Writing Exercise: History Is Written

[StillStunned]

It's been a while, so here's another Writing Exercise!

This time the theme is "Writing History". Write a snippet from a scene from the history books. Actual history? Who cares, as long as it's evocative! Nell Gwyn sneaks out of King Charles's bedchamber. The Great Siege of Vienna is lifted and the first croissant is baked. Cleopatra comes before Caesar. Neil Armstrong returns home to his wife. The Empress Theodora tells her husband of her life as a dancing girl in Constantinople's brothels. Anything you read about, heard about, saw on the History Channel, learned in a museum, whatever.

The usual rules apply. It only has to be a snippet. No introduction needed, no conclusion. In medias res is fine, but you can begin in medias mediae if you want. Just write the interesting bit. Keep it short: no more than 250-350 words. Don't write anything that wouldn't get published on the story side: nothing underage, no nastiness. Avoid Catherine the Great entertaining a horse.

Have fun!

 

[StillStunned]

She wasn’t sure whether it was the sun that woke her, or Paris rising from the bed. Their bed. Helena wasn’t used to calling it that yet, although they’d been sharing it for the turning of a full moon and more.

Rolling over, feeling the soft sheets slide across her skin, she blinked against the bright light attacking the leather curtains covering the window. “Come back.” She tried to sound seductive, but to her own ears it sounded more like a plea.

Paris paused, his robe still open around him. Helena let her eyes linger on his form: young, lithe, bursting with energy. The body of a hero.

His silence drew her eyes up to his face. Normally boyish and carefree, now it bore a troubled frown. It didn’t suit him, she decided.

“A messenger was just here. News from the watchtowers along the shore.”

The hesitancy in his tone made her sit up. It was even more out of place than his worried look. “What is it?”

He paused, then discarded his robe and reached for his kilt. “A fleet.”

“Traders?” she asked, beckoning him over. His fingers knew how to elicit delightful pleasure from every inch of her body, but they were clumsy with the leather clasps.

“Unlikely.”

She didn’t reply. No reply was necessary: she’d known the answer before she asked the question.

“My husband then?”

He stepped back, running those slender hands of his over the material of his kilt. “It would seem so. With some friends.”

Outside she could hear voices shouting, sandalled feet running, the heavy note of a horn. She rose from the bed – their bed – and retrieved his sword and helm while he drew on his shirt. “How many friends?”

“The messenger didn’t say.” He grinned, that boyish grin that made her smile and want to seize him and drag him down onto their bed and wrap herself around him. “But we have friends too. We’ll send him back to Sparta. A week from now you’ll be watching your husband’s ship limp off into the sunset.”

 

[AG31]

no nastiness.

Why? And what qualifies?

 

[StillStunned]

Why? And what qualifies?

The usual Lit rules: no snuff, no outright rape, no sexualised violence.

 

[TheLobster]

It was not wise. It was not prudent. At times, it could've been a little dangerous, too. But if there was some respite to be had — a relief from his doldrums, of deathly boring receptions and dinners — then there was only one place where he could find it.

Steerage.

"Where are you leading me, sir?" fluttered the young and a little tipsy blond vixen. Her clothes were plain and quite baggy, but an avowed connoisseur of female charms like him could easily discern the enticing swells of her breasts and buttocks.

"Down to the cargo hold," he replied. "Car section."

"Oh?" she yipped. "But... should we?"

"Of course not," his reply came with a grin, "which is precisely why we will."

He allowed himself a chuckle, wondering what his father would say. Such conduct was surely unbecoming of his highborn, noble status. Indeed, if his grandmother were to somehow learn about these nighttime escapades, he wasn't certain that even the strongest smelling salts would revive her.

But the young Master William, heir to an esteemed aristocratic family from southern England, was both too brash and too handsome not to allow himself these exciting indulgences.

"Ooo-ooo-ooh... Sir!" The girl now stuttered breathlessly, arms bracing against the steering wheel as she felt the sudden, then repeated intrusion. "This is — Oh Lord Almighty! I've never had anything... so big in there!"

