her eyes close slowly. Behold her as she lies perfectly still.
Your lips to hers. Your hands on her bare shoulders.
Undo the top lace of her bodice.
Draw back the strings like petals of a flower.
See at last what you have been craving all this time.
There was a sudden damp explosion between Thorgils's legs.
Its intensity caused him to crack the back of his head against the dirty cement wall of his cage. The sound alone woke him from the orgasmic myx-induced dream.
He was getting good at this.
He opened his eyes and watched the world spin for the next half minute.
Slowly, the golden walls and jewels and pearls evaporated in the darkening spiral. The dazzling lights were gone. So were the grand stallions. The palace was now the doghouse again. Smelly. Filthy. Dehumanizing.
He stared down at the photograph of the woman named Dominique; his hands still too weak to wipe away the accumulating drool. Her face was painted with alluring makeup. She was dressed in a low-cut black negligee, showing a substantial amount of her beautiful breasts. Her lovely legs were adorned in black silk. She wore a crown in the midst of the wildly erotic blonde hairdo.
He had been right all along, he thought. She was a queen! This picture proved it. She was a queen to soldiers of America. Nearly all of them still carried her photo with them.
87
Right over their hearts. They had told him so themselves.
And now like them, he had her picture. But the difference was, he had had her.
Their queen.
And that made him their king.
He drew a dirty rag from the hay floor and stuffed it between his legs to sop up the consequences of the episode of blind, pure, self-indulgent lust.
Then he closed his eyes and heard the dogs begin to stir.
She is still sleeping somewhere, he thought.
Chapter Sixteen
The road leading into Fuhrerstadt airport was filled with hundreds of military vehicles.
The sun was just coming up and the legions of tanks, APCs, missile carriers, fuel trucks, self-propelled howitzers, Hummers, scout cars and troop trucks were causing a traffic jam of such massive proportions, a mushroom cloud of engine exhaust was nearly blotting out the first rays of the dawn.
The snarl of war machinery was not limited to the ground. Overhead, more than a hundred aircraft were circling in holding patterns perilously close to one another. Helicopters-Apaches, Blackhawks, Cobras, Hueys-were competing for the air space closest to the ground. While a wide range of state-of-the-art combat jets-Tornadoes and Jaguars mostly-sullied the sky between three and seven thousand feet. All of the aircraft were armed to the teeth, all of them wearing the distinctive blue-gray spot camouflage of the Fourth Reich Luftwaffe.
This was not a typical day, even for the city which housed the capital of the German occupying forces in America. The troops had been called out for an occasiona ceremony to welcome the First Governor of Bundeswehr Four. It was protocol to pull out all the stops in welcoming one of the Fourth Reich's most powerful officers. It was also an excuse to lay on a giant helping of the lavish Prussian pageantry the Nazi soldiers loved so much.
89
The two-mile road leading to the airport was lined with thousands of spectators, though their enthusiasm was absolutely nil. These were Americans living under the occupation and forced to attend the impending parade. Most had lived in other parts of the country before the Fourth Reich's sudden and crushing invasion. They'd been deported to Fuhrerstadt as slave labor for the sprawling city's weapons factories and its perpetually busy river docks.
And there was plenty of work to go around. Fuhrerstadt, AKA Football City, AKA St. Louis, was not the capital of Nazi America due to some fancy. Rather it was its geographic location (on the Mississippi River and at near center of the occupied territory) and its accessibility from land, water and air that made it a natural for the seat of the fascist government.
Your lips to hers. Your hands on her bare shoulders.
Undo the top lace of her bodice.
Draw back the strings like petals of a flower.
See at last what you have been craving all this time.
There was a sudden damp explosion between Thorgils's legs.
Its intensity caused him to crack the back of his head against the dirty cement wall of his cage. The sound alone woke him from the orgasmic myx-induced dream.
He was getting good at this.
He opened his eyes and watched the world spin for the next half minute.
Slowly, the golden walls and jewels and pearls evaporated in the darkening spiral. The dazzling lights were gone. So were the grand stallions. The palace was now the doghouse again. Smelly. Filthy. Dehumanizing.
He stared down at the photograph of the woman named Dominique; his hands still too weak to wipe away the accumulating drool. Her face was painted with alluring makeup. She was dressed in a low-cut black negligee, showing a substantial amount of her beautiful breasts. Her lovely legs were adorned in black silk. She wore a crown in the midst of the wildly erotic blonde hairdo.
He had been right all along, he thought. She was a queen! This picture proved it. She was a queen to soldiers of America. Nearly all of them still carried her photo with them.
87
Right over their hearts. They had told him so themselves.
And now like them, he had her picture. But the difference was, he had had her.
Their queen.
And that made him their king.
He drew a dirty rag from the hay floor and stuffed it between his legs to sop up the consequences of the episode of blind, pure, self-indulgent lust.
Then he closed his eyes and heard the dogs begin to stir.
She is still sleeping somewhere, he thought.
Chapter Sixteen
The road leading into Fuhrerstadt airport was filled with hundreds of military vehicles.
The sun was just coming up and the legions of tanks, APCs, missile carriers, fuel trucks, self-propelled howitzers, Hummers, scout cars and troop trucks were causing a traffic jam of such massive proportions, a mushroom cloud of engine exhaust was nearly blotting out the first rays of the dawn.
The snarl of war machinery was not limited to the ground. Overhead, more than a hundred aircraft were circling in holding patterns perilously close to one another. Helicopters-Apaches, Blackhawks, Cobras, Hueys-were competing for the air space closest to the ground. While a wide range of state-of-the-art combat jets-Tornadoes and Jaguars mostly-sullied the sky between three and seven thousand feet. All of the aircraft were armed to the teeth, all of them wearing the distinctive blue-gray spot camouflage of the Fourth Reich Luftwaffe.
This was not a typical day, even for the city which housed the capital of the German occupying forces in America. The troops had been called out for an occasiona ceremony to welcome the First Governor of Bundeswehr Four. It was protocol to pull out all the stops in welcoming one of the Fourth Reich's most powerful officers. It was also an excuse to lay on a giant helping of the lavish Prussian pageantry the Nazi soldiers loved so much.
89
The two-mile road leading to the airport was lined with thousands of spectators, though their enthusiasm was absolutely nil. These were Americans living under the occupation and forced to attend the impending parade. Most had lived in other parts of the country before the Fourth Reich's sudden and crushing invasion. They'd been deported to Fuhrerstadt as slave labor for the sprawling city's weapons factories and its perpetually busy river docks.
And there was plenty of work to go around. Fuhrerstadt, AKA Football City, AKA St. Louis, was not the capital of Nazi America due to some fancy. Rather it was its geographic location (on the Mississippi River and at near center of the occupied territory) and its accessibility from land, water and air that made it a natural for the seat of the fascist government.
Similar Books
