The Weapon - Passion - part 8
By Diana the Valkyrie
A romantic dinner date at the Star of India



But I had a nice surprise that evening; Wendy managed to find time in her busy
schedule to cram me in for a romantic dinner date at the Star of India,
followed by a romantic walk in the park, at night, hand in hand. We stopped by
the river, and watched the water swirling by. "So how's it going in Ruthenia?"
I asked. "It's going well, Duncan. Today, we did a great joke on a bunch of
soldiers who were trying to kill each other." "A joke?" "Mmm. Milly tackled
one lot, and I dealt with the other. We took their guns and grenades and
stuff. You know, the old "Drop your guns or I'll make you eat them" sort of
thing. Then we made them take off their uniforms, so they couldn't tell each
other apart." "Yeah, funny." "No, hang on, I haven't finished. Then we went
round and ripped off their underwear." " ... " "Yes!" she said, "they stood
their with their hands trying to cover themselves up, and we just flew off,
giggling. I don't think those guys will be ready to fight for a while."
"Wendy, you're a riot. Just remember, you're not there to enjoy yourselves."
"I know, I know. Speaking of which, did you enjoy your visit from Milly."
"Mmmm." "And?" "We played 'Symphony orchestras'" I explained. "I think I know
how that goes, did she pluck your banjo?" "Yes, and she blew my horn." "So
have you recovered yet?" "No, and I probably never will." "I know a good
treatment for that condition." "And if the treatment doesn't work?" "Then
we'll do it again, until it does." "Mmm."

And it did. Eventually.

She flew south-east again in the morning, back to Ruthenia, and I spent the
day banging my head against one of our biggest problems. They thing is, you
don't get paid for saving the world, or even for rescuing kittens from trees.
But you still need to pay the rent, and the electricity, and and and. So
what's the answer, do I rent Wendy out as a flying bulldozer? Do people hire
flying bulldozers? Where do you advertise flying bulldozers? It was all very
well for Batman, he was a billionaire. Green Arrow likewise. Superman had his
reporter salary, and Diana presumably got the usual wages that a princess
gets. But how was I going to put bread on the table - the whole point of
leaving the boring old job was so that I could act as Wendy's Wielder, she
couldn't function properly without one.

I felt there had to be a way. Maybe we could sell some of the gold she
extracted from sea water? Or maybe she could make highly pure silicon, which
we could sell to chip manufacturers? Or maybe I was looking in the wrong
direction, we shouldn't be in the manufacturing business, maybe there's some
sort of service we could sell? My approach when facing this sort of problem is
to make lists, so I covered several sheets of paper with all the things that
Wendy might be able to do.

After an hour, I chucked away several useless pieces of paper, and started
again. Problem was, there were so many things she could do, I was looking at
this the wrong way round. What I needed, was things that she could do more
cheaply and effectively than existing methods, but they needed to be things
that I could actually explain, and therefore sell. Looked at that way round,
it didn't seem such a difficult problem, the answer was obvious. Wendy was a
heavy-duty flying crane. You want to put a ship in dry dock, but don't want to
pay the huge dry dock fees? Wendy will lift it to a position inland. You need
to haul some wide-gauge heavy machine from one end of the country to the
other? Wendy will fly it for you. You have a ship in New York and you want it
in Los Angeles? No need to go round Cape Horn, or even through the Panama
Canal - save the fuel costs, and a lot of time, we can transport your ship
cross-country.

I started to think about possible company names. Weight Lifters? Sky Hook? No,
all taken. Beautiful Crane? Then I thought of the song, "Pretty Flamingo".
Yes! A quick web search revealed that there wasn't a company with that name,
and I could register the domain name, prettyflamingo.co.uk, although I could
see no reason why we wouldn't operate internationally. Her hair could glow
like the sun and she could wear a tight crimson dress on company time, which
would be a useful distinction from her kitten-rescuing and world-saving
white-and-gold outfit. I started listing some likely scenarios, and thinking
about pricing. Marketing is always the key in this sort of thing; Wendy (or
rather, The Weapon, Defender of Humanity) was very well known already, it was
just a matter of making sure that people knew about the commercial side of the
operation. And, of course, the way to do that was a web site.

I started to design the web site. Something pretty simple, I thought, but with
lots of pictures of Wendy, showing what she could do, and how much cheaper it
was to hire us to do it than to spend money on the alternatives. I thought
about pricing, and made a few phone calls to find out the cost of hiring a dry
dock for a week, the fuel cost of various shipping routes. For example - the
export of lamb from New Zealand to Europe; long trip, refrigeration needed all
the way. The alternative would be Wendy lifting the ship and transporting it
around the world in whatever, I guessed 24 hours, need to do the calculation
there, but that would save a huge sum in fuel, salaries, refrigeration cost,
the ship could do dozens more trips in the same time, and what I needed to do
was work out a pricing that would halve the cost that the ship-owner was
currently shelling out, and since our costs were, like, zilch, that would be
our income!

