Solomon - The Unauthorized Autobiography

[Repertor]

It's too bad the film is lost. These stills suggest that it might be worth watching. One can hope, I suppose that a copy will turn up in someone's attic.

I looked in my attic but found nothing.
But who knows... Wikipedia has a list of rediscovered films that, once thought lost, have since been discovered, in whole or in part.

 

[Madiosi]

Excerpt 12

Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love. – Proverbs 5: 18-19

And so I returned to my palace, and by and large Ptalia and I were happy. My fountain was certainly blessed, several times a week. She was an active woman and she certainly stayed fit. She set up a gymnasium in one of the large courts of the palace, and there she installed all manner of interesting torture devices – ropes hanging from posts, poles of hard wood with hooks on the end from which one could hang bronze weights of various sizes, bars set in the walls at various heights, chairs cunningly designed to capture the victim and force them to pull on pulleys and other weights – and on most days she had her amazons in there. Punishing them for some alleged wrongdoing, I imagined.

There were naked and semi naked women pulling themselves up on bars, lifting weights, and being stretched in various ways, always with an overseer, sometimes Ptalia, shouting at them. I could watch that for hours. She was indefatigable and loved shouting at her girls.

“Why do you punish them?” I asked, as she kicked a girl dressed only in a loincloth, forcing her to straighten her back.

“Posture, Amina!” she barked at the girl who gasped and adjusted her form as she bent to pick up some heavy object. “Punish?” she asked, looking perplexed.

“You shout at them and force them to do these things.”

“Nothing I wouldn’t do myself,” she said.

“Do you ever whip them?” I asked, thoughtfully, remembering my last time in the harem.

“Good heavens no,” said Ptalia. “Why would I do that?” I wondered why she was blushing.

“You do whip them!” I exclaimed, pointing at her accusingly. She mumbled something.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I said, only when they deserve it!” she said heatedly. She looked flushed. “No point having an amazon squad if they aren’t disciplined enough to go into battle,” she said. Amina looked at me and nodded in agreement with her mistress.

“There aren’t any battles,” I said. “That’s what my diplomacy and negotiations and trade is all about. Not having battles.”

“You’re very wise,” she said, a bit ingratiatingly I thought, “but you keep your hosts well trained."

“Well, yes,” I said, “but I rather thought that was as a deterrent to other people’s hosts. Never can tell with the Ammonites, or is that Amorites?”

“Both, I think,” Ptalia said. “Anyway, the guys like girls that stay fit.”

“They have “guys”?” I asked.

“Sure they do,” she said. “Who do you think keeps the men of your hosts happy?”

“Good LORD!” I said. “Where did you get your amazons from anyway? Do they come from brothels? Are they specially trained?”

“The Harem,” she said.

“Is that like a training school?”

“No, you great oaf!” she said. “Your harem! Concubines.”

“What!?” I exclaimed. “My concubines? ”

“Well,” she said, shuffling her foot, “yes. I mean, there they were,” she continued, talking fast and earnestly, “300 concubines all sitting around with nothing to do except eat, sleep, and wait…”

“I did install a pool,” I said.

“…and you never came in unto any of them,” said Ptalia, “believe me, I know. I waited around for months…”

“I came looking for you,” I said gallantly.

“Yes,” she said, “but they were still sitting around, girls in the prime of their lives. So, I decided to put them to some use. They were more than happy to come to Egypt with me and train, and then we took Gezer, and Jeroboam’s pirates. They are now a bunch of confident women…”

“Who are apparently sleeping with most of my soldiers,” I said.

“Morale has never been higher,” she said, glaring at me. “Anyway, do you know what your actual wives get up to in that harem?”

“I try not to think about it,” I said. “I haven’t been there in months. You know that. I’ve been with you.”

“You should check it out,” she said. “There are offspring.”

“How does this happen?” I asked.

“Probably from the same thing that I do with you,” she said, smiling, “only your wives seem to have been doing it with other people.”

“Isn’t that adultery?” I asked.

“Are you going to stone 700 women now?” she asked.

“There are never 700,” I said. “But no, I don’t suppose that’s practical. Does Zadok know?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Zadok is only interested in his temple and his own wife.”

“He has a wife?” I asked. “When did this happen?”

“Brenda says it was about the time we took Gezer. You had banned him from the Harem because he kept going there to scowl at the girls. When you banned him, he seems to have gone straight out and married someone. I’m told they’re quite happy.”

“Well, good for him,” I said. “All’s well that ends well, eh?”

“It doesn’t solve your problem,” said Ptalia. “We’re not exactly young newlyweds anymore, and all your coming in unto me has not produced an heir. You will need to choose one from the other wives, or…” she hesitated.

“What?”

“Or you’ll have to go to the harem and beget one,” said Ptalia.

I was feeling a bit agitated. It’s one thing having a harem. It’s quite another for your wife to tell you to go beget an heir with some other woman. The complicated part was that these other women were also my wives. The more complicated thing was that these other wives of mine were apparently two timing me with any man that they could find. We don’t go in for eunuchs – I’m sure Zadok could find you a law against it if you asked him – so the fathers could have been stable boys, butlers, stewards, guards, or scribes.

The really odd part was that I didn’t really care. I had a whole squad of 300 of my concubines exercising naked in my courtyard every day, and my favourite wife “blessing my fountain”, so to speak. I didn’t feel hard done by.

“I’ll check things out in the harem,” I said, “and figure out this heir thing. But when I get back, you’re going to demonstrate that rope and pulley thing over there,” I said.

“Why wait?” she said, dropping her loincloth.

“Ptalia…!” I waved my arms meaningfully at the troop of nude women who surrounded us.

“You’re worried about the other girls?” she asked. “They’re your concubines, and it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.” She pulled at the belt of my robe. “For all I know it’s nothing they haven’t done before.”

“They haven’t done it with me,” I said, but I saw her point. They were my concubines, officially at least. They could, officially at least, see me naked and no foul.

“Just tie me into this, would you,” said Ptalia, backing into a rope harness. It remained a complete mystery to me. There were rings, weights, straps, and no bench in sight. Fortunately, and to my embarrassment and arousal, a couple of the other girls had caught on to what their mistress was planning, and they seemed to know exactly what to do.

