Chapter 2

The Duke raised his right hand in a lazy gesture that all of the royal guard seemed to fixate on—as if waiting for some signal.

“I’ve changed my mind,” the Duke said. “You die now. Then we gangbang your bitch.” The Duke dropped his hand and the royal guard sprang toward the warrior.

“She’s not a piece of meat, boys.” The warrior gritted her teeth.

And by the time Liz Phair’s vocals joined in with the guitar sounds emanating from the Wurlitzer’s speakers, the first head had been separated by the warrior woman and her mighty broadsword—the spray of red making the marble floor slick and treacherous.

The bulky men of the royal guard were forced to slow their advance or risk losing their footing. They should have taken the opportunity to retreat instead.

The warrior leaped forward, and using the fallen guard’s lifeless chest as a springboard, propelled herself into the air. Once airborne, time seemed to slow as a single slash sent three more guards sprawling under her sword—their bodies oozing the last bits of life before ever hitting the floor.

Two more of the royal guard made the mistake of standing two close together and were simultaneously skewered and dropped to join the lifeless heap.

The muddy riffing of the guitar and the powerful vocals of the chorus rang through the air, resonating around the scene of death that played out in the Duke’s hall. A beautifully choreographed spin, and a kick—followed by a slash, a parry and a thrust—was all it took to have the remaining three shaking their heads and tallying the scant minutes that lay left in the balance of their lives.

They decided to redouble their efforts.

While this regrouping was taking place, and the remaining trio of royal guards advanced on the warrior, her girlfriend had taken a length of chain in her hands and wrapped it around the Duke’s neck. The warrior smiled as her girlfriend made a valiant effort to choke the life out of the foul little man.

“See what happens when you fuck with date night, jackass,” the Native American woman said, echoing the words of her warrior girlfriend. Still straining on the chain, she lifted her head to address her girlfriend. “How you doin’ over there, honey?”

“Good, and you?” said the warrior.

One of the royal guard had pulled a dagger from his belt and was now brandishing it menacingly in the direction of the warrior woman’s face.

“Not bad, baby.” The native woman put her knee against the Duke’s back and grunted as she took any remaining slack out of the chain. “You think of any place you’d like to eat tonight?”

“Anywhere, as long as it’s not at your parent’s house again.” The warrior woman spun to block a dagger thrust with a chop of her sword. The dagger clattered over the floor while she continued conversing, unfazed by the noise. “You know I love them to death, but your father tells the worst jokes I’ve ever heard. I really don’t know how you and your mom put up with it.”

The warrior stole a quick look at her girlfriend, who seemed to be holding her own against the Duke, his face a deep shade of crimson as he struggled to breathe under the chain.

“I’m okay with that, but Mom’s really gonna miss seeing you.”

For a split-second, the warrior woman fell prey to contemplating a fate worse than death—the frowning face of her future mother-in-law. And in that moment of distraction, one of the three remaining men of the royal guard unsheathed his dagger. But being a more cunning members of the Duke’s royal mob, he did not turn it on the warrior woman, but instead ran over to hold it to the throat of her girlfriend.

As the scene played out, the song ended and the Jukebox fell silent. For a moment, the Duke’s hall was deathly still. Then the two men flanking the warrior woman swiftly relieved her of the broadsword, while a press of the dagger held by the third man caused the Native American woman to relax her grip on the chain around the Duke’s throat.

The Duke stood up, dusted his pants, and put his hands together in a slow applause. “Bravo,” he said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you fight. I dare say your technique has improved.”

The warrior woman huffed and struggled against her captors, but they held her fast.

“Come work for me again,” said the Duke. “I can always use someone with your skills. It seems such a shame to waste all that talent by having you killed.”

The warrior woman spat on the floor.

“Of course, I’ll have to keep your girlfriend.” The Duke slid the back of his hand over the Native American woman’s cheek as she tried to pull away. “But I’m sure I can keep her occupied.”

The Duke extended two fingers and pressed them roughly into the Native American woman’s mouth, as if to illustrate the plans he had for her. The warrior woman looked on in horror as his meaning set in, but then smiled as her girlfriend chomped down and the Duke cried out, shaking his bloody fingers loose.

“You shouldn’t fuck with date night,” the warrior woman reminded him.

The Duke responded to the taunt by slapping the warrior’s girlfriend hard across the cheek, sending her chain rattling and her body sprawling in a heap on the floor.

Recovering quickly, the native woman was soon sitting up again and casting an angry glare at the Duke. But the warrior woman had already seized upon the chance afforded by the split-second distraction of the guard who had once held the dagger to her girlfriend’s throat.

The warrior woman ducked out of the grip of her captors and sent their heads colliding with one another in a sickening crack of skulls that echoed throughout the Duke’s hall.

In a blur of motion she cartwheeled herself to the throne, swept her feet under the guard, relieving him of his dagger. He collapsed in a gurgling heap as the warrior drew the stolen blade swiftly across his throat.

With only the Duke remaining, she turned on him next and pressed the edge of the still dripping dagger to his throat. Then, as a final insult, she picked up the Duke’s cup of coffee, still steaming even after the brief skirmish, and brought it to her lips.

After taking a tentative sip, the warrior woman made a sour face and expelled the remainder the bitter liquid in a coffee-colored cloud of spray. “This stuff tastes like shit,” she said.

The Duke lay with his back pressed against his throne, trying, but not succeeding in putting some distance between himself and the warrior’s blade.

