask, Tris? I thought 
you weren't interested in girls." "Because I don't know what it is about 
you, Diana, but I get the feeling that you're not just a girl." 

I allowed a few seconds of silence, then raised my eyebrows a couple 
more notches. "Oh? And what do you think this is? And this?" "No, don't 
get me wrong, please. What I meant isn't that you're not a girl, but 
that you're not just a girl." 

I thought, maybe I should stop teasing him. So I said, "Actually, you're 
right. Actually, I'm a Valkyrie." He looked at my hair. "No, no horned 
helmet, Tris. Not that sort of Valkyrie." I reached across the table and 
picked up his knife, one of those solid stainless steel things that they 
used to make in Sheffield. I held the handle in both hands, gripped 
hard, and bent it. That isn't as impressive as it looks, actually, 
because cutlery isn't designed to resist that sort of abuse, and you can 
bend then fairly easily. Well, relatively easily. OK, they aren't as 
tough as six inch nails. I gave Tris the knife back, and he just sat and 
stared at it, while I waited for his reaction. 

There's two sorts of men, the sort who are totally turned off by a 
demonstration like that, and they're the majority, and I used to worry 
about them a lot, until I discovered the other kind of man, the sort 
who, once he's seen me do something like that, is putty in my hands. If 
you don't think about it, you might come to the conclusion that you 
don't want the 99% to know what you're capable of, so that you stand a 
chance of being asked out by that dishy trouser you've got your eyes on. 
And that's why most Valkyries never come out of the closet. But if you 
think a bit harder, you realise that the loss of that 99% (who can't 
possibly be a long term proposition anyway unless you plan to keep it 
from them for ever) is compensated by the greatly increased interest 
that the 1% display when they realise that they've encountered a 
Valkyrie. 

And they can't hide it. They don't actually drool, and it's impolite to 
stare at a man's crotch to see if he's glad to see you, but you can hear 
it in their voices and general demeanor. The voice becomes softer and 
less aggressive, and they have trouble looking you in the eye. Which is 
why I'm so destructive of telephone directories at parties "Hide the 
phone books, Diana's here". The only way that a heavily-built 5'5" can 
compete with a six foot fluff-bunny with most of her breasts on display, 
is not by trying to out-bimbo her, but by changing the whole basis for 
competition. So a while back, I stopped trying to look like a fluff-
bunny, and decided to simply be true to my nature. And sure, the 99% 
lose interest, but the ones who are interested, are really interested. 

So why are some men attracted to Valkyries? I don't really know, I wish 
I did. Why are some men attracted to blondes? Why are some men gay? Why 
do some men like really skinny girls? I think it's partly just natural 
variations between people, the world would be boring if we all liked the 
same things. But I think there's a bit more to it with Valkyries. I 
think that a long time ago, back in prehistory, there were several 
different sub-species of Homo Erectus. We know about Homo Sapiens and 
Homo Neanderthalis, but if a subspecies had the same bone structure, we 
wouldn't know about the differences in soft tissue, such as muscles and 
tendons. 

Somewhere down the evolutionary tree, Neanderthalis and Sapiens split 
apart. And somewhere closer, Valkyrensis and Sapiens split. Valkyrensis 
is very like Sapiens, the differences are really minor. Heavier bones, 
but not so much so as to cause comment in paleontologists. Thicker 
muscles, but skeletons don't show that. Tendons attached to the skeleton 
in a slightly different place. Nothing obvious, nothing you'd notice in 
a fully clothed specimen walking down the street. Maybe you'd notice if 
she wore a bikini, but maybe she doesn't wear a bikini if she doesn't 
want to be noticed. Or maybe she does wear a bikini, and when you see 
her, you think she's a bit well upholstered, because you can't see it's 
muscle unless I flex it to show you. Or is it just the natural variation 
of Sapiens? I don't think so, because when you put me, Judy, and the 
other Valkyries together, there are just too many similarities. 

But the subspecies must have males, too, and that's the big unsolved 
Valkyrie mystery. I used to talk to Judy about this. Where are the 
Valkyruses? We'd watch the men's bodybuilding competitions, surely the 
Valkyruses must be these huge specimens? But Judy didn't find them at 
all attractive, neither did I, and neither did any of the others. We 
were all attracted to the smaller, more helpless sort of man, someone 
who really needs a Valkyrie to protect and look after him. And who looks 
at a Valkyrie with just the right kind of panting devotion, of course. 
Michael looked at Judy that way, and she used to protect him from my 
assaults. Not that I'd really hurt him, of course, but I could tickle 
him into submission, and not let him submit, and then he'd beg and 
scream for Judy to help him, which of course she would, and I'd let her 
have him, and she'd carry off her damson-in-distress to the bedroom 
where she'd soon have him in even more distress  ....  I wanted my own 
Valkyrus. Watching Judy and Michael, I wanted my very own Valkyrus. 
Hence the Quest. 