Pretty soon there was an audience of about 20 naked women helping to strap Ptalia into the apparatus (it was called a “cross-trainer”, although it did not seem to feature a cross), which effectively lifted her off the ground, stretching her arms and legs and lifting her completely off the ground. Meanwhile, another two or three of the girls were busy getting me out of my robe and making orally sure I was…er…sufficiently in readiness. I was almost more than ready when I saw one of the girls use her tongue to make sure Ptalia was ready as well.

By the time I should really have objected to the complete lack of decorum and decency, I was beyond caring about it. I went in unto the suspended Ptalia with such enthusiasm that she yelped.

I’m not sure that all the girls were entirely necessary to the proceedings, but it certainly didn’t hurt either. My recollection is of beautiful breasts, well toned bottoms, and lots of encouragement. I was not the only person who tasted the mountains of myrrh that afternoon. You’re lucky I promised to give up poetry.

That afternoon, I went back to Jerusalem. Zadok met me at the palace. “So you’ve come back to Jerusalem,” he said. “What brings you?”

“I need an heir,” I said, “and Ptalia has not begotten one.” I really didn’t want to talk to him about the illegitimate offspring of my wives. Who knows what trouble that would cause. The LORD probably wouldn’t like it – I knew that much – and when the LORD, according to Zadok, didn’t like something, people got hurt.

“Ah,” said Zadok. “Well, blessings upon thy loins, etc. You don’t need me around for that.” He made as if to rush off.

“Congratulations on your marriage,” I said.

“Well, you banned me from the harem,” said Zadok. “What was I supposed to do? Anyway, it’s better this way. She’s a lovely girl and is expecting. I wish you the same luck, and I don’t want to know any more details.” Zadok had the prudishness that douses raging fires. It’s a wonder he ever begat anyone, but miracles happen.

When I entered the harem, there were no offspring in sight. Just my wives, none of whom were younger than about 30.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” said Namaah.

“We have a cat?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” said Namaah, not quite prepared for my question. She pointed to a divan on which there was indeed a large gray cat, looking at me with obvious disdain. I scratched him behind the ears.

"Pussies like to be stroked," said the other wife.

"So I've noticed," I said seriously. I could see Namaah blushing furiously.

“I really meant the statement more as a metaphorical expression," she said. "You know, like, we haven’t seen you here in ages.”

“It’s my palace,” I said. “Also my harem. I’m king, you know.” I tried to rub the cat’s tummy, but he bit me. Apparently he thought it was his palace and his harem. He might have been right.

“Yes,” said Namaah. “And we haven’t seen you, some of us, in years.”

“Well,” I said, “you’re seeing me now. Look, this is all rather awkward. I understand there are things going on, and that some of you have, er, begotten…um…look, if it’s true, where are they all?

“There aren’t that many,” said another wife, Midianite by the look of her. I really wish I had learned the names of more of my wives. “Maybe five in all. They’re at school.”

“School?” I asked.

“Yes, they go to boarding school in Egypt. Best education system in the world.”

“Oh,” I said, “well, jolly good.” Apparently there was a whole world in the harem that had nothing to do with me anymore. I wondered if the cat had been consulted.

“Is that what you wanted to know?” asked Namaah.

“No,” I admitted. “It’s a bit delicate. I need to choose an heir. I had hoped to find one here.”

“Most of the offspring are daughters,” said the Midianite wife. “And they’re not all the same, er…

“…ethnicity,” finished another wife.

“Yes,” I said drily. “I had gathered that.”

“There’s Rehoboam,” said Namaah. “He’s your son. He was begotten the last time you were here.” She blushed slightly at the memory.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Well, he showed up nine months after you left. I usually prefer the company of women,” said Namaah. “I haven't known another man since then. You got special privileges because you’re my husband and, well, you did, um, things…er…for me." I had a flashback of whips and sweet smelling ointments.

“Okay,” I said. I think I was remarkably composed for someone just bitten by the cat that had taken over my harem. “Provisionally then, Rehoboam will be my heir. Do you suppose I could give him my fatherly blessing?”

“Sure,” said Namaah, “if you go to Egypt, or if you wait until the next school holidays. He comes home twice a year, like the rains.”

“I guess it can wait,” I said.

I left the harem to its own devices. They had demonstrated amply that they could get along without me, and really, who needs 700 wives? The cat could have them.

Benaiah was waiting in the throne room.

“Oh, there you are,” he said. “You know, Nathan the Prophet is dying. He wants to see you.”

“Nathan is dying?” I said. “How does this happen?”

“I think he’s 200 years old,” said Ben.

“Can’t be,” I said, “that’s impossible. Nobody lives to be 200.”

“Well, he’s pretty old,” said Ben, “and it hasn’t improved his mood.”

We went to see Nathan, who was lying on a bed in his small house near the Temple. He looked terminally annoyed, which suited him. I’d have been worried if he had been cheerful. He was probably dying of irritability

“I’m dying,” he said, as though it was a mere inconvenience.

“So I hear,” I said. “Condolences.” I mean, really, what do you say?

“I have a few things to say,” said Nathan, “before I go.”

“Oh, you’ll bounce back,” I said encouragingly.

“Oh yeah?” said Nathan. “I’m 200 years old.”

“No you’re not,” said Ben. "Nobody is 200 years old."

“You shut up!” said Nathan. “Now, hear what the LORD hath said unto thee,” he said to me. So this was going to be a prophesy thing.

“All ears,” I said.

“You may be a wise king,” said Nathan, “but you’re an idiot. The LORD has seen how you consort with strange women, and chase after false gods…”

“Wait a second,” I said. “I have known a number of women, but I have never chased after false gods. I mean, they’re false gods. What would be the point?”

“You have built shrines and temples to them,” said Ben, “not to speak out of school, or anything…”

“Thanks, Ben,” I said sardonically. “You’re a great help. What was I supposed to do? My wives have their own gods. I let them have shrines. I didn’t go there.”

“Well, the LORD says they have turned your heart away from the LORD,” said Nathan.

“Fair enough,” I said. I hadn’t been to the Temple in a couple of years.

“So he’s going to take the kingdom away from you,” said Nathan.

“What!?” I exclaimed. “After all the work I put into the place. Anyway, I don’t believe it. I am loved of the LORD.”