"I regret to inform you that I'm only halfway in," he bragged, gripping her hips firmly as he shuffled around the backseat of the cramped Model T. "You may want to mete out your invocations to our Father who art in heaven, for this is just —"

His flowery boast was then cut off, and the whole vehicle violently shook and trembled. A few others around it were flown out of their harnesses, sliding off of the ramps and ramming into each other with loud, metallic clanks.

"Lord save us! What was that?"

"I... I suppose we must have hit something," he said as he stumbled back to his knees, displeased with the rude interruption. "Floating ice, most likely."

"Ice!... Sir, will we be alright?"

He smirked. "Of course we will, baby. My farther says this ship is unsinkable."

 

[SimonDoom]

Somewhere in the Aegean sea, long, long ago, on a ship sailing East from Sparta, home to Troy:

Hector stared down at his brother Paris, livid and aghast.

"You fucking did what?"

"I couldn't help it, Hector," Paris said, stammering and averting his eyes. "She was too beautiful. And her charms . . . no man could resist them. Even you."

Hector resisted the urge to punch Paris in the face, or throw him overboard.

"Let me get this straight. You kidnapped Meneleus's wife, and now she's on our ship on the way back to Troy. Correct?"

Paris sketched circles on the wooden deck with the toe of his foot, still averting his eyes from Hector's fierce gaze.

"It wasn't a kidnapping. She loves me. She's coming voluntarily."

This idiot brother, Hector thought. He, Hector, was the older one and the mighty warrior who won all the battles. But somehow Paris won all the girls. His boyish looks and charm. That charm wouldn't help Troy now.

"It doesn't fucking matter, Paris. Meneleus will be a mad dog. All of Greece will be coming after us, all because of this . . . Helen."

"Somebody mention me?" A woman with long hair wrapped in white and gold cloth suddenly appeared on the deck next to them. Hector had to admit to himself that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

"My brother says you have charms," Hector said. "It doesn't matter. We have to send you back."

Helen smiled into Hector's eyes, and Hector's head grew woozy. "Your brother is right, Prince Hector. I do have charms. You have no idea. But I could show you."

A hand reached out, to the hem of his leather skirt. Helen sank to her knees.

"Hey, wait a minute," Paris said. "You said you love ME!"

"This isn't a good time to be exclusive, lover," Helen said.

Hector decided that going back to Sparta wasn't such a good idea after all.

 

[Bamagan]

Jocasta squirmed and tried to concentrate on the scenery flashing by their fast-moving chariot, but it was no use. The vehicle was so crowded that, Queen though she was, she'd been forced to sit in the lap of Oedipus, and that had led her to a disquieting discovery. She could feel the younger man's tumescent shaft jabbing against her loins with every bounce and jostle of the rough road, and it was all she could do not to moan lustfully each time. Biting her lip, she turned her head just enough to get a glimpse of his face as she adjusted her peplos, removing one of the thin layers of cloth that was keeping their shared ride innocent. Bearing a small grin, Oedipus made a subtle adjustment of his own, abruptly filling Jocasta's aching emptiness with rigid destiny.

Sorry, I couldn't resist!
*Edited to make the joke originally intended, because Orpheus was a totally different dude. Whoops!

 

[StillStunned]

Sorry, I couldn't resist!

At least you didn't go down the obvious route and out her in the chariot with Oedipus.

 

[Bamagan]

At least you didn't go down the obvious route and out her in the chariot with Oedipus.

Gah! I screwed up. Corrected!

 

[Bazzle]

"Harold, you have not got time for this."

"I have just defeated Edwin and Morcar. William can wait."

"You do not have time to chase her around."

"Please give me as king my ability to have some fun, some skirt?"

"William has landed with seven thousand men in Pevensey."

"Please give me more time."

"Sir, you we need to march south."

"I am planning on going south."

"Of the country sir."

"But my cock!"

"As you wish."