"Unh" said Tris, looking at the table knife I'd just bent double. He 
picked it up, turned it this way and that, and tried to straighten it. 
They always try to do that, and it's fun watching them gradually realise 
that they can't budge it a millimetre. It's the same with the phone 
books, except there's sometimes some big hefty guy who can get it at 
least partly torn across, at which point, I take it from him, finish 
tearing it in half, hand him half, and tear the other half into 
quarters.  Oh, wicked, wicked Diana! "Unnnhh" said Tris again, realising 
that his fingers couldn't move the tough steel. Munch munch,  went the 
Valkyrie, eating the last of her Osso Buco. 

Being gay, and liking Valkyries, have nothing in common. Except this - 
both are considered to be unusual, something not to be widely 
publicised. And I had this hypothesis; maybe some of the men who ought 
to be lusting after Valkyries, being deprived of an actual Valkyrie to 
lust after, sublimate their desires by acting like they're gay. I'd 
certainly met one like that. And Tris was acting like he was another. 

I can recognise the symptoms. He was panting, as if he was short of 
breath. His hand shook as he picked up his glass of water, and I heard 
it rattle against his teeth as he tried to drink. His face was flushed, 
and I guessed his heart was pounding as it increased his blood pressure. 

He tried to speak, but only a croak came out. His mouth opened and 
closed a couple of times, and he said "Unh" again. And he was looking at 
me with The Look. I'm only 5' 5", and I'm not too keen on hobbling in 
heels, I fall over often enough as it is. But somehow, men manage to 
look up at me when they give me The Look, even when they're a few inches 
taller than I am. Maybe it's the way I stand. 

But it didn't matter, because I know what "Unh" means. It means "Diana, 
I want to get you between the sheets and be given the ride of a 
lifetime, but I'm too chicken to say so." And all I had to do now, was 
make sure I didn't scare him off. 

Cherie once asked me why I wore long skirts, why I didn't show the world 
my legs like she did. Well, apart from the fact that in England, showing 
your legs all the way up to your armpits is a recipe for pneumonia, I 
don't want to terrify the local trousers by letting them speculate about 
what happens if they're between my thighs when I bring them together. 
Hence, long skirts. 

No, it wasn't the legs that would scare him off, he wouldn't see them 
until I was between him and the bedroom door. The thing that men find 
scariest, is when a woman is too eager. You have to pretend to be a bit 
reluctant, to need a bit of coaxing. Guys who come up to you and say 
"Wanna fuck?" generally wet themselves if you say "Yes please." 

So the thing now was to find a way to drag him off to bed without 
seeming to. Obviously, this takes a bit of practice, but I was confident 
I'd be able to do it, in spite of his affectation of gayness. Until he 
finally managed to blurt out what he'd been struggling with. "Diana, 
would you arm-wrestle with me?" 

I hate it when they do that. I never know whether I'm suppose to win, 
lose or draw, and if I should make it look easy or difficult. And how 
much should I hurt him; bruises, strains or sprains (I don't like 
breaking bones, despite what I had for dinner). It's all very well for 
men, when a man is challenged, he just aims to win, irrespective of the 
consequences. But I don't especially want to prove anything to anyone, 
and what I want is whatever is going to give the best result in bed 
afterwards. Hence the dilemma. 

I do know this, though. Refusal isn't a sensible option. So I brushed my 
hair back, retied my blue ribbon, settled my new hat firmly in place, 
rolled up my sleeve to just above the elbow (no sense in letting him see 
my biceps until I've got him where I want him) and plonked my elbow down 
on the table. He put his down nearby, we clasped hands, and he said "On 
the count of three, one, two, three ..." and I felt him begin to push. 

Oops. I hadn't meant for this to happen quite so fast. You see, if you 
talk about it first, and if I listen carefully, I can often tell what 
he's hoping for. So, for example, "Please don't hug me in your arms 
until I almost faint from lack of oxygen" is actually a detailed recipe 
for what he really wants. 