“And look what good that does,” said Nathan grumpily. “I’m loved of the LORD too, and here I am dying. Anyway, he’s not going to take it away from you personally, but your heir will not have it. He only gets Judah. The rest goes to someone else.”

“I bet it’s that bastard, Jeroboam!” said Ben. “I told you he didn’t die in the naval battle.”

“You never did,” I said to Ben. He looked a bit sheepish.

“So you’re telling me,” I said to Nathan, “that the LORD is going to punish my heir because I’m in love with an Egyptian woman and because I never converted 700 wives to Judaism?”

“There’s no way you have 700 wives,” said Nathan. “Nobody has 700 wives.”

“That’s what I tell people,” I said. “What sort of wisdom would that be?”

"What can I say?" said Nathan. "I'm just the messenger. The LORD is perverse and spiteful."

"Sounds like you don't like him much," said Ben

"You tell me if you like him when you're dying," said Nathan, ignoring the fact that this would be impossible. “Now leave. Go away, the both of you. I am off to rest with my fathers.”

“I don’t like leaving you like this,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” said Nathan, and died testily. We laid his bones to rest with his fathers. And that’s pretty much all there is to say.

I went back to Gezer, to my palace full of concubines and Ptalia. I really hoped she would beget someone, but she never did. We were happy anyway, and our life was filled with all sorts of pleasant, dull things. Sometimes we went to Tyre or Egypt for holidays. The kingdom was doing well. There was prosperity, and peace. Occasionally Hiram popped by to build something.

Years later, Jeroboam tried to stir stir up trouble in the north, but he never caused me any real problems. He was more of an annoyance. The people might not have approved of everything I did, but I had some pretty high approval ratings on my policies. Nobody was seriously out to depose me.

I gave my blessing to Rehoboam, who turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. He was strong enough and handsome enough, but he thought that was enough. He didn’t have a wise bone in his body. He had also pissed off Ptalia’s brother, who had become Pharaoh when Ptalia’s parents died. We went to the coronation.

“Look, Sol,” said Shoshenq, the new Pharaoh, “I really like you, and you’re a great king, but your son is the dunghole of a camel.”

“I know,” I said miserably. “I wasn’t a very good father to him.”

“Look,” said Shoshenq, “I don’t blame you. You’re a great guy, and you seem to make my sister happy.” Ptalia looked happy. I think she was. “But if you die, gods forbid, I’m going to take Gezer back.”

“Sure,” I said, “if that’s what you want. Hiram did a great job with the place. I’d give it to you myself, except that your dad gave it to Ptalia.”

“Right,” said Shoshenq. “Anyway, I hope you live forever. I’m also going to kick Rehoboam right in the loins.”

“Go for it,” I said. “I should have done it years ago. I feel like I could live forever the way things are going.” I liked Shoshenq.

Nobody lives forever. Nathan didn’t. Ptalia didn’t either. We got older. I reigned for 40 years, by Zadok’s and the scribes accounts. The Golden Age, they called it.

“You were king during the Golden Age,” said the new priest, whose name I never bothered to learn. I was old then, and I was pissed off that Ptalia had died. Now here I was, lying on my bed, being talked to by some idiot just out of swaddling clothes who spoke to me as if I was already in the past tense.

So I was great, and increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also my wisdom remained with me. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun. Then said I in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, so it happeneth even to me; and why was I then more wise? Then I said in my heart, that this also is vanity.

That’s from Ecclesiastes. It’s my best book, I think. I took some comfort from that. This fool would be where I was some day. I thought wistfully about Benaiah, and how, once upon a time, he would fall upon people so they died. Now Ben was dead too, but at least he hadn’t had to be spoken to by this wet priest.

I tried one more time to talk sense to Rehoboam.

“My son,” I said, “I am going to join my father David, as all men do. You will be king over all Israel, if you practice wisdom. I wish you well.”

“Thanks, father,” said Rehoboam. “I have great plans. I’ll make everything better. I shall add tenfold to the yoke you laid on the people. Whereas you chastised them with whips, so shall I chastise them with scorpions. Their backs shall break like straws at my touch.”

“I can see you’ll do just fine,” I said, rolling my eyes. Sarcasm was lost on Rehoboam. So much for the Golden Age. Still, it showed that Nathan still had it, even on his deathbed.

And I really didn’t care anymore – all that is vanity and vexation of spirit, as I was fond of saying. See? Now I’m talking about myself in the past tense.

Anyway, the LORD will do what he likes. I am going to be gathered to my fathers, as they say. What do they matter either. I know only one person that I want to be gathered to, and I hope she’s there on the other side.

Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.

Sorry, Ptalia, my love. That really is the last of that poetry you’ll have to hear for the rest of eternity.

FIN.

Ouch! Fin, since yesterday!?!?
No Cover, no illustration, no blurb. Panic!

 

[Repertor]

Ouch! Fin, since yesterday!?!?
No Cover, no illustration, no blurb. Panic!

No panic, Madi. See post #233.

 

[Madiosi]

No panic, Madi. See post #233

Oh Thank you for the hint!

 

[cruxlover]

http://www.alostfilm.com/2013/01/queen-of-sheba.html#!/2013/01/queen-of-sheba.html

Very nice orgy scene, just a couple of points points -
Can't help thinking caves a tad overrated as a site for some nooky. Usually cold, damp and full of bat shit - at least in Britain they are.
Was the Queen of Sheba not Ethiopian? If so she would have been black surely?

The travel dept at the company for whom I used to work excelled themselves - sent two of us to Rome on Ethiopian Airlines, an old 707. The hostesses were certainly black, mind you they looked like revolutionary guards, kept expecting them to whip the AK's out of there knickers at first sign of any trouble.
Coming back a great improvement, Air India 747, lovely and I don't just mean the plane. (Though they somehow managed to deploy the escape slide after we had landed, suppose someone pressed the wrong button.
Being driven around Rome by an Italian was an experience also. Big traffic jam near the Colisseum, everyone drove into the middle of a big square (for want of a better word) and sat there blowing there horn (the one in the middle of the steering wheel I mean, naughty Dorothy, naughty).

 

[Madiosi]

Thank you all for reading. I am happy you all enjoyed it. And an award from Repertor, no less. I must thank my Mum and Dad for begetting me, the Repertor Academy, to all my inspiring colleagues, friends and muses out there in CF, and of course the LORD (who knows what might happen if I don't properly thank him ).