“Now here’s what we’re gonna do, Dark Roast Dipshit,” she said. “I’m kind of in a rush since it’s date night and all. So I’m gonna let you live … for now.”

The warrior woman turned her gaze to the pack of snarling grey wolves that had come forward once again to fill the hall. “My friends will be keeping an eye on you in case you get any bright ideas.”

No sooner had the admonishment crossed her lips, than the California condor came swooping in to pick up the discarded broadsword in its mighty talons and delivered it to the warrior where she stood.

“I’m leaving with my girlfriend,” she said. “If I even think you’re trying to follow us, you die. Capisce?”

The warrior woman then raised her sword high above her head while the Duke cowered in fear. It was not until it came down that he realized it was not aimed at him, but rather at the chain securing the Native American woman to his throne.

“Ta–ta,” the warrior said, taking her girlfriend’s hand and turning to go. The pair paused briefly to scratch One-Eye behind the ears on their way out.

Back at her cabin and sitting at the kitchen table, the warrior woman stretched and patted her stomach. “You know when I asked you to come to my place for dinner, I wasn’t expecting you to cook for me.”

Her girlfriend responded with a smile and a loosening of the belt holding the oilskin duster tight around her waist—the only clothing that she had worn since her escape. The heavy iron collar was still fixed to her neck.

“You ready for me to take that thing off?” the warrior woman asked.

“What? This?” In one smooth motion, the Native American woman stood up, slipped out of the duster and left it as a puddle on the floor. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“I meant the chains, baby.”

“I know.” The native woman straddled her girlfriend’s lap and weaved her fingers into her hair.

“Hold still honey, I’ve got a knife.” The warrior woman spun the table knife in her hand and inserted it into the slot that was made for a key. Fortunately it was not a very sophisticated locking mechanism and the iron collar sprang open with ease.

The two women gazed into each others eyes and grinned.

“Date night,” they both sighed.

“I know,” said the warrior.

It was the Native American woman who made the first move. She had the advantage of her fingers already in her lover’s hair, and having shed the oilskin duster there was nothing between her body and her lover’s hands.

She pulled the warrior closer for a long, lingering kiss followed by a quick swipe of her tongue. Soon the two were a furious tangle of limbs searching for purchase while they rose as one from the kitchen chair.

“I’ve been waiting so long for this,” the warrior woman heaved.

“Shut up.” The native woman grinned.

“Shut up?” The warrior cocked her head to one side.

“Shut up and get to work.” The Native American woman encircled the warrior’s wrist with fingers and thumb, pulling it over so that the warrior woman’s palm was pressed tightly against her nether lips.

The warrior smiled. “You’re wet.”

“Being rescued by you has that effect on me.” The native woman attacked her lover’s mouth and ground against her hand as she went to work on any buttons that stood between her and the warrior’s flesh.

Soon the native woman found herself flat on her back, being lifted onto the kitchen table. She locked her legs locked around her lover’s hips in an effort to not tumble.

“Oh, I think I like date night,” the warrior said.

And with that, the warrior woman plunged two fingers deep into her girlfriend, who spread her thighs wide and let out a little moan in response.

“We should really make this a regular thing.” The warrior smiled as she watched the contortions of pleasure passing over her girlfriend’s face. No words were spoken by the Native American woman, with only a long breathy sigh crossing her lips conveying her enjoyment of the moment.

“Though I could do without the kidnapping and the killing,” the warrior continued, as her girlfriend’s sigh turned to a soft moaning—her ever growing expression of appreciation.

The warrior gazed down at her girlfriend’s flushed and heaving chest. She rolled a perky pink nipple between her thumb and fore finger while the woman beneath her arched her back in encouragement. The warrior decided she was plenty ready, pulled her fingers free, and dropped to her knees.

The Native American woman’s smooth mound was moist and swollen as she lay across the kitchen table pitching her hips forward, exposing herself fully. In her present state of arousal, it seemed that verbal language had failed her, and this was all she could manage in the way of expressing her urgent need.

The warrior woman grinned, puckered her lips, and kissed her girlfriend’s glistening folds. She heard a long low moan in response. “I really like date night,” she said, and then extended her tongue to take a long, slow lick. The native woman under her shuddered.

Somewhere in the distance, the lone voice of Steven Tyler, accompanied by Joe Perry on guitar, started in on the first few bars of the rock ballad ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’. The ancestors had truly outdone themselves in their blessing of the union between the warrior woman and her girlfriend, and the warrior silently thanked them for their serenade before plunging her tongue deep into her girlfriend’s tangy wetness.

“Oh, I love date night,” cried the Native American woman as she shuddered in ecstasy.

The warrior lost herself in the happiness that came from being so close to this woman she loved, and giving her the pleasure that she craved. She traced her fingertips over the woman’s quivering hips and taut stomach while she buried her face in warm, slippery wetness.

And after the hours of their lovemaking were punctuated by a final shriek of ecstasy that nearly rattled the window panes, the couple retired to the more comfortable confines of the warrior woman’s bedroom.

“I love you,” said the Native American woman as she crawled up to lay her head on her lover’s chest. “I’m so glad we finally got to have our date night.”

“Me too, baby.” The warrior tucked a finger under the Native American woman’s long silky hair and brushed it aside. “I love date night.” She kissed her girlfriend’s lips. “And I love you.”

The two women stayed wrapped in each others arms, content to stay that way until the dawn, as the boys from Aerosmith came back from a much needed break to start in on their encore performance.

Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.