The reason he was defeated in Hastings was that he was too busy having sex to march South?

 

[mrs_mackenzie]

In the reflected candlelight of the Hall of Mirrors, she could have been one of the sculptures, a classical beauty in classical dress. Her loose white tunic cascaded around her, wreathing her form and obscuring her figure as she moved and danced, the petite bow in her hands merely a token to suggest Diana. Despite her mask, there could be no doubt whose body lay beneath the tunic, deliberately alluring and inflaming.

“There’s a woman whose bedroom door would always be open,” one of the courtiers said to the King, whispering so that they wouldn’t be overheard, their conversation masked just as their faces were by the rustle of yew branches.

“Speak not ill of the Queen,” King Louis responded, but it was a mechanical response, designed to protect his reputation rather than chastise.

Later, in the bright February moonlight, the tunic hid nothing, and the King’s eyes feasted on the immaculately stiff nipples which lay beneath, which he needed only to reach out his royal hand to claim.

“But we are both married,” she protested, the smile she gave him suggesting that this was no barrier.

“You shall be my mistress,” he told her, his fingertips brushing a fold of her sleeve.

“Then it must be made official,” she retorted, dancing another step out of reach. He knew her game, but he had no qualms about giving her what she wanted. A small price to pay for what she could give him in return.

“Before the ball is over, I will declare my affection for you, Jeanne-Antoinette,” he breathed into her ear, pressing her into the balustrade. “But now you must show your affection to me.”

“Here?” she asked, her marble complexion finally broken by a flush.

“Did Diana not make love to nature? We are merely honouring the gods,” he said, blood rushing through him as her dark eyes met his. She dropped to her knees, fingers finding his hardness, her tunic catching a breath of Versailles air.

 

[SinclairGroupLLP]

The hardest part about playing hard to get is knowing when to let the hunter catch you.

He had been chasing me for months, and I had steadfastly refused his advances. But I knew that if I didn't keep him interested, he'd find some other woman to chase. Henry was a hunter. He loved the chase almost as much as he loved the catching. It was time for me to take this game to the next level, if I was going to stay in the hunt.

"Tom, I beg of you, say nothing, hear nothing and do nothing," I told the guard standing before Henry's chambers. I pressed a solid gold coin into his hand, which he took. It was warm, as I'd been palming it for half an hour's worth of indecision before making my way to Henry's chambers.

"Mum's the word, milady. Just remember me when you come into your crown," he said, winking. Thank God for ambitious, poor men.

Tom pulled the door open, and I slipped in. The King's chambers were large, well appointed, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and wine. In the center of the room was a massive four poster bed, big enough for an average man and his horse, which meant it was just large enough to fit one Henry Tudor.

The King was snoring as I stole up the side of the bed. He'd thrown back the bedsheets, and his simple white sleeping gown had ridden up over his knees. I slowly lifted it further, up past his thighs and then up to his stomach. His flaccid cock lay before me. I summoned up my courage and all of the things I'd learned from my long time living in France and slowly took his member into my mouth.

I felt him stir beneath me, and soon, thanks to my skills, his cock had risen fully, and I began to lick and suck on the end of it. Thank God Kings bathe more often that regular folk do, I thought. He actually tasted good, and the manly scent of his nether parts filled my nostrils and started my own heart fluttering.

"What is happen--" he said, waking and rising on both elbows. His bearded face appeared above the white of his dressing gown, and he looked down at me. "Anne? What are you--"

"Hush, my lord," I told him. "Let me show you how they love in France," I told him. I winked at him and took his cock back into my mouth. He groaned, and I continued.

I fellated the king for another three or four minutes, but no Englishman could have lasted much longer under my expert ministrations, especially not as virile a man as Henry, the Eighth of his name, by the Grace of God, King of England, France and Lord of Ireland. I could feel him stiffening, and soon my mouth flooded with his seed. I swallowed it all, just as my tutor had taught me.

I looked up at him and smiled. He was panting. It was time for me to make my escape.

