Madame Ivanja

Vanessa Pablovovitch Shachtman's page

6 posts. Alias of Limeylongears.


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Horatio, Claptrap Writer wrote:
It was an extremely dark and awfully stormy lunar cycle...

Destiny gasped deeply, breathily, loudly and suddenly, her full, red, plump, crimson, mobile, sensuous, enticing, beckoning lips parted, showing icy white ivory teeth like the snowy white tops of perfectly formed gum-mountains. The silvery, pale, delicate, twinkling, scintillating glow of the moonlight highlighted her sharp, sculpted, supermodel cheekbones and the exquisitely sloped bridge of her nose as she gazed longingly, yearningly, hopefully, melancholyly at the rugged silhouette that appeared in the open doorway...


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Miguel, a fire smouldering in his lambent eyes, turned one firm, muscular shoulder towards her, a shaft of moonlight outlining the exquisitely sculpted lines of his immaculate pecs. His gaze held her transfixed, and she was powerless to react as he drew her towards him and breathed,

"I love you,

You love me,

We're a happy family"

Then he slithered into his purple rubber dinosaur costume and prepared


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Piss off, buggerlugs.


SHUT IT!!


Bah! Your silver tongue won't work on me, Longears!


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OK, Longears, I've done as you asked and it's cost me sore. Now, you creepy demi-human bastard, give me gin! GIN! GIN!! GIIIIIINNNNN!!!!

Rose of the Revolution, for DA, as requested:

"Ha!"

Colonel Von Guffenberg smacked his riding crop against one flabby thigh and leered at his prisoner, bound tightly to a artwheel in the burnt-out, roofless barn in which he and his men were bivouacked. Her dark hair, released from the steel helmet under which it had been confined, flowed in a cascade of inky velvet around her slender shoulders and her brown eyes flashed defiance at the porcine Baltic German, an officer in the White armies fighting the revolutionary forces in post WW1 Russia. The Colonel continued. "You are not so saucy now, eh? Of all things - a woman coming up against a German officer and expecting to come out victorious! Well, my little minx, my Freikorps and I will soon show you who's master!"

"Pig!" Spat Commander Principiva Principovich. "You would never have captured me if it wasn't for that fake surrender! So much for the honour of the Von Guffenbergs!"

Her full, sensuous lips curled in contempt, and the colonel's tiny, watery blue eyes narrowed. He grunted furiously:

"Bolshevik harpy! I shall enjoy taming you!"

He reached out, tearing away Principovich's battledress to reveal the soft, womanly curves beneath. She spat in his eye, and howling with rage, he bent back his arms to lash her across the face with his riding crop - then CRASH!

The door burst open, and sillhouetted in the cold, steppe morning light stood a burly, shaggy figure, the crimson star of the Red Army blazing from his breast! "Drop that whip or it will be the worse for you, counter-revolutionary dungbeetle!" he roared, and Von Guffenberg, fear-spawned sweat bedewing his pasty jowls, screamed "Guards - seize him!"

The White guards surged forward, only to realise that this was no academy-spawned paper soldier, but a Titan of the revolution, who picked them up and tossed them about as if they were the parcels of mail he had dealt with while working on the Norvyrograd to Smelepilkhi railway! Von Guffenberg pulled out his pistol with a shaky hand and fired wildly, but to no avail - his decadent, enervated physique could not stand up to the rigours of a real battle and the bullets went wide.

The guards were down - the Colonel, cursing foully in his native tongue, futilely pulled the trigger on an empty chamber, his riding britches growing damp and warm. With an exclamation of disgust and contempt, the newcomer drew his arm back and rocketed a hefty proletarian fist into the Teuton's jaw, sending him spiralling to the ground.

Principiva surveyed the figure in front of her, sweat glazed, unkempt and covered with the scars of battle. Her pulse began to race and she started breathing faster, her mind whirling. With an effort, she controlled the mad rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her and spoke.

"Dudel Dudelovitch", she stammered. "Comrade", he replied. She flushed, heat creeping over her despite the chill as his gaze swept over her statuesque form, its lambent eroticism heightened by the ripped battledress and the tight bonds that constrained her. Anger and resentment flared up within her at his untamed, unreconstructed, goatish maleness - what are we fighting for, if not to realise our entire selves as opposed to merely being playthings, drudges and lust puppets? - but
beneath the rage, glowing, growing, threatening to burst into flames at any moment -

Desire.

He started to walk towards her; she could not repress a gasp of... wanting... as that familiar face grew closer, his eyes hot with the fires of lust and his scent, his shape, his aura of pure masculinity sending an irresistable message to her loins - come! He reached out a hand, grasping her shoulder in a grip that was simultaneously rough and tender, then tore away the remaining shreds of clothing that adorned her body. He seized her around the waist with and crushed her lips to his, and she could not - would not - resist.

The revolution could wait - for the moment, the world outside their two entwined bodies did not exist. He was his, he was hers, and that was all that mattered! Lust had made a bonfire of the universe, and all they could do was watch it burn!