Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 "French Revolution" by Souvie Copyright November 2003

   Inspired by the picture at: http://www.jonathonart.com/nava.html

   See Disclaimer at the end - thanks to John for his quick beta and thanks
to Spin for his helpful comments and title

   = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = "Sweet is revenge-especially to
women." - Lord Byron.  = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

   "Captain Navarre, mon ami!  We haven't seen you in ages!" The barkeep
wiped the counter with a stained and rumpled rag, his cragged smile showing
gaps wider than the Seine.

   "Been busy, my friend, been busy." The young Captain tossed his leg over
a stool and straddled it, his sword in its scabbard clanking against the
bar.  "I'm dusty."

   "Coming right up." He tossed away the rag and poured amber liquid into a
shot glass of dubious origins.

   Navarre downed it in one gulp, wiping his mouth with a dirt-encrusted
glove.  "Another!"

   The barkeep obliged.  "You in town for a while?"

   "A while, yes."

   "You need a woman?" He laughed at that, shaking his head.  "Never mind.
You got something already lined up, non?" He winked conspiratorially.

   "A woman in every city, Phillipe, in every city." Navarre winked back
and stood up, tossing coins on the bar.  He strode off, taking the stairs
two at a time.  His room beckoned to him.

   Sleep and then Marisol, he was thinking as he opened the door of his
room.  He hadn't walked in very far when it occurred to him that it was
already occupied.  Four women stood, fanned out in the room.  Four angry
looking women.

   "Wha?  Marguerite?  Jolie?" His gaze shifted from the two blondes to the
brunette and redhead.  "Isabel?  Marisol?  What is going on?"

   "Your cheating ways have caught up with you, Navarre," Isabel answered.
The women moved slowly forward.  He turned for the door, but found that
escape already cut off.

   "Look, we can work this out, non?" He spread his hands in supplication,
sweat ringing his brow.

   Ignoring his pleas, they were on him in seconds, tugging at his clothes,
impatient, ripping, clawing, dragging him toward the bed.

   "Tu me donnes des frissons," Marisol hissed as her nails made red
furrows down his chest.

   "I need you," Isabel mocked, her petite fingers twisting his nipples.

   "Oui, j'ai besoin de tu," Marguerite echoed, hitching up her skirts and
sitting roughly on his face.

   Downstairs, Phillipe whistled as he put away glasses.  Some men had all
the luck!

   THE END

   - - - - - - I write, you read.  It's not, I write, you take.  Comments
and constructive criticism greatly appreciated.  Blow me at: souvie at
mindspring dot com
/~Souvie
/files/Authors/Souvie/