"Would your Spanish bitch have ever done something like this for you, my King? Think on that," I told him.

And in a flash, I was up and out of his chambers.

Sometimes, even when you're playing hard to get, you've got to give the prey a little taste.

 

[onehitwanda]

Ming-Yue paused in the darkness, staring up the seven hundred steps that led to the Dragon Throne. Torches and charcoal braziers still lit the Court of Heaven, but all but Mingze and Jiahao were asleep or elsewhere.

It had taken her ages, but she'd finally won them around. And to be fair, both had become far more willing when she'd tugged at the collar of her ruqun to expose the curve of her pale breast.

She scampered forward, bare toes flashing out beneath the scarlet hem of her chang.

She knew it was death if she was caught here, but she was young, and she felt immortal, and she didn't care.

Mingze and Jiahao had been watching her for months, now. In the dark, cold mornings, alone on her pallet, she'd discovered the joy of pleasuring herself. She'd heard enough from the other women to know about men, and she'd spoken to the court apothecary and taken the necessary precautions that the old man's wife had recommended.

Now, she meant to take her pleasure.

Mingze and Jaihao were standing on the edge of a circle of light cast by a brazier. Both wore their armour as befitted their stations, both carried the Yanmaodao of Imperial swordsmen. And both had other swords that Ming-Yue meant to sheath in her.

Mingzhe saw her first. He elbowed Jiahao in the ribs and pointed. Ming-Yue put a finger to her lips and moved swiftly closer.

"Come," she whispered, when she closed. She stood on her toes to kiss Mingze, then did the same to Jiahao. Both were eager, both pawed at her. She laughed softly, danced back, and turned. She let her ru fall from her shoulders and undid the ties that bound her chang above her hips. She gathered both, shot a glance over her shoulder, and climbed the stairs to the throne.

She set her rump down on the duck-feather cushion that warmed the Son of Heaven's ample arse, and slowly opened her legs for the hard rod that Mingzhe fumbled out of his trousers. He put himself to her and thrust; she whimpered and adjusted herself, fumbling for Jiahao's thick, pulsing member before bending to take it into her mouth.

Silence, panting, liquid sounds as she was filled. Mingze finished first, groaning, empting himself deep in her. Jiahao followed soon after; she let him splash his milky seed on her neck and breasts.

They fumbled themselves away and shared smirks with one another.

"Come," said Jiahao. "We will be seen."

"Soon," she whispered. "Who knows when I will next get to wear a pearl necklace on the Dragon Throne?"

I am so sorry

 

[APilgrimSquare]

“Tell my cousin the lord Zabbadin his servant Kadash sends this message:”

“I wish the gods Marduk, Shamash, and Ea keep you long in good health and prosperity. I have received your messenger, Innunu, and fed him with what bread I could, regretting that I could not send you more of this bread in order to offset my debts to you. The harvest was meager this year, and I have no bread or grain to spare. I have instead sent my daughter, Kullaa, whose hips are wide and whose fertile soils are yet unplowed. May she bear you ripe fruit, if it please you, and let us consider the debts paid.”

Zabbadin handed the clay tablet back to Innunu and examined Kadash’s gift. The girl looked healthy enough, perhaps 20 years old and enticingly wrapped in thin linen cloths, and Zabbadin considered whether her plump cheeks and pillowy rump were a sign his new wife’s cousin, Kadash, was holding out on him. Her body appeared to be well-fed.

“So,” Zabbadin said, “your father has sent you to settle his debts. And how do you propose to do that, hmm? By spreading your legs, yes, but then eating more of my food?”

Kullaa said nothing, turning her face and shrugging her shoulders. Zabbadin thumped his cane on the mud brick floors of his stately home. The girl jumped, her eyes snapping to his sandaled feet.

“Are you mute, girl? Speak!”

Kullaa’s lip trembled, and at last she spoke, as if from memory.

