Thursday, October 8, 2015

Steel Dog-24

How She Won

The pasture was vividly, impossibly green, and despite a hundred sheep chewing at the grass, there wasn’t so much as one pile of shit disturbing the perfection.  And She sat in the middle of the pasture, knees bent, feet beneath the unseen ass.  The daughter of God was smiling, the expression calm and untroubled and undeniably wise.  With eyes and with senses beyond sight, everything was visible to Her.  She watched the Roman world.  She saw Her death and the busy awful centuries to follow.  And of course She couldn’t stop gazing at the face of her Father--that pitiless and relentless and quite impossible parent.  Yet with all of that to watch, She still managed to notice Quentin standing among the sheep.

In an unborn language, she said, “Come here, ram.”

Quentin did nothing.

She said, “I want you, ram,” while feminine hands grasped her robe by the hem, pulling her only clothing past the knees and over the pretty head.  Then a useful burst of wind carried the garment into the air, spinning it once before it landed in his hands.  Quentin smelled the frank musky stink from between the legs and dropped the robe onto the clean grass and slowly walked towards Her, one hand patiently stroking his hard cock.

The daughter of God was smiling at him.

Smiling only the dreamer.

Saying nothing, She laid back on the greenness, parting Her legs so that the vulva shone pink and wet under God’s sun.

And this was how She won, thought Quentin.  She conquered Rome because She died young and died lovely, and because inside their heads, lonely Latin boys secretly fucked the prophet.

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