That evening, it was Milly's turn to visit. She announced her arrival with a
crash of broken glass; I rushed into the dining room to see her standing amid
the shattered ruins of the window. "Wendy told me you fitted a cat flap!" she
exclaimed. "Yes, I did. On the other window." "Oh. Oops. Sorry." Damn, I'll
get these girls housetrained if it breaks me. "Anyhow, Milly, it's great to
see you again." "You too, Dunc," and she walked to me and gave me a killer
hug. Not literally, I hasten to add, but it was the sort of hug that makes you
think you just died and went to heaven. "Wendy said you took her to the Star
yesterday?" With a hint like that, I obviously had to take her somewhere nice.
"How about the China Diner," I suggested. "Corking," she said, "I'll wear
something nice," and she raced upstairs.

I stood there, a bit baffled. She had no clothes here, Wendy didn't have much
either, and I didn't think Milly would look good in one of my old suits. Plus,
it wouldn't have fitted, by about a mile. But when she came downstairs wearing
something silky and glittery, I realised that she'd faked it. "How's this,"
she asked. "Great," I said, "let's go." "No, wait," and she went upstairs
again. She came back down looking off-the-shoulder and sophisticated. "What
about this?" she asked. "You look gorgeous.". "Hmm, maybe ..." and she
vanished again.

I got a book and sat down. I know this game, it's called "Dressing Barbie".
You can see it in little girls, when they dress their dolls in various
outfits, an activity that seems pointless to boys, but then a lot of what boys
do seems pretty pointless to girls. But they don't actually grow out of it,
and in the full grown adult female it takes the form of "How do I look in
this?" Men don't change their pointless activities either, you see grown men
playing "who can piss the furthest" all the time, or at least something very
like it.

I got the whole works. "Does my bum look big in this?" "Do you think this is
too blue?" "This really wants a different hairdo, don't you think?" and the
classic "I've got nothing to wear", which in her case, of course, was
literally true, since each outfit was just another field of force.

Eventually, she decided on a little black dress, classic in form, and *much*
too short. I estimated that it ended about eighteen inches from the knee,
maybe twenty, she'd have to be very careful sitting down, and getting into or
out of a car was a no-no. Fortunately, the China Diner is within walking
distance. Or if you're wearing a skirt as tight as that, hobbling distance.
And the heels were a mistake, too. A girl who is six-two, should not wear six
inch heels. For a start, doorways are only six foot six, and when she banged
her head on the door lintel as we left the house, I saw I had another repair
job to do.

As we walked down the street, I thought of pretending that she wasn't with me.
But that's really hard to do when someone's holding your hand in hers, and
after she looped her arm round my waist, it became impossible. So I sighed,
and leaned in towards her, and decided, what can't be cured, must be endured.
Or, to put it another way, when you know you're being fucked, you might as
well relax and enjoy it. So I thought, the hell with anyone who sees us and
makes a snide remark, the key fact is that I'll be in bed with her later, and
you won't.

At the China Diner, I ordered the Special Feast A, with chopsticks. I suppose
it's a bit ostentatious to eat with chopsticks, but I think it's all part of
the fun. Milly, of course, tried to copy me, which was an unmitigated
disaster, because unless you've had a bit of practice, it gets very messy. I
tried not to laugh as the noodles slithered off her chopsticks, as she tried
to pick up rice, and when eventually an attempt to pick up an egg roll led to
the food flying across the restaurant. Eventually, I couldn't take any more,
and I signalled the waiter to bring a knife and fork for her. But it was too
late for the little black dress, which was now a little technicolour dress.
When I pointed that out to her, she looked down, said "Oh," and the dress sort
of flickered. All the food stains vanished, and the dress was now a deep royal
blue. "I think I prefer that colour anyway, Milly". The waiters kept coming
round to look, wondering how she'd changed the colour.

We got back home fairly early. When we got in, she kicked off her shoes, which
brought her down to not far above my level, and pulled me towards her. We
stood there in a hug for a minute or so, then I turned my face up to hers for
a kiss. Her tongue invaded my mouth, her legs surrounded and gently crushed my
waist, and her hand invaded my genitals. She had me in a state of sexual
frenzy within a very short time, and I wasn't sure exactly how it happened,
but I found myself on the bed, underneath her, my mind filled with the need
for sex to the exclusion of any other thought. She knew of my need, and she
knew how to deal with it. "Wendy says hi," she whispered into my ear as she
fucked me, and I realised that they had a continuous comms link running
between them, and I guessed that part of what I was getting here, was Wendy
teaching Milly how to turn a man into an sweaty, exhausted, mess without
actually rendering him unconscious. Which of course she could, but then you
miss the post-coital cuddling.