But as the contest began, I could feel that he wasn't using his full 
strength, which I take to mean that he wants me to win, but doesn't 
really believe that I can without help. Had he forgotten the bent table-
knife? So I started pushing harder, gradually building up the torque, so 
he had to increase his resistance against me. I kept increasing the load 
on his arm, and he kept matching the force, until I felt him peak; he 
had no more increase left. So I reached up with my other hand and 
straightened my hair ribbon, looked across the table at him, smiled, and 
squeezed. 

I know that was wicked of me; I could well have hurt his hand. But it's 
a great dramatic way to end an armwrestling match. The crushing pain in 
his hand instantly drains his strength, and his arm turns to wet 
spaghetti. I laid it gently down on the table, and rolled my sleeve back 
into place. 

"Wow" he said, his eyes wide with admiration. "Left hand now." "Maybe 
later, sweetie" I said, trying not to look too predatory. "Let's go back 
to your apartment now." He paid for dinner (with what I'd spent on the 
hat, he could afford to) and we left. 

Back at the apartment, we were greeted by an ominous silence. If Antonio 
had been crying, at least I'd know he was still alive, although probably 
being treated in a way that men should not be subjected to. We tiptoed 
in and I tried not to giggle. No sign of them. Huh. I bet I knew where 
they were. 

Sure enough, Cherie was lying in the bedroom. But where was Antonio? 
Then I saw, he was that lump under the blankets. Cherie opened her eyes 
as I came in, "Hi, Di". "Don't call me that." "The hat looks great." 
"Oh, thanks. What did you do to him?" 

She looked at the bedside table, and I followed her gaze. An empty wine 
bottle. "Oh, Cherie, you didn't!" She grinned and nodded. "Cherie, you 
could have hurt him badly." She grinned even more. "Oh Cherie. Which end 
did you use?" She made a circle with her thumb and fingers. Whew, at 
least she'd used the narrow end. 

I bundled Antonio up in the blankets, and carried him into the living 
room. I could feel he was still breathing, not that I would have 
expected Cherie to go too far. I didn't really want Tris to see him, in 
case there was blood, which men are a bit squeamish about sometimes. So 
I dumped him, still wrapped up on the couch, and Tris and I passed 
Cherie as she came out of the bedroom. As I closed the door, I heard a 
dull thud as Antonio gave up his place on the couch for Cherie. Well, 
I'm sure he'd have done the same if he'd been conscious. 

Anyway, now I had things arranged right, with me between Tris and the 
door, a nice big bed ready and waiting, and a horny Valkyrie facing a 
man who was all primed and ready and feeling helpless. Yummy. Time to 
strip for action. 

Cherie says it's sexier if you wear something, and she's right, of 
course. But there's times when looking sexy isn't the main priority, and 
inside a bedroom with me between him and the door is one of them. What 
is more important, when you're travelling light, is A) not to tear 
things, because I don't have, or want, a sewing kit, and B) not to 
crease things, because travelling light rules out carrying an iron. So, 
while Tris watched, I got ready for the next few hours exercises. 

As usual, there's a right way to do this, and a wrong way. The wrong way 
is to take off your skirt first, because then the first thing he sees is 
my thighs, and I know that some men find them a bit scary. It's not that 
they're big, you understand. Well, I don't think they are. But then, I 
suppose I'm used to having them around, and I'd miss them if they 
weren't there. It's all relative, isn't it. You expect a big girl to 
have big thighs. Not that I'm that big, understand. Nor am I small. 5'5" 
is what I call medium sized. I certainly don't have to stoop to get 
through doorways! No, I meant more ... wide. Broad in the beam. Big in 
the horizontal, not the vertical. 

So the skirt is the last to go. What I do, is take off my top first, 
then he's so busy staring at my ladybumps, he doesn't notice what's 
happening lower down. Not that they're that big either, you know. I 
mean, they're adequate, certainly, and if I stand straight, they 
obviously stand out a bit and look a bit bigger than they ought to. And 
if I've got hanky-panky in mind, then obviously the nipples swell up a 
bit, and I wouldn't be stripping unless hanky-panky was on the menu. 

So, off with the top, peeling it from the waist upwards so that things 
come into view in the right order. Then off with the bra, to give him 
both barrels and distract him a bit. Unwind the belt, and while he's 
distracted by the ladybumps, he won't notice that it's a fifteen-foot 
bullwhip wound round and round, great for intimidating people, but not 
right now, maybe I'll need it later to get him going again. And then I 
can just stand up straight while I drop my skirt round my ankles, step 
out of it, step out of my shoes (which aren't five inch spike heels, do 
you think I'm barmy? They're *useless* for running after a man, and by 
the time I've kicked them off, he could be too far away for me to catch 
him). I left my new hat on, though. I think there's something especially 
erotic about a naked Valkyrie wearing a big floppy hat. 