“I am my lord’s to do with as he pleases,” she said, her voice dripping with insubordination. “I am the fifth-born daughter of my father, the noble Kadash, and I am well-trained in dancing, bead-making and… conversation.”

“Conversation. Yes. We shall see,” Zabbadin said, his eyes devouring second cousin’s prodigious backside. “Innunu! Bathe the girl and scent her body with palm oil. Then have her wait for me in the pleasure den. I am in the mood for just such a conversation.”

Innunu led Kullaa out. She grasped the short bronze blade beneath the linens, feeling its subtle heft, and remembered her instructions.

 

[MillieDynamite]

I'm working on a story set in the Old West that has roots in real history.

He wore a duster tucked behind the gun on his hip on the right side and held a double-barrel shotgun in his left hand. This stranger was neither tall nor short but somewhere in between. Perhaps five eight or five nine in his sock and nearer to five ten or eleven in boots. There was something off about the lean stranger that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Something was wrong. Perchance with his walk, how he carried himself, or his build. Yes, his hips were too wide, shoulders too narrow, and there was something but about his hairless face. Clean-shaven was different enough out west, but something softer about his face than there should be. No one but me seemed to notice anything wrong.

“Slim,” one man hollered out, “how was the run today?”

“Didn’t have anything worth the thieving. All together, like a lake on a windless day, smooth other than the ride. Ole Sam’s driving ‘bout jousted my liver out-a my body.” Everyone laughed and agreed if there was a pothole or rock, old Samuel Grivey would hit it. He laid the ten gage on the bar.

“Beer.”

The barkeep filled a mug and put it before him. He took the mug with the handle, held his little pinky out like a true gentleman, and sipped some beer. It came over me in a brilliant flash of light.

This feller, Slim wasn’t no man a’tall. She was a woman passing herself off as a man. Her hands were callused, and her knuckles had the look of having been used on a face not too long back. Her face, I mean his face, showed a nick her, a bigger scar thar, a missing spot of hair in an eyebrow.

 

[yowser]

(Left hand on Bible, right hand upraised: I started writing this draft before Simon posted his tale...)

Odysseus and the two men next to him all inhaled at the same time when the great wooden horse lurched to a halt.

They had worked several weeks upon it, the construction exceedingly complex. The frantic timeline and the limited tools and wood available here on the miserable Anatolian outback had made for grave difficulties. Yet the form was exemplary, a suitable replica of the finest Aegean horses.

Neoptolemus, sour as ever, had predicted failure, although he had boarded the inside of the horse himself, along with the others, the scabbard of his ξίφος clattering on his left thigh as he ascended.

Crowded, dark and sweaty inside, the abrupt stop brought an unearthly silence amongst the hoplites.

Menelaus, who had been stationed at the great horse’s neck, at the only narrow viewpoint, swung down next to Odysseus.

‘They've done it. Brought the δουράτεος ἵππος into their citadel, dead centre in the market square.’

‘It won't be dark for at least two hours,’ Menelaus’ words were hurried, urgent. ‘And we'll need to wait after that. How do you suggest we spend the time?’

‘This foray may lead us into immortality, the name of this place surely applied, with honour, to future items we can scarcely imagine.’ The voice of Odysseus was quiet but determined.

Odysseus looked around at the warriors, hard shoulders and well bunched legs amongst them all. He inhaled the humid, anxious air of strong men, tense and expectant before battle.

‘Perhaps some practice impalement might be in order?’

Diomedes' hips twitched involuntarily.

‘But your shins are bare, Diomedes. You're exceedingly vulnerable, not to say enticing. No protection?’

Odysseus loosened his leather girdle, withdrawing his scabbard.

‘Shouldn't we save our strength?’ ventured Thrasymedes.

‘The stakes are too high. Think you we be but a collection of urns, Thrasymedes? Mere Peloponnesian containers?’

‘Those shins.’ Odysseus licked his lips. ‘Diomedes, later tonight when we make our move on the town, you will need to be aggreaved.’

