combined.”
“Then whom?” Madame Bovary scared him. And he’d grown fond of his teacher, Jane. “It’s hopeless.”
“For you to win her in mortal combat? Yes. It’s also stupid. Alice doesn’t want you to kill for her.”
She was right. Alice was gentle and kind. She would hate bloodshed in her name. “Then how can I possibly win her?”
“Fight in an arena where you excel. What are you good at, Lewis?”
Lewis considered it. “Well, I’m pretty good at cooking omelets. The trick is to use olive oil, and not get the pan too hot.”
“A useful skill, but probably not a way to win a woman’s heart.”
“Back in college I could hacky sack.”
“Oh, yes. That drives the ladies mad.”
“Really?” Lewis entertained a glimmer of hope.
“Of course not, Lewis. Don’t be daft. A bunch of unwashed slackers skipping Civics class to smoke pot and kick around a little leather ball is about the worst way to impress a girl.”
“I can do a pretty good Sean Connery impersonation.” Lewis lowered his voice. “The name is Carroll. Lewis Carroll.”
“That was awful. Very awful.”
“So what, then? Pottery? Belching the alphabet? Making fart sounds with my armpit?”
“How did you ever get laid, let alone married?”
“I’m hopeless!” Lewis moaned. “There’s nothing I can do that will woo Alice.”
“You write, don’t you? Nonsensical yet whimsical children’s stories filled with bad poetry?”
“You could say that. Wait…
bad
?”
“So that’s how you compete for Alice. By being yourself. Doing what you do best.”
“The belching thing?” Lewis burped the letter A.
“Poetry, Lewis. My God, you’re thick. Give me a moment, and I’ll take care of everything.” And with that, Jane left the chamber.
Lewis watched as the younger d’Artagnan came for a second time to Alice’s glee and pondered what he’d just gotten himself into. He supposed writing was better than fighting to the death, at least some days. And while mortal combat with all these dashing figures would no doubt leave him dead, he could probably come up with better poetry. By the time Jane returned, Lewis was downright hopeful.
“I have it all arranged,” Jane announced. “Lewis will now duel to win his wife’s favor.”
“Duel?” echoed Alice. Her expression horrified, she held a hand to her cum-slick breast.
Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan grinned and stroked their swords. “We’re ready,” they said in unison.
“Not so fast,” Jane said. “It will be a literary duel.”
“A literary duel?” Athos looked stricken.
Jane nodded. “Also known as a poetry slam.”
The musketeers grins faded, and Lewis came up with a smug smile of his own. Now he had them. No matter how much he doubted that he truly deserved sweet, beautiful Alice, he was sure he could write better than a collection of swordsmen, pirates, a Roman general, an Egyptian queen, or an orphan found wandering the moor.
“And he will be dueling,” Jane continued, drawing out the moment “Some of the most famous love poets who ever lived!”
Lewis’s smug smile faded, and he thought to himself,
Aw, shit.
Alice Blows Some of the Most Famous Love Poets Who Ever Lived…
By the time Alice had another bath, her skin now silky soft from cum and massage oil and jasmine-scented soaps, Jane said the dueling arena was ready. Back in her silk robe, Alice followed the governess through the club to a room she’d never seen before. The space itself was the width of a very narrow, dead end hallway. But the walls weren’t walls exactly, they were mirrors.
“One way mirrors,” Jane explained. “The duelers can see you, but you can’t see them.”
“So I stand in the middle of the mirrors and they recite poetry?”
“You don’t just stand, dear. You choose the verse you like. You are the one and only judge.”
“Do I fill out some kind of score sheet?”
Jane gave her a disappointed look and shook her head. “Where’s the
“Then whom?” Madame Bovary scared him. And he’d grown fond of his teacher, Jane. “It’s hopeless.”
“For you to win her in mortal combat? Yes. It’s also stupid. Alice doesn’t want you to kill for her.”
She was right. Alice was gentle and kind. She would hate bloodshed in her name. “Then how can I possibly win her?”
“Fight in an arena where you excel. What are you good at, Lewis?”
Lewis considered it. “Well, I’m pretty good at cooking omelets. The trick is to use olive oil, and not get the pan too hot.”
“A useful skill, but probably not a way to win a woman’s heart.”
“Back in college I could hacky sack.”
“Oh, yes. That drives the ladies mad.”
“Really?” Lewis entertained a glimmer of hope.
“Of course not, Lewis. Don’t be daft. A bunch of unwashed slackers skipping Civics class to smoke pot and kick around a little leather ball is about the worst way to impress a girl.”
“I can do a pretty good Sean Connery impersonation.” Lewis lowered his voice. “The name is Carroll. Lewis Carroll.”
“That was awful. Very awful.”
“So what, then? Pottery? Belching the alphabet? Making fart sounds with my armpit?”
“How did you ever get laid, let alone married?”
“I’m hopeless!” Lewis moaned. “There’s nothing I can do that will woo Alice.”
“You write, don’t you? Nonsensical yet whimsical children’s stories filled with bad poetry?”
“You could say that. Wait…
bad
?”
“So that’s how you compete for Alice. By being yourself. Doing what you do best.”
“The belching thing?” Lewis burped the letter A.
“Poetry, Lewis. My God, you’re thick. Give me a moment, and I’ll take care of everything.” And with that, Jane left the chamber.
Lewis watched as the younger d’Artagnan came for a second time to Alice’s glee and pondered what he’d just gotten himself into. He supposed writing was better than fighting to the death, at least some days. And while mortal combat with all these dashing figures would no doubt leave him dead, he could probably come up with better poetry. By the time Jane returned, Lewis was downright hopeful.
“I have it all arranged,” Jane announced. “Lewis will now duel to win his wife’s favor.”
“Duel?” echoed Alice. Her expression horrified, she held a hand to her cum-slick breast.
Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan grinned and stroked their swords. “We’re ready,” they said in unison.
“Not so fast,” Jane said. “It will be a literary duel.”
“A literary duel?” Athos looked stricken.
Jane nodded. “Also known as a poetry slam.”
The musketeers grins faded, and Lewis came up with a smug smile of his own. Now he had them. No matter how much he doubted that he truly deserved sweet, beautiful Alice, he was sure he could write better than a collection of swordsmen, pirates, a Roman general, an Egyptian queen, or an orphan found wandering the moor.
“And he will be dueling,” Jane continued, drawing out the moment “Some of the most famous love poets who ever lived!”
Lewis’s smug smile faded, and he thought to himself,
Aw, shit.
Alice Blows Some of the Most Famous Love Poets Who Ever Lived…
By the time Alice had another bath, her skin now silky soft from cum and massage oil and jasmine-scented soaps, Jane said the dueling arena was ready. Back in her silk robe, Alice followed the governess through the club to a room she’d never seen before. The space itself was the width of a very narrow, dead end hallway. But the walls weren’t walls exactly, they were mirrors.
“One way mirrors,” Jane explained. “The duelers can see you, but you can’t see them.”
“So I stand in the middle of the mirrors and they recite poetry?”
“You don’t just stand, dear. You choose the verse you like. You are the one and only judge.”
“Do I fill out some kind of score sheet?”
Jane gave her a disappointed look and shook her head. “Where’s the
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