I dreamed up a bit of a cover for the story.
(Although I think Madiosi gave up on this, perhaps thinking I would never finish.)

I rather like the guileless expression on Solomon's face in the pic. It is partly from the lost silent film (1923?) of "The Queen of Sheba" starring Betty Blythe.
View attachment 489271

Please write a blurb Jolly! The book will coming soon.
I am not so well today. Madiosi have a cold. Nose and throat full with slime and alway tired.

 

[windar]

Was the Queen of Sheba not Ethiopian? If so she would have been black surely?

Very likely. If not Ethiopian, she may have been Yemeni, which would certainly have made her rather dark-skinned. Of course, Jesus almost certainly didn't look as he is portrayed in European paintings.

But, a black star in a 1923 movie would have probably been beyond the bounds of society at that time. Even today, there are those who argue that non-whites are very under-represented in movies.

And, let's be honest. How many pictures here at CF have a non-white crucifixion/torture victim? How many stories have a non-white heroine? A few, but nowhere near their proportion in the world population nor even in the population of the Roman Empire or of Europe or North America today.

 

[Jollyrei]

Please write a blurb Jolly! The book will coming soon.
I am not so well today. Madiosi have a cold. Nose and throat full with slime and alway tired.

No worries. I'll get you a blurb later today or tomorrow.

 

[Madiosi]

No worries. I'll get you a blurb later today or tomorrow.

Good pal, Jolly!

 

[Repertor]

The travel dept at the company for whom I used to work excelled themselves - sent two of us to Rome on Ethiopian Airlines, an old 707. The hostesses were certainly black, mind you they looked like revolutionary guards, kept expecting them to whip the AK's out of there knickers at first sign of any trouble.
Coming back a great improvement, Air India 747, lovely and I don't just mean the plane. (Though they somehow managed to deploy the escape slide after we had landed, suppose someone pressed the wrong button.
Being driven around Rome by an Italian was an experience also. Big traffic jam near the Colisseum, everyone drove into the middle of a big square (for want of a better word) and sat there blowing there horn (the one in the middle of the steering wheel I mean, naughty Dorothy, naughty).

You should have travelled by camel or by boat, like the queen of Sheba. It's much safer.

 

[Wragg]

You should have travelled by camel or by boat, like the queen of Sheba. It's much safer.

Yes, but she didn't have a horn for Dorothy to blow

 

[Repertor]

Yes, but she didn't have a horn for Dorothy to blow

Not the queen, but camels and ships do have horns.

 

[Loxuru]

Thanks for this story, Jollyrei.
And a good cover too (Queen of Sheba (1921) was a Fox film. Much of the silent screen heritage of Fox was destroyed in a disastrous fire in their film archive in 1937).

 

[Naraku]

Very likely. If not Ethiopian, she may have been Yemeni, which would certainly have made her rather dark-skinned. Of course, Jesus almost certainly didn't look as he is portrayed in European paintings.

But, a black star in a 1923 movie would have probably been beyond the bounds of society at that time. Even today, there are those who argue that non-whites are very under-represented in movies.

And, let's be honest. How many pictures here at CF have a non-white crucifixion/torture victim? How many stories have a non-white heroine? A few, but nowhere near their proportion in the world population nor even in the population of the Roman Empire or of Europe or North America today.

Sheba is usually identified with Saba, a kingdom in what is now Yemen with it's capital at Marib. Not to be confused with the Caribbean island near St Kitts and Nevis. The story maybe an anachronistic fabrication designed to enhance Solomon's reputation. Saba may not have flourished until the VIII century BCE, though some scholars think it may have been in existence as early as the XII century. Unfortunately, the conditions in Yemen in recent years have hindered archaeology in the region. In any case, Saba was a rich and far off nation when the Old Testament was being written in the VII century.
The association of Sheba and Ethiopia may come from from the fact that Saba had close ties to or dominance over region. It should also be noted that the writers of the Old Testament showed a very vague knowledge of geography beyond their small corner of the world. They may have thought of everything at the south end of the Red Sea as "Sheba".

Anyway, she probably did look more like Halle Berry.

Than Betty Blythe

Or Gina Lollabridgida.

I am black, but comely,
O ye daughters of Jerusalem,
as the tents of Kedar,
as the curtains of Solomon.

 

[Jollyrei]

A last go at this:

The Lost Scroll - Flashback

“What are you doing?”
Ptalia was standing there looking slightly bored, dressed in a gauzy vest shirt thing that showed off her midriff to best advantage, and a pair of harem pantaloons that showed off various parts of her in tantalizing ways as she moved through beams of sunlight coming through the slats of the windows.

“I’m writing poetry,” I said. “I told you I was going to take up poetry.”

“I thought you were joking,” she said.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m really doing it, but it’s hard work.”

“Can I see?”

“No!” I said. “It’s not anywhere near where it’s ready for anyone else to read. Anyway, you wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, come on, Sol,” she said, running over to the desk. “I want to see what you’re writing!”

I covered the pages with my hands, as she tried to lean over and peer past my fingers at the text on the scroll.

“Let me see,” she said, “please!”

“No, Ptalia,” I was staying firm.

“But I’m so bored,” she said. “There’s nothing to do here today.”

“Where are the amazons?”

“They’re off in Jerusalem today, training with a cohort of your hosts,” she said.

“My hosts are hosting them,” I joked.

“Funny,” she made another attempt to read my attempts at verse. “Sol!”

“If you want to read something, there are scrolls in the library,” I said.

“They’re all just religious scrolls. I’ve read your creation story 10 times now. You have only one god, Sol, and he doesn’t even have a head of an animal. Bor-ring.”

“Look,” I said, “just let me finish this stanza, and we can go swimming or something.” Clearly she wasn’t going to just go away.

“Oh sure,” she said. “You have poetry, and you won’t let me see it. You won’t even tell me what sort of poetry it is.”

“It’s religious poetry,” I said, hoping to dissuade her. I knew she only wanted to see it because 1) it was mine, and 2) I wasn’t letting her see it. I wasn’t ready for anyone to read it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to read it in its current state.

“And that’s interesting?” she asked, and stomped off, rather more gracefully in her bare feet than most people manage, but still sort of a stomp.

I got back to writing, something about her eyes. I really didn’t need her to see that I was trying to capture her in verse. A man has to be alone with his thoughts sometimes.