 

[StillStunned]

(Left hand on Bible, right hand upraised: I started writing this draft before Simon posted his tale...)

Three stories of Troy so far. Proof that the story endures.

My draft follow-up to One Orgasm At A Time 01 is also set inside the Trojan horse. But with Dolly being mistaken for Aphrodite.

 

[shelleycat1]

The hall was lit by a myriad candles for the evening, so the light was yellow and the soft glow showed the moving flesh clearly enough. The twins had said the emotional speech where they realised; that they were found after mourning the loss and death of each other; now they were copulating lustily on the rush floor. The sea captain was tugging on his cock gently, reviving his manhood after fucking the boy. He wasn't getting hard quickly but the audience of lawyers and pupils didn't mind and were encouraging the whole cast.

I was watching, sitting next to the playwright, in my silks. I held out my mug for refill by an apprentice. The 'duke' and 'countess' were sitting by us at the table, the countess with her breasts still out, and she looked across at me with a question in her eyes.

"Not now, not yet." said the man by me. "You need to be fucking the pair next. Olivier, you take the boy and you, Count Orsino, the girl. Then you do the marriage scene.

The blindfolded man in the yellow stockings and garters was still kneeling to one side.

"What about him?" I asked.

"He is humbled again in the last scene, and then says he'll be revenged on the lot of 'em."

I turned to the man beside me, "Will, this must be toned down somewhat, but I approve it. How about 'Twelfth Night' for a title meet for this season?"

"Of course, my Lord Chancellor; you as the censor have the final word. It shall be as you like it." said William.

 

[shelleycat1]

I scribbled the above after seeing the play at Stratford-on-Avon last night.

 

[ShelbyDawn57]

Sorry to bring a downer to the party...

“Emma, that was disgusting.” Abner laughed as collapsed next to her.

“I’m just glad we stopped by the kitchen to get the butter. It would have hurt if we hadn’t. And admit it, you liked how tight it was. I wish we’d tried it sooner. I wish we’d tried so many things sooner.”

“It was nice and tight. It reminded me of our first time together out in your father’s barn. I thought for sure he was going to catch us.”

“I guess it’s good you asked for my hand when you did then.” Emma pulled her husband’s lips to hers, kissing him with a passion they’d both thought long gone.

Abner sighed a melancholy sigh as their lips parted; the gray of her hair accenting the memories of all the years they had shared.

“There is one last thing I’d like to try, if you’re game.” A wry smile crossed his face.

“Oh, Abner.” She chuckled. “Are you sure? You’re still inside me.”

“Quite sure, my love. Besides. I just kissed you passionately and I do believe some of me went in there as well.”

“You rogue.” She smiled and rolled onto her back. Spreading herself, giving him access to her most private parts. Her soft moans wafted through the cabin as his oral ministrations sent shivers and chills of soft pleasure rippling through her loins.

Only the rush of the rising water and the crash of their cabin door challenged her orgasm.

“I’ve never loved you more than in this moment.” His voice was soft and tender as he nestled next to her.

“Nor I you.” A tear crossed her cheek as the great, unsinkable ship broke in two.

 

[StillStunned]

Sorry to bring a downer to the party...

Going down...

 

[SinclairGroupLLP]

I should have written a Lusitania story, lol. The poor Lucy always gets forgotten.

 

[MillieDynamite]

Or the Hindenburg: "Oh, the humanity."

I should have written a Lusitania story, lol. The poor Lucy always gets forgotten.

 

[SinclairGroupLLP]

Or the Hindenburg: "Oh, the humanity."

Now that's a good one.

"As the gondola fell from the sky, I couldn't help but notice that the color of the flames above me looked just like the red hues in my mistress's wig...."

 

[MillieDynamite]

Looking through the periscope at the Lusitania, the captain said, "Going, going, gone. Down periscope, break out the beer; tonight, we celebrate."

Now that's a good one.

"As the gondola fell from the sky, I couldn't help but notice that the color of the flames above me looked just like the red hues in my mistress's wig...."