No photo in this post… I was going through some old CDs to see what in the world was on them and came across this little gem written about 10 years ago while passing the time at Waldenbooks during the slow months after Christmas. I can’t take all of the credit for this jewel of literary wonder, but I did enough of the damage that I can claim no innocence. And now, for something completely different:
A Rake, a Viscount, and a Very Virile Viking
It was a dark and stormy night, a passion-filled velvety dark and stormy night, with the stars filling the night sky just above the storm clouds, where you couldn’t really see them, so it doesn’t really matter about the stars, and Daryl stared at her heaving, glistening bosoms which quivered like jelly with each massive intake of her quickened, excited breath, so actually, it was a dark and steamy night. They could no longer keep their sweaty hands to themselves, “Ohhh Daryl,” moaned Daryl.
“Ohhhhh Daryl,” groaned Daryl, “you are just too much!”
“Surely you jest…”
“So who is Shirley?!?” snarled Daryl, “I thought I was your only lover girl!!!” Daryl stormed from the room, salty bitter tears flowing from her bottomless violet eyes, eyes surrounded by a fringe of long sooty black lashes and Cleopatra blue eyeliner. Her ruby red lips pouted out so that Daryl wanted to pull her back to him and kiss those sensuous full pouty bee-stung lips into deep dark submission and bury his hands in her long silky tumbling raven locks shot through with occasional odd strands of gold, and maybe a little bit of red, but definitely the gold. She looked so enchantingly ravishing in the golden flickering candle lit room that was called “the library,” a room full of books written on several different topics, including those on the Eastern rites of love. His massive, throbbing manroot so snugly nestled in his tight buff colored breeches, quivered in reaction to her sultry wantonness. Oh yes, Daryl wanted Daryl in a bad way.
When Daryl reached the safety of her bedroom, or should I say “badroom,” she threw herself weeping copiously and hysterically onto her dusty rose colored down-filled coverlet that was so soft and warm that she could barely rouse herself from it’s soft, toasty depths each afternoon, even though the individual feathers would sometimes poke through the soft fabric into her soft tender flesh and cause her a lot of painful inconvenience. Her violet eyes streamed with tears and the blue eyeliner puddled onto her priceless silk pillowcases imported all the way from the Shantung Province in far Eastern China, made in a squalid windowless little shack by an arthritic Chinese woman named Pong Fu Wau with osteoporosis that made her bend almost completely at the waist, her nose touching her knees with every shaky breath. But Daryl didn’t care about that. She had more important things to think about. Like, who would she get to relieve her burning desire now that Daryl had proven his treachery. Damn his raven black locks and his smoky desire filled eyes! Then suddenly there was a knock at the door. “Damn!” she said, “I have no time for this. I’m BUSY!!!” she exclaimed.
A muffled voice came through the door, “But mistress, this is urgent! I have a message from the Viking who was once a viscount!”
“Hmmmm,” she said, “this could be interesting…” And she slithered most provocatively off the soft, downy bed and answered the door. As she opened it, she could only see his auburn flowing locks of hair with just a hint of that natural curl that women seem to find so sexy. She was afraid at first, but her eyes were saying, “You’ll do…” So she put on a facade and perked her head saucily. He sucked in his breath at her blatant tawdry beauty.
“Mistress Daryl, you … look… er… so … um … scrumptious.”
“And who, might I ask, are you?” Daryl haughtily demanded of him.
“Oh milady. My apologies. I am Lord Darryl of Coventry, Viscount of Canterbury,” he stammered.
Daryl grabbed his massive rippling forearm and pulled him into her clutches, “I looked into your eyes and saw my world,” she exclaimed, throatily.
Green sparks flew from his jade green eyes, “You saw your world, aye? Well. I’m here to sway thine world merrily if you so desire. Verily I would!!! I would cleave you in twain with my mighty ‘long sword!’ Your wish is my command!” He bent over on a courtly bow as he gaped at her twin mounds of luxury, wishing that he could lap at their very luxuriousness. Deep down in his soul he could feel the warmth, the fires burning like he had not felt in a very long time… He could feel it in his loins.
“Do you like pop-up books?” she asked.
He looked at her aghast, “What? Does it sh– I mean, yes!”
“What kind,” she asked.
Before he could answer her, there was a loud din in the hallway. “What was that?!” cried Daryl.