There was a sound of a splash, from out of my window. I went to look out. She was in the pool, her slim body slicing through the water as she did a length. Every time she turned to breathe in the rhythm of the stroke, her breast made a brief appearance. Breathe, stroke, rhythm, breast.

Sometimes a man does not need to be alone with his thoughts. Sometimes he needs exactly the opposite.

***

I got up late the next morning – Ptalia was already up, it seems. She wasn’t in my bed anyway. One of the concubines was pouring hot water into my basin for my morning shave. I shaved, washed and put on my robe. If we had had slippers in 900 BCE, I’d have had those too. Lazy. That’s how I felt. If you can’t be lazy once in a while when you’re king, there’s no point in being king.

I wandered off in search of breakfast. There were eggs and fruit and some sort of bread with raisins. There was coffee. Makeda, the Queen of Sheba kept sending it, along with news. Sheba now controlled some place called Ethiopia – coffee came from there, apparently. She had sent a slave along with the coffee who knew how to roast it properly. I was hooked. Ptalia was not in the breakfast porch either.

I took my cup with me when I went up to my study. As I got to the doorway, I heard little gasps, as if of incredulity and suppressed laughter.

Ptalia was sitting at my desk, with my scroll open, giggling to herself. I watched her. She was skimming the text fast, but would stop and laugh softly, and then keep going.

I leaned against the door frame and tapped my foot on the floor, my arms crossed.

She jumped up, and closed the scroll hastily. It rolled together with a “thwip” sound. She looked at it like it had burned her.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” she said.


“I told you it wasn’t ready,” I said. “I told you you couldn’t read it.”

“But Sol!” she said, “you can’t just write stuff and then not let me see it. I had to see it. I really wanted to…ow!”

I had grabbed her arm and was dragging her across the room under a beam.

“What are you doing!” she wailed. “Ow, Sol, stop it…” I stopped under the beam and threw a rope up over the beam.

“If you’re not going to respect my privacy,” I said, pulling the rope, “I’m just going to have to make sure you can’t do things you’re not supposed to.” I began to tie her hands to the rope.

“Sol!” she cried. “Stop it! You can’t tie me up just because I read your stupid poem.”

“Stupid poem is it?” I said. I pulled up the rope, stretching her arms above her head.

“Sol! Let me down!” she exclaimed. She kicked me in the shin. “Ow!” She’s a very fit woman, but she’s not that big, and my shin is still harder than her toe. I pulled her up off her feet. She was now suspended from the beam. The breeze blew through the window making her turn on the rope. She would face me, and then she would turn the other way.

I sat down at my desk, admiring my handiwork. She was turning clockwise now (if we had clocks) and as her front faced me, she said:

“You’re a terrible poet.” She glared at me, which was less effective as she started to turn counterclockwise to face away from me again, which left her glaring at a large Phoenician urn in the corner, a gift from one of Hiram’s wives. “Dammit!” she said.

“You know, stretched out like that,” I said thoughtfully, “your breasts are like graceful fawns in the lilies.”

“You’re comparing my tits to deer?” she said.

“I like the graceful and playful aspect of that image,” I said. “It’s a poetic metaphor.”

“It’s a load of crap,” she said. How she could look at me like her hands were on her hips when she was suspended by her arms from the ceiling was beyond me. Talented girl.

“Anyway, the whole poem is an allegory of the LORD’s love for his people,” I said, hoping to add some sense of gravitas to my work.

“You’re a man trying to write sexy poetry about his wife,” she said, “and doing a ridiculous job at it. Get me down!”

“No, look,” I said, milking the situation. “you have eyes like doves…”

“Cliché,” she said.

“…your hair is like a flock of goats…”

“Ew,” she said, “do you know what goats eat?” She was stretching her left foot down, trying to reach the floor. She couldn’t and huffed in annoyance.

“…your teeth are like a flock of sheep…”

“Sol!”

“…and your neck is a tower. I love your neck.”

“What does that have to do with the LORD?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, and this was where I got onto shaky ground, “He loves his people.”

“And do his people love him back?” she asked, “because if he goes around tying them to the ceiling…”

“His people yearn for him,” I said. “Didn’t you read the other bits?”

“Yes,” she said, “and this “people” thinks it’s silly, me yearning and pining away like that. I’d just grab a chariot and come after you if I wanted to see you.”

“That’s not as poetic as yearning and waiting,” I said.

“Look, Sol,” she said, deflating a bit and swinging back to face me, “it’s sweet of you to write poetry. Go ahead. But it’s really not that good.”

“Now you’re just jealous because you don’t write poetry,” I said.

“No,” she shouted, “I think it’s sweet if you write me poetry, but I think you should read it to me then!”

“It’s a religious allegory,” I said doggedly. “I’m trying to be deep and profound here.”

“By comparing my hair to goats?” she asked swinging away so I could see more of her hair. “Blast it all to the underworld!” she said in exasperation. She flailed her legs a bit, which was kind of enticing.

“If in your poem the LORD loves his people so much, why doesn’t he ever compliment them on their bottom. His people might have a really nice bottom, but he’s on about hair like goats and teeth like sheep. He sounds like a country hick. Doesn’t the LORD like my…er…the people’s bottom, or her legs?”

“Goodness,” I said scanning my scroll. “You may have a point.”

I got up and went over to her. Her breasts, which were, as she said, nothing like deer, were level with my face. She glared down at me.

“If you think…” she said.

“I guess we’d better check,” I said, and turned her around on the rope.

“Stop it, Solomon!” Her legs flailed again as she tried to kick me.

“Now now,” I said. “None of that. I am trying,” I said as I hooked my fingers into her waistband, “to give proper consideration,” I pulled her harem pantaloons down to her ankles, which stopped her kicking as well, “to your bottom.”

“Sol” she gasped.

I ran my hand over the curve from the small of her back down over the roundness, and then to the back of her thigh. I stroked, the line where the two curved cheeks met.

“You know,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

“What!?”

“I’ve been remiss,” I said. “I think your bottom really needs a poem all of its own.”

“Errrgh!” she growled. “When I get down from here…”

“But really,” I said, “you still shouldn’t have read my scroll after I asked you not to.”

I smacked her bottom with my hand. Quite hard. It went a bit pink.