Big smile, now, don't be scared, sweetie, I'm a *very* gentle Valkyrie, 
lots of reassurances, don't want him changing his mind about this. And I 
got to the bed, pushed him down, made sure I was underneath so he'd have 
the illusion of being in control, which I think is *so* important to a 
man, so I always try to give them that feeling. And then we begin the 
race. 

Race? Well, he's in a race. It's like he has a train to catch in five 
minutes, and he's in a tearing hurry. I, on the other hand, would like 
this to take a few hours at least. I do appreciate that men have 
limitations, but five minutes is absurd. 

So the thing is, to slow them down a bit, put a few obstacles in the 
way. What I like to do to start with, is put my hands on his hips, and 
support his weight when he tries a downstroke. So the downstroke doesn't 
go down, if you follow me. Obviously I can't do that every time, or he'd 
get frustrated, and then there a chance of him going limp on me, and I 
have to encourage him up again. But it breaks up his rhythm, stops him 
roaring away after that train. Then, when he's just a little bit 
frustrated, I can explain to him about some of the other nice things he 
can do to me to get me excited. Starting with the toes, obviously, at 
which point I think of Cherie, who's rather good at toes. And then 
there's delights such as my calves, behind my knees, and all points 
North until you encounter my thighs, at which point I showed Tris why 
people make such a fuss about being scissored. And I hardly crushed his 
head at all, but he made such a fuss. Well, he would have done, except 
that when you're in the grip of a Valkyrie's thighs, you can't actually 
make much noise. Just sort of "mmmph" noises. 

Of course when he stopped struggling, I released him, blew on his face 
to revive him, and when he started moaning and groaning a bit, pulled 
his head up to my breasts for a good cuddle. And while he was there, I 
showed him how to lick the Valkyrie's nipples. But he kept running his 
hands over my abdomen, back and shoulders, saying "Jesus, Diana, what 
*is* all this?"  "It's a Valkyrie, Tris, I'm not quite what you're used 
to, am I?" "Uh, no. Uh - you lift weights?" 

A question I get asked a lot. No, I don't lift weights. If you were six 
foot six, would you do stretching exercises each morning, hoping to get 
to seven foot? No, I don't lift weights. What I do do, is weigh myself 
every day, because I only have to look at a pound of chocolate and 
somehow I'm heavier (and the box is lighter). Even better, two pounds. 

He found my waist and started kneading at it. "What *is* all this, 
Diana?" "It's me, Tris. Valkyrie, one of, sex for the having with." "But 
you're so, so ... unnhh". Intellectual discussions yet. There's a time 
for talking, and a time for action. So I got on top of him, worry about 
his ego later, and got that little thing into the place I have that's 
designed for it, clench, hug and roll. Clench to stop it coming out till 
I want it to, hug to overpower him a bit without hurting him, and roll 
to get him back on top, man's rightful place being on top of a woman. 
And who am I to argue. When the Christians first started badgering the 
Polynesians and tried to teach them about war, hate and other civilised 
virtues, the one thing they did learn was a new sexual position which 
they called the "missionary position", although I suspect they already 
knew it, and just wanted to hack off the missionaries. 

So, into the missionary position, whereupon Tris starts doing his 
running for a train thing again. Sigh. Twenty minutes into the 
encounter, and I haven't had my first orgasm yet. Ok, the other thing 
that slows them down is a little bit of pain. Nothing too much, of 
course. Just a quick friendly squeeze of his waist between my thighs, 
with no ribs broken, not even cracked. Maybe bent a little. Just a 
bruise. 

He stopped at once, and cried out, "Yowch". Immediately I was all 
solicitous and caring. "You all right, Tris? Did I squeeze you too 
hard." "Rather. What have you got there, love, a pair of nutcrackers?" 
Yes, actually. "No, actually. Just my legs." He ran his hand over my 
thigh, and I made ooh and aah noises to let him know he had the right 
idea. "They're a bit... big, aren't they?" Oops. Instant distraction 
needed. I pulled his hands upwards. "And how about these?" "Yes, they're 
a bit big, too." "Adequate." "Adequate for anything, I'd say, Diana" I 
smiled. This was more like it. I lay on my back, arms spread out, trying 
to look helpless and submissive. It worked. But he started running for 
the train again. Duh! 

