her eyes. “It’s just not gentlemanly. I may have to tell Daddy!”
“Long as you don’t tell my wife,” he said with a snort. His large sausagey fingers struggled with the buttons of her second-to-last petticoat.
Georgia was afraid he would pop them. She closed her small hands around his. “Let me help you.”
“Ah, you’re not as innocent as you like to pretend!” His eyes gleamed. “You can’t wait to get your skirts off so you can disport yourself like some wild hussy from Savannah!”
She slapped him on the cheek—hard enough to sting. “How dare you! I am a lady and you will treat me as a lady. Do you understand?”
He grinned. “You come here,” he growled, yanking her down to his lap, smooching her neck, nibbling up to her ear.
He enjoyed playing strongman, pinning her in place with one hand. She let herself be pinned. They both knew it was playacting. The judge made the decisions in his courtroom, but in this room Georgia was the boss.
He lapped at her earlobe, her throat. She floated up out of herself and thought about the male urge to overpower. She saw it all the time, cropping up in different guises through the week. Men love to prove themselves stronger. To overcome female resistance. Nothing turns a man on like a struggle, even in make-believe. Maybe that’s a Darwin thing, an animal thing, an urge all male creatures have in common… part of the great Ant Connection? Are all males rapists in the secret part of their souls? Why else do they like it so much when they get to overcome a woman resisting?
Darwin might point out that the stronger, more dominant male reproduces more often—the satisfaction that comes with conquering the resisting female is selected into the species—but how would Darwin explain a man pretending to be strong as a pretext for a woman to humiliate him? How would you work that out in an anthill? Men are slightly more complicated than ants—but every anthill is ruled by a queen. Not a king. A queen rules the workers, soldiers, and drones. In the world there are billions of anthills, each one ruled by a tiny female dictator.
At least that’s how it looked from the perspective of the judge’s lap. Why else would the human race be 52 percent female? Women are winning, that’s why. We’re better at surviving.
In a surge of lust the judge tried to lift Georgia and carry her to the bed, but lost his strength and toppled back to the chair. Georgia spilled to the floor. “Unruly monster!” She scrambled up. “Control yourself, sir!”
“My God, you are one hot number.” He staggered to his feet and chased her around the chair, giggling like a boy. “Stop that! Come here and accept your punishment.”
“You’re not going to spank me again, Captain! I’ve been so good!”
“You little fornicatress,” he growled. “Following the army—pretending you’re a lady—it’s downright immoral!”
She wished she hadn’t noticed the glassy strand of drool dangling from the corner of his mouth. Something like that could let all the air out of an evening. You had to avert your eyes, fight off the image, and keep going.
Georgia was thankful for the blue pill. Really, it was the miracle of the age! It put hours back into her evening. What used to take two or three hours could now be wrapped up inside of forty-five minutes. But you had to be careful—it could also be a little blue hand grenade. Once you pulled the pin and set it ticking, you’d better be ready to move—
And move they did, more or less together, to the big squeaky four-poster, where the last of her petticoats came off with no help from anybody. Georgia was down to her pale peach chemise. Judge Barnett’s suspenders were hopelessly snarled at his waist.
She caught a gust of garlic as she clambered over his legs, laughing, pushing his hands away. If she undressed him all theway, it would add at least half an hour to his visit. She couldn’t help thinking of the twelve dozen figs she had to
“Long as you don’t tell my wife,” he said with a snort. His large sausagey fingers struggled with the buttons of her second-to-last petticoat.
Georgia was afraid he would pop them. She closed her small hands around his. “Let me help you.”
“Ah, you’re not as innocent as you like to pretend!” His eyes gleamed. “You can’t wait to get your skirts off so you can disport yourself like some wild hussy from Savannah!”
She slapped him on the cheek—hard enough to sting. “How dare you! I am a lady and you will treat me as a lady. Do you understand?”
He grinned. “You come here,” he growled, yanking her down to his lap, smooching her neck, nibbling up to her ear.
He enjoyed playing strongman, pinning her in place with one hand. She let herself be pinned. They both knew it was playacting. The judge made the decisions in his courtroom, but in this room Georgia was the boss.
He lapped at her earlobe, her throat. She floated up out of herself and thought about the male urge to overpower. She saw it all the time, cropping up in different guises through the week. Men love to prove themselves stronger. To overcome female resistance. Nothing turns a man on like a struggle, even in make-believe. Maybe that’s a Darwin thing, an animal thing, an urge all male creatures have in common… part of the great Ant Connection? Are all males rapists in the secret part of their souls? Why else do they like it so much when they get to overcome a woman resisting?
Darwin might point out that the stronger, more dominant male reproduces more often—the satisfaction that comes with conquering the resisting female is selected into the species—but how would Darwin explain a man pretending to be strong as a pretext for a woman to humiliate him? How would you work that out in an anthill? Men are slightly more complicated than ants—but every anthill is ruled by a queen. Not a king. A queen rules the workers, soldiers, and drones. In the world there are billions of anthills, each one ruled by a tiny female dictator.
At least that’s how it looked from the perspective of the judge’s lap. Why else would the human race be 52 percent female? Women are winning, that’s why. We’re better at surviving.
In a surge of lust the judge tried to lift Georgia and carry her to the bed, but lost his strength and toppled back to the chair. Georgia spilled to the floor. “Unruly monster!” She scrambled up. “Control yourself, sir!”
“My God, you are one hot number.” He staggered to his feet and chased her around the chair, giggling like a boy. “Stop that! Come here and accept your punishment.”
“You’re not going to spank me again, Captain! I’ve been so good!”
“You little fornicatress,” he growled. “Following the army—pretending you’re a lady—it’s downright immoral!”
She wished she hadn’t noticed the glassy strand of drool dangling from the corner of his mouth. Something like that could let all the air out of an evening. You had to avert your eyes, fight off the image, and keep going.
Georgia was thankful for the blue pill. Really, it was the miracle of the age! It put hours back into her evening. What used to take two or three hours could now be wrapped up inside of forty-five minutes. But you had to be careful—it could also be a little blue hand grenade. Once you pulled the pin and set it ticking, you’d better be ready to move—
And move they did, more or less together, to the big squeaky four-poster, where the last of her petticoats came off with no help from anybody. Georgia was down to her pale peach chemise. Judge Barnett’s suspenders were hopelessly snarled at his waist.
She caught a gust of garlic as she clambered over his legs, laughing, pushing his hands away. If she undressed him all theway, it would add at least half an hour to his visit. She couldn’t help thinking of the twelve dozen figs she had to
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