“Yow!” she yelped. “Sol!” I smacked it again. I was really getting quite fond of her bottom.

She yelped again. I found it quite an arousing sound. “Again,” she said breathlessly.

“Hmmmm,” I said. I hit her bottom again and she shrieked and jerked on the rope. Things got a little out of hand, or in hand, or something.

Anyway, I took my robe off at one point, for greater mobility on my part, you understand, and there she was naked from the waist down, and her bottom was getting pinker, and then she would swing around and face me, looking at me with those wide dove eyes and gasping for breath. Finally, I inserted one of my hands between her thighs to stop her rotation, letting her rest on two of my fingers.

“Oh, Sol!” she whispered. She may have squirmed a little.

Anyway, that’s why there’s no description of her bottom in any of my poetry.

 

[bobinder]

A last go at this:

The Lost Scroll - Flashback

Anyway, that’s why there’s no description of her bottom in any of my poetry.

Beautiful Jolly, poetic even. Love it. And the picture's great too!

 

[Deleted member 16647]

....
Or Gina Lollabridgida.
View attachment 489537
...

Due to censorship (we were in the 50's), there is an error : the real queen of Saba was entirely nude.
But it's true she had a piercing at the navel

 

[Wragg]

A last go at this:

The Lost Scroll - Flashback

“What are you doing?”
Ptalia was standing there looking slightly bored, dressed in a gauzy vest shirt thing that showed off her midriff to best advantage, and a pair of harem pantaloons that showed off various parts of her in tantalizing ways as she moved through beams of sunlight coming through the slats of the windows.

“I’m writing poetry,” I said. “I told you I was going to take up poetry.”

“I thought you were joking,” she said.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m really doing it, but it’s hard work.”

“Can I see?”

“No!” I said. “It’s not anywhere near where it’s ready for anyone else to read. Anyway, you wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, come on, Sol,” she said, running over to the desk. “I want to see what you’re writing!”

I covered the pages with my hands, as she tried to lean over and peer past my fingers at the text on the scroll.

“Let me see,” she said, “please!”

“No, Ptalia,” I was staying firm.

“But I’m so bored,” she said. “There’s nothing to do here today.”

“Where are the amazons?”

“They’re off in Jerusalem today, training with a cohort of your hosts,” she said.

“My hosts are hosting them,” I joked.

“Funny,” she made another attempt to read my attempts at verse. “Sol!”

“If you want to read something, there are scrolls in the library,” I said.

“They’re all just religious scrolls. I’ve read your creation story 10 times now. You have only one god, Sol, and he doesn’t even have a head of an animal. Bor-ring.”

“Look,” I said, “just let me finish this stanza, and we can go swimming or something.” Clearly she wasn’t going to just go away.

“Oh sure,” she said. “You have poetry, and you won’t let me see it. You won’t even tell me what sort of poetry it is.”

“It’s religious poetry,” I said, hoping to dissuade her. I knew she only wanted to see it because 1) it was mine, and 2) I wasn’t letting her see it. I wasn’t ready for anyone to read it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to read it in its current state.

“And that’s interesting?” she asked, and stomped off, rather more gracefully in her bare feet than most people manage, but still sort of a stomp.

I got back to writing, something about her eyes. I really didn’t need her to see that I was trying to capture her in verse. A man has to be alone with his thoughts sometimes.

There was a sound of a splash, from out of my window. I went to look out. She was in the pool, her slim body slicing through the water as she did a length. Every time she turned to breathe in the rhythm of the stroke, her breast made a brief appearance. Breathe, stroke, rhythm, breast.

Sometimes a man does not need to be alone with his thoughts. Sometimes he needs exactly the opposite.

***

I got up late the next morning – Ptalia was already up, it seems. She wasn’t in my bed anyway. One of the concubines was pouring hot water into my basin for my morning shave. I shaved, washed and put on my robe. If we had had slippers in 900 BCE, I’d have had those too. Lazy. That’s how I felt. If you can’t be lazy once in a while when you’re king, there’s no point in being king.

I wandered off in search of breakfast. There were eggs and fruit and some sort of bread with raisins. There was coffee. Makeda, the Queen of Sheba kept sending it, along with news. Sheba now controlled some place called Ethiopia – coffee came from there, apparently. She had sent a slave along with the coffee who knew how to roast it properly. I was hooked. Ptalia was not in the breakfast porch either.

I took my cup with me when I went up to my study. As I got to the doorway, I heard little gasps, as if of incredulity and suppressed laughter.

Ptalia was sitting at my desk, with my scroll open, giggling to herself. I watched her. She was skimming the text fast, but would stop and laugh softly, and then keep going.

I leaned against the door frame and tapped my foot on the floor, my arms crossed.

She jumped up, and closed the scroll hastily. It rolled together with a “thwip” sound. She looked at it like it had burned her.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” she said.
View attachment 489648

“I told you it wasn’t ready,” I said. “I told you you couldn’t read it.”

“But Sol!” she said, “you can’t just write stuff and then not let me see it. I had to see it. I really wanted to…ow!”

I had grabbed her arm and was dragging her across the room under a beam.

“What are you doing!” she wailed. “Ow, Sol, stop it…” I stopped under the beam and threw a rope up over the beam.

“If you’re not going to respect my privacy,” I said, pulling the rope, “I’m just going to have to make sure you can’t do things you’re not supposed to.” I began to tie her hands to the rope.

“Sol!” she cried. “Stop it! You can’t tie me up just because I read your stupid poem.”

“Stupid poem is it?” I said. I pulled up the rope, stretching her arms above her head.

“Sol! Let me down!” she exclaimed. She kicked me in the shin. “Ow!” She’s a very fit woman, but she’s not that big, and my shin is still harder than her toe. I pulled her up off her feet. She was now suspended from the beam. The breeze blew through the window making her turn on the rope. She would face me, and then she would turn the other way.

I sat down at my desk, admiring my handiwork. She was turning clockwise now (if we had clocks) and as her front faced me, she said:

“You’re a terrible poet.” She glared at me, which was less effective as she started to turn counterclockwise to face away from me again, which left her glaring at a large Phoenician urn in the corner, a gift from one of Hiram’s wives. “Dammit!” she said.

“You know, stretched out like that,” I said thoughtfully, “your breasts are like graceful fawns in the lilies.”