OK, slowdown time again. This time, I put my arms round him, and just 
hugged, not seriously hard, but enough to ruin his action. "Umph" he 
said, struggling to regain control. Huh, a struggler. So I squeezed him 
a bit harder, because when they struggle there's a real danger that they 
might make the train arrive, and I wasn't nearly ready for that; my 
furnace still needed quite a lot of stoking. But he was still fighting 
me, and there's always a danger in that situation that the gun might 
accidentally fire, so to speak. So I squeezed him tighter to stop him 
struggling so much, and he said "whuffff" as his lungs emptied, and then 
he went limp. Limp all over, dammit. Don't you hate it when they do 
that? 

So I let go of him, turned him onto his back, and let him recover. Very 
soon, his eyes fluttered open (great eyelashes, Tris) and he uttered the 
immortal words "Uh, what?"  I smiled up at him, they prefer it when you 
do that, and he amplified to "What happened?" Hmmm, he really didn't 
know. So naturally I told him "You were wonderful, darling, it was 
incredible." I thought I'd better leave out the bit about the earth 
moving, he'd never believe that. Or would he? "Do you get many 
earthquakes around here? And how did you time it so well?" "Oh, I have 
certain talents, Diana." 

"Mmm. Tell you what Tris, let's wait a few minutes, then we can do it 
again, only this time slowly?" "Can't take it, huh? OK, I'll go easy on 
you this time." Diana, do NOT giggle. Not. No. Splutter, cough. Urggh. 
Straight face. "Thank you, Tris." 

So we left it for a few minutes while his hands groped over my body, 
feeling out the Valkyrie. "Diana, you are kind of ... different." "Why 
thank you, kind sir" I said. "No, I mean, sort of, well  ..." "Mmmm?" I 
said, wandering a hand down where it would most likely do some good. 
"Er, sort of big. Chunky." "Yes?" I inquired sweetly, tightening my grip 
on his family jewels. "Heavy. Lots of you," he said. "Meaning what?" I 
said sweetly. 

It doesn't take much. Even your ordinary fluff-bunny can do as much 
damage as anyone would want to do to a man with a good grip on his 
goolies. I could see his eyes beginning to water, so I eased up a bit. 
"Tris, you weren't about to imply that I'm too big, were you?" I asked, 
pulsating my grip a bit to remind him of the possibilities. "No, no, no" 
he said, "not at all, you're just the right size." "I'm glad we're 
agreed then, Tris. Because I think I'm exactly the right size for a 
Valkyrie." "For a what?" Oops. 

Oops. Now we're going to have a long anatomical lesson, are we? I've 
really got to stop telling people that, because then I have to explain 
it. I put up an entire huge web site because people kept asking me that, 
and it was simpler to point them at the web site than try to explain. 
Which doesn't help when you're in bed with the latest trouser and he 
starts asking about that. Fortunately, I discovered long ago that you 
don't have to answer things unless you want to, and changing the subject 
is a good ploy. So I rubbed my ladybumps against his body, which 
produced the right kind of reaction; all his blood and thoughts 
emigrated from his brain and concentrated about a yard south. He pounced 
on top of me, and started the race again. 

And that was my own fault, I'd got him too excited, too fast. So, on the 
next upstroke, I just gave him an assist upwards, he broke contact and 
kept on rising, I let go and rolled sideways so when he came down, he 
daggered into the bed. "YOW!!!  Ooh, ooh, ooh, it's broken, it's 
broken." Actually, there's no bones, so you can't break it. What a fuss. 
So I gave him kisses and sympathy, and he stopped being such a wimp, 
especially after I pointed out that it wouldn't have hurt so much if it 
wasn't so big. And I'm really good at keeping a straight face when I 
tell these pork pies. So then I said, "I'll stroke it better" and I let 
both my hands flutter gently around, and then I very gently touched the 
spot that Cherie had showed me, underneath and about an inch down from 
the tip, that Cherie called the G-spot, and he yelled out and there was 
a major mess all over the place, and he went on yelling and spurting 
until the gusher ran dry. And then, following time-honoured etiquette, 
he fell asleep. 

Grrr. Not at all the intended result. One horny Valkyrie, one used-up 
man. Just looking at him told me that the fireworks were all burned out. 
No more rockets, no more Roman Candles, not even a sparkler. He was 
half-curled up, a beatific smile on his face, and his eyes closed. 
Tomorrow, he'd be telling the world that he'd fucked me till I begged 
him to stop, but right now, something deep inside me was saying "And?" 