“I will most assuredly find out,” ground out Lord Darryl, very put out that his time with the Lady Daryl was to be cut short. As he flung the mighty solid oaken door wide open, the last thing he saw was the meaty hand holding the mace that was swinging at his elegantly patrician nose.
As the swinging mace was flying at Lord Darryl’s nose, he ran out the door proclaiming that he indeed would be back to Lady Daryl to sample her ample charms. Lady Daryl, quite frightened by what just went before her terrified violet eyes, stared at the large menacing, but quite sexy man with the mace. “What is the meaning of this, you brute,” purred Lady Daryl.
“I have come on a quest. A mission to find out what I have to do to take me to Valhalla.”
“What? I don’t understand,” she gasped through her pearly white teeth.
“I am Darl, the very virile Viking of Oslo, let me show you, my Valkyrie maiden (he didn’t know her very well),” he whispered as he reached for her and his lips touched her soft silky neck just above her swelling heaving breasts, as they spilled over her lacy ruche.
“Oh, Darl, show me your Northern region,” she moaned, clutching at the glinting golden locks of hair tumbling about his sweaty manly torso.
“If I time right now, I would milady. But we must be off!” He slung her over his brawny broad shoulders, showing off his immense Norwegian brute strength.
“You cannot take me away like this, you cad! You oaf! Unhand me now you wicked man for I shall have to scream!!!” Daryl screamed into his ear, shaped like the most delectable of seashells which she then sampled with her wet, pink tongue.
“But I will. And you will enjoy my cold Valhalla, my ice queen!” And off they went to his fierce Viking sailing ship as she kicked and screamed to no avail. The worst was yet to come…
It was cold. So cold that her teeth clattered together like fragile China teapots, the kind that is so thin that you can almost see through it, during an earthquake and her body grew achingly numb. If this was Valhalla, she was the bloody Queen of England. Damn that virile Viking! He had tossed her onto his sailing ship like so much as a sack of unwanted flour, the sort that is ground at a mill in Holland in one of those huge windmills when the wind was blowing too slowly to do much good so it ends up in that organic bread that Californians like to eat, and had virtually ignored her ever since. Her thin, gossamer pale yellow gown with the antiqued hand tatted lace dripping from her wrist and neckline was no match for the bitter arctic Norwegian air. When would they EVER get there so that he could warm her like only a man could, with his big virile Viking body? Darl’s golden mane poked into the tiny dank little chamber that he had assigned to her. By Odin, she was desirable. He could see evidence of her cold state through the thin lemon hued silk of her dress. “Lady Daryl, tie yourself down. There is a mighty storm blowing it.” He left in a great hurry to ready the ship for the Nor’easter coming quickly.
The ship tossed. The ship turned. And Daryl’s stomach tossed and it turned. In her wretched misery, she did not notice the cracking noise as the ship started to split asunder. Then… She felt cold water lapping at her feet, soaking into her tiny fawn colored kidskin slippers, craftily made at her father’s estate by Handsome Stranger, the mink haired, sapphire-eyed estate boot maker extraordinaire who had just moved to England from the Deep South of America.
Just then, Handsome Stranger appeared out of the tiny storage cabinet. Lady Daryl gasped and exclaimed, “What are you doing here, Handsome Stranger?!”
“I’ve stowed away to save you from that virile Viking! But first, I’m going to ravish you!” He grasped her by the front of her fragile hand sewn gossamer pale yellow silk gown and pulled it from her body in one quick rip, making a rending and tearing noise that filled her with desire and made her look at his manly loins which were very evident in his soaking wet breeches. She pretended to be a bit frightened at his huge stallion like size, but her desire was much heightened at the sight. He took her with such passion, such grandeur as the world had never seen. Stars were falling and the Earth was shattering in her head. Such passion. Such pleasure. Such joy. As they lay in the glowing golden hazy ember of the aftermath of their surreal experience, wondering how on Earth they could survive this sinking ship, Daryl whispered, mesmerized by his obvious charms, “Why do they call you Handsome Stranger?!
He huskily answered in his sweet deep Southern drawl that would have sent shivers down her spine if she wasn’t already so mind numbingly frozen, kind of like strawberry ice cream when it has been in a freezer set at precisely -16 degrees so that the ice cream is too hard to scoop very well, and the strawberries are like little moon rocks that might or might not chip your teeth if you aren’t really careful, “I’m named after my Daddy.”