“You’re comparing my tits to deer?” she said.

“I like the graceful and playful aspect of that image,” I said. “It’s a poetic metaphor.”

“It’s a load of crap,” she said. How she could look at me like her hands were on her hips when she was suspended by her arms from the ceiling was beyond me. Talented girl.

“Anyway, the whole poem is an allegory of the LORD’s love for his people,” I said, hoping to add some sense of gravitas to my work.

“You’re a man trying to write sexy poetry about his wife,” she said, “and doing a ridiculous job at it. Get me down!”

“No, look,” I said, milking the situation. “you have eyes like doves…”

“Cliché,” she said.

“…your hair is like a flock of goats…”

“Ew,” she said, “do you know what goats eat?” She was stretching her left foot down, trying to reach the floor. She couldn’t and huffed in annoyance.

“…your teeth are like a flock of sheep…”

“Sol!”

“…and your neck is a tower. I love your neck.”

“What does that have to do with the LORD?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, and this was where I got onto shaky ground, “He loves his people.”

“And do his people love him back?” she asked, “because if he goes around tying them to the ceiling…”

“His people yearn for him,” I said. “Didn’t you read the other bits?”

“Yes,” she said, “and this “people” thinks it’s silly, me yearning and pining away like that. I’d just grab a chariot and come after you if I wanted to see you.”

“That’s not as poetic as yearning and waiting,” I said.

“Look, Sol,” she said, deflating a bit and swinging back to face me, “it’s sweet of you to write poetry. Go ahead. But it’s really not that good.”

“Now you’re just jealous because you don’t write poetry,” I said.

“No,” she shouted, “I think it’s sweet if you write me poetry, but I think you should read it to me then!”

“It’s a religious allegory,” I said doggedly. “I’m trying to be deep and profound here.”

“By comparing my hair to goats?” she asked swinging away so I could see more of her hair. “Blast it all to the underworld!” she said in exasperation. She flailed her legs a bit, which was kind of enticing.

“If in your poem the LORD loves his people so much, why doesn’t he ever compliment them on their bottom. His people might have a really nice bottom, but he’s on about hair like goats and teeth like sheep. He sounds like a country hick. Doesn’t the LORD like my…er…the people’s bottom, or her legs?”

“Goodness,” I said scanning my scroll. “You may have a point.”

I got up and went over to her. Her breasts, which were, as she said, nothing like deer, were level with my face. She glared down at me.

“If you think…” she said.

“I guess we’d better check,” I said, and turned her around on the rope.

“Stop it, Solomon!” Her legs flailed again as she tried to kick me.

“Now now,” I said. “None of that. I am trying,” I said as I hooked my fingers into her waistband, “to give proper consideration,” I pulled her harem pantaloons down to her ankles, which stopped her kicking as well, “to your bottom.”

“Sol” she gasped.

I ran my hand over the curve from the small of her back down over the roundness, and then to the back of her thigh. I stroked, the line where the two curved cheeks met.

“You know,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

“What!?”

“I’ve been remiss,” I said. “I think your bottom really needs a poem all of its own.”

“Errrgh!” she growled. “When I get down from here…”

“But really,” I said, “you still shouldn’t have read my scroll after I asked you not to.”

I smacked her bottom with my hand. Quite hard. It went a bit pink.

“Yow!” she yelped. “Sol!” I smacked it again. I was really getting quite fond of her bottom.

She yelped again. I found it quite an arousing sound. “Again,” she said breathlessly.

“Hmmmm,” I said. I hit her bottom again and she shrieked and jerked on the rope. Things got a little out of hand, or in hand, or something.

Anyway, I took my robe off at one point, for greater mobility on my part, you understand, and there she was naked from the waist down, and her bottom was getting pinker, and then she would swing around and face me, looking at me with those wide dove eyes and gasping for breath. Finally, I inserted one of my hands between her thighs to stop her rotation, letting her rest on two of my fingers.

“Oh, Sol!” she whispered. She may have squirmed a little.

Anyway, that’s why there’s no description of her bottom in any of my poetry.

A carefully researched and well written treatise on the effects of excessive caffeine consumption upon the writing of poetry, Jollyrei.

Or, why you shouldn't talk to your wife until your second cup, at least!

A great and pleasant surprise to have my own coffee supplemented by some unexpected Solomon!

 

[Madiosi]

A last go at this:

The Lost Scroll - Flashback

“What are you doing?”
Ptalia was standing there looking slightly bored, dressed in a gauzy vest shirt thing that showed off her midriff to best advantage, and a pair of harem pantaloons that showed off various parts of her in tantalizing ways as she moved through beams of sunlight coming through the slats of the windows.

“I’m writing poetry,” I said. “I told you I was going to take up poetry.”

“I thought you were joking,” she said.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m really doing it, but it’s hard work.”

“Can I see?”

“No!” I said. “It’s not anywhere near where it’s ready for anyone else to read. Anyway, you wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, come on, Sol,” she said, running over to the desk. “I want to see what you’re writing!”

I covered the pages with my hands, as she tried to lean over and peer past my fingers at the text on the scroll.

“Let me see,” she said, “please!”

“No, Ptalia,” I was staying firm.

“But I’m so bored,” she said. “There’s nothing to do here today.”

“Where are the amazons?”

“They’re off in Jerusalem today, training with a cohort of your hosts,” she said.

“My hosts are hosting them,” I joked.

“Funny,” she made another attempt to read my attempts at verse. “Sol!”

“If you want to read something, there are scrolls in the library,” I said.

“They’re all just religious scrolls. I’ve read your creation story 10 times now. You have only one god, Sol, and he doesn’t even have a head of an animal. Bor-ring.”

“Look,” I said, “just let me finish this stanza, and we can go swimming or something.” Clearly she wasn’t going to just go away.

“Oh sure,” she said. “You have poetry, and you won’t let me see it. You won’t even tell me what sort of poetry it is.”

“It’s religious poetry,” I said, hoping to dissuade her. I knew she only wanted to see it because 1) it was mine, and 2) I wasn’t letting her see it. I wasn’t ready for anyone to read it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to read it in its current state.

“And that’s interesting?” she asked, and stomped off, rather more gracefully in her bare feet than most people manage, but still sort of a stomp.