I won't say that's the best part of it. But anyone who thinks that the actual
orgasm is the only point of making love, is missing out on a lot. Afterwards,
when you're relaxed and drowsy, it's so good to just gently touch things, and
to be touched, and to whisper things to each other that don't actually make
much sense and which you wouldn't say in the cold light of day. And I felt
that Wendy was there too, which made it even better. Then she said "Say
goodnight, Gracie", so I said "Goodnight, Wendy, goodnight, Milly" and floated
off to the land of nod with Milly's arms and legs around me.

I was woken in the morning by a loud crash. I rushed downstairs to see what
had happened. Then I calculated the odds. If you have three windows, one
configured as a cat flap and the other two made of glass, what's the
probability that Milly will choose the wrong one, twice? One third, of course.
Maybe I should paint a big X in whitewash over the glass when I replace it.
The glass shop, of course, was happy to sell me two replacement panes. "Are
you replacing all your windows?" asked the shopkeeper. "No, it's breakages."
"Ah, kids," he nodded. "Yes," I agreed, "it's the youngsters. But I think
they've learned now." He nodded. "Catch them and give them a good spanking,
right?" I thought about putting Milly over my knee for a spanking, and
wondered for a moment what would happen if I tried. She'd probably let me do
it, too. On the other hand, did I want to teach her about spanking? Probably
not. On the other hand ... On the other hand, Miss Hardlash had quite likely
already taught her everything a domme needs to know about spanking. "What?
What? Oh, I was woolgathering a bit, here," as I adjusted my trousers, "let me
pay you for the glass."

That evening, it was Wendy's turn to visit. She came in through the cat flap,
which meant that my whitewashed X's worked, and she had some good news. "I
think we've smashed up pretty much everything that does bang in the country.
Quite a few of the larger knives, too. None of the railways work, because the
locomotives have been transported into the middle of forests. All the tanks
and artillery need replacement gun barrels, and a lot of soldiers are running
around in their underwear. And there's a lot of non-operational trucks, too. I
think we're ready for the next step. What's the next step, Duncan?" Trouble
is, I knew what I wanted next, I just couldn't quite see how to get there. But
I do know how to delegate. "We need to get the people in charge of each side
of the civil war to sit down round a table. But I don't know who they are, or
how to make that happen." "Oh, that's tactics, Duncan, leave that to me and
Milly, we'll arrange it." She does make things simple sometimes. "We're eating
with George and Milly tonight," she continued, "Milly's over there now." "And
where would you like me to take you tonight?" "Nowhere. Tonight, we're taking
you boys out. We're having a picnic."

I blinked. "Uh. In the park?" A midnight picnic, I thought. Unusual, but
romantic. "No, silly. Duncan, grab some wine and stuff, Milly's bringing the
food." I put the necessary drinking stuff in a bag, and Wendy put her arm
round my waist, and I got to use my cat flap personally. We soared up into the
sky, way above the clouds, heading for George's place, but along the way, we
met up with another flying couple. "Oh, hi." "Here we are," announced Wendy,
redundantly, because wherever you are is here. I explained that to her, and
she said, "No, silly. Here we are where we're here for where we're
picnicking." After I sorted out the atrocious grammar, I realised that she
meant we were about to picnic two miles above the ground. "Uh, usually one
sits on the grass. Dejeuner sur l'herbe, you know? There's nothing to sit on."
"There is now," said Wendy, spreading out her cape, "sit on that."

It's a peculiar feeling, sitting on a silky cape with nothing between you and
a death-plummet except that and two miles of thin air. Still, if Wendy thought
it was safe, then it was. And, I thought, moreover, if I do fall then she'll
catch me. There was enough moonlight to make it romantic, although not enough
to really see what you were eating. Milly had brought a picnic basket with
french bread and cheese, pickles and pate, ham and goujons of plaice, cold
chicken and Jacobs Cream Crackers, and I don't know what else. I didn't need
to see, I could smell. Yum yum!

"Wendy, it's a bit ... cold. Brrr." She pulled me close, and kept an arm round
me. I snuggled as close as I could get, and the cold night air was replaced by
a delicious feeling of warmth.

While we were eating, I explained about "Pretty Flamingo" to the others.
George liked the idea. "I could really run up the flagpole with that," he
said. George is in marketing, he speaks like that when he's excited. "Like
this?" asked Milly. She changed into a crimson creation; a tight sleeveless
bodice, and a fully ruffled skirt. Her blonde hair glowed and danced in the
pale moonlight, and she looked like she could light up the sky. I stared at
her until Wendy stuffed a gherkin into my open mouth.