Rats. So I put my hat back on (it had come off in the excitement) and 
went to the other room, so see if Cherie had left anything useful in 
Antonio. Not a chance, he was out like a light, snoring like a cat's 
purr. Cherie opened her eyes, and said "Yours wasn't much use?" I shook 
my head sadly. "About as much use as a bicycle to a fish". Cherie 
smiled. "Want some help?" 

At that point, I'd have shagged a rug. I felt great sympathy for dogs 
who rub themselves on the furniture. There I was, all revved up and 
nowhere to go. Experience told me that I'd just fired off the only 
bullet in the gun, and the only other possibility had been used up by 
Cherie hours ago. "Cherie, I don't think even you could get a rise out 
of him." "I wasn't thinking of helping him, Diana ma amore, I was 
talking about helping you." 

Ah. Yes. Of course. Silly of me. Cherie's skills weren't restricted to 
the same half of the human race that I was interested in. "Now, Cherie, 
you *know* I prefer men" and that was putting it mildly. "But Diana, you 
can have a man between your legs, I'll just be helping a little bit." 

She wasn't in the least bit convincing. My forebrain knew exactly what 
she was up to; she'd done this to me a few times before. Her idea of fun 
was torturing some poor unfortunate trouser; I guess she'd had a pretty 
raw deal in her life as a prostitute. And her favourite way of hurting a 
man, was to get him between a powerful pair of legs which would then 
crush him like the nut in a nutcracker. And the legs of a Valkyrie are 
ideal for that. 

My forebrain knew all this. But the animal inside was screaming "Yes, 
yes", because the animal inside had just seen the possibility of a good 
time, and then seen it cruelly snatched away and fall asleep. The 
forebrain said "but it's wrong to hurt men", the animal said "the hell 
with that, let's have a ball." But the forebrain said, "no, Tris is a 
nice guy, we mustn't do this to him." 

As is always the case in an argument between the forebrain and the 
animal, the animal wins by getting the forebrain to rationalise what the 
animal wants to do. Cherie helped things along, by saying "But Diana, 
we'll just use his body as a bit of a stimulant, there's no reason why 
he'd get hurt. Anyway, he's too flaked out to feel anything. "Yes!" said 
the animal inside, and the forebrain said, "Well, as long as he isn't 
between my legs when I start to orgasm, he should be fine", and the 
thing was rationalised. 

I settled my hat more firmly on my head, we put Tris's lovely body in a 
comfortable position between my legs; I always like to feel something 
big and meaty there, and Cherie went to work with two hands and a 
tongue. Golly, that girl knew her anatomy! Or rather, knew my anatomy. 
And all the time, she kept up a running commentary saying rather nice 
things about bits of the Valkyrie and what she was doing to them. 

And again and again, she'd return to my thighs, talking about the 
thickness of the muscles, the strength of my legs, and the destructive 
power that they represented, and how any man would be grateful to be 
crushed between them. And stroking the insides, her hands moving up, and 
up, and up, until it wasn't my thighs any more, but the joint where 
thigh meets hip, the hinge of the nutcracker, and moving her hands so 
softly and delicately that I wanted to scream and bring my legs together 
just to put an end to the exquisite torment. But there was something 
large and meaty between them, keeping them apart, stopping me from 
closing the jaws, yet Cherie's hands were constantly moving, touching, 
stroking, and her musical voice was flattering, encouraging, coaxing, 
and the frustrations of the evening were being replaced by a lift-off, 
the chasm being filled by an increasing pressure, but Cherie telling me 
"Not yet, Diana, hold it in" which I did, and I did, and I did.  And 
then there was nothing I could do to stop it, it was like when the 
bouncing bomb strikes the wall and explodes, breaching the Mohne Dam, a 
gigantic underwater explosion, and then the masonry cracks, crumbles and 
tumbles, allowing the pressure behind to explode into the valley, 
drenching everything in it's path and destroying as it goes. You have to 
watch the Dambusters movie, it's really good. As was that orgasm. 

And of course, in the frenzy of it all, I'd neglected to get Tris out of 
the danger zone; his breathing was ragged and wheezing, and he didn't 
look quite so blissful. So much for the forebrain. So I pulled him up 
out of harm's way, and cuddled him in my arms (they do like that, a lot) 
and soothed him back to sleep while Cherie replaced him between my legs 
"Now that you're not dangerous, Diana" and we all fell asleep in that 
sort of exhausted tangled mess that is the sign of a really good fuck. 

And in the morning, Cherie and I got dressed, I put my new hat on very 
carefully, and we continued to head South.