I got back to writing, something about her eyes. I really didn’t need her to see that I was trying to capture her in verse. A man has to be alone with his thoughts sometimes.

There was a sound of a splash, from out of my window. I went to look out. She was in the pool, her slim body slicing through the water as she did a length. Every time she turned to breathe in the rhythm of the stroke, her breast made a brief appearance. Breathe, stroke, rhythm, breast.

Sometimes a man does not need to be alone with his thoughts. Sometimes he needs exactly the opposite.

***

I got up late the next morning – Ptalia was already up, it seems. She wasn’t in my bed anyway. One of the concubines was pouring hot water into my basin for my morning shave. I shaved, washed and put on my robe. If we had had slippers in 900 BCE, I’d have had those too. Lazy. That’s how I felt. If you can’t be lazy once in a while when you’re king, there’s no point in being king.

I wandered off in search of breakfast. There were eggs and fruit and some sort of bread with raisins. There was coffee. Makeda, the Queen of Sheba kept sending it, along with news. Sheba now controlled some place called Ethiopia – coffee came from there, apparently. She had sent a slave along with the coffee who knew how to roast it properly. I was hooked. Ptalia was not in the breakfast porch either.

I took my cup with me when I went up to my study. As I got to the doorway, I heard little gasps, as if of incredulity and suppressed laughter.

Ptalia was sitting at my desk, with my scroll open, giggling to herself. I watched her. She was skimming the text fast, but would stop and laugh softly, and then keep going.

I leaned against the door frame and tapped my foot on the floor, my arms crossed.

She jumped up, and closed the scroll hastily. It rolled together with a “thwip” sound. She looked at it like it had burned her.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” she said.
View attachment 489648

“I told you it wasn’t ready,” I said. “I told you you couldn’t read it.”

“But Sol!” she said, “you can’t just write stuff and then not let me see it. I had to see it. I really wanted to…ow!”

I had grabbed her arm and was dragging her across the room under a beam.

“What are you doing!” she wailed. “Ow, Sol, stop it…” I stopped under the beam and threw a rope up over the beam.

“If you’re not going to respect my privacy,” I said, pulling the rope, “I’m just going to have to make sure you can’t do things you’re not supposed to.” I began to tie her hands to the rope.

“Sol!” she cried. “Stop it! You can’t tie me up just because I read your stupid poem.”

“Stupid poem is it?” I said. I pulled up the rope, stretching her arms above her head.

“Sol! Let me down!” she exclaimed. She kicked me in the shin. “Ow!” She’s a very fit woman, but she’s not that big, and my shin is still harder than her toe. I pulled her up off her feet. She was now suspended from the beam. The breeze blew through the window making her turn on the rope. She would face me, and then she would turn the other way.

I sat down at my desk, admiring my handiwork. She was turning clockwise now (if we had clocks) and as her front faced me, she said:

“You’re a terrible poet.” She glared at me, which was less effective as she started to turn counterclockwise to face away from me again, which left her glaring at a large Phoenician urn in the corner, a gift from one of Hiram’s wives. “Dammit!” she said.

“You know, stretched out like that,” I said thoughtfully, “your breasts are like graceful fawns in the lilies.”

“You’re comparing my tits to deer?” she said.

“I like the graceful and playful aspect of that image,” I said. “It’s a poetic metaphor.”

“It’s a load of crap,” she said. How she could look at me like her hands were on her hips when she was suspended by her arms from the ceiling was beyond me. Talented girl.

“Anyway, the whole poem is an allegory of the LORD’s love for his people,” I said, hoping to add some sense of gravitas to my work.

“You’re a man trying to write sexy poetry about his wife,” she said, “and doing a ridiculous job at it. Get me down!”

“No, look,” I said, milking the situation. “you have eyes like doves…”

“Cliché,” she said.

“…your hair is like a flock of goats…”

“Ew,” she said, “do you know what goats eat?” She was stretching her left foot down, trying to reach the floor. She couldn’t and huffed in annoyance.

“…your teeth are like a flock of sheep…”

“Sol!”

“…and your neck is a tower. I love your neck.”

“What does that have to do with the LORD?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, and this was where I got onto shaky ground, “He loves his people.”

“And do his people love him back?” she asked, “because if he goes around tying them to the ceiling…”

“His people yearn for him,” I said. “Didn’t you read the other bits?”

“Yes,” she said, “and this “people” thinks it’s silly, me yearning and pining away like that. I’d just grab a chariot and come after you if I wanted to see you.”

“That’s not as poetic as yearning and waiting,” I said.

“Look, Sol,” she said, deflating a bit and swinging back to face me, “it’s sweet of you to write poetry. Go ahead. But it’s really not that good.”

“Now you’re just jealous because you don’t write poetry,” I said.

“No,” she shouted, “I think it’s sweet if you write me poetry, but I think you should read it to me then!”

“It’s a religious allegory,” I said doggedly. “I’m trying to be deep and profound here.”

“By comparing my hair to goats?” she asked swinging away so I could see more of her hair. “Blast it all to the underworld!” she said in exasperation. She flailed her legs a bit, which was kind of enticing.

“If in your poem the LORD loves his people so much, why doesn’t he ever compliment them on their bottom. His people might have a really nice bottom, but he’s on about hair like goats and teeth like sheep. He sounds like a country hick. Doesn’t the LORD like my…er…the people’s bottom, or her legs?”

“Goodness,” I said scanning my scroll. “You may have a point.”

I got up and went over to her. Her breasts, which were, as she said, nothing like deer, were level with my face. She glared down at me.

“If you think…” she said.

“I guess we’d better check,” I said, and turned her around on the rope.

“Stop it, Solomon!” Her legs flailed again as she tried to kick me.

“Now now,” I said. “None of that. I am trying,” I said as I hooked my fingers into her waistband, “to give proper consideration,” I pulled her harem pantaloons down to her ankles, which stopped her kicking as well, “to your bottom.”

“Sol” she gasped.

I ran my hand over the curve from the small of her back down over the roundness, and then to the back of her thigh. I stroked, the line where the two curved cheeks met.

“You know,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

“What!?”

“I’ve been remiss,” I said. “I think your bottom really needs a poem all of its own.”

“Errrgh!” she growled. “When I get down from here…”

“But really,” I said, “you still shouldn’t have read my scroll after I asked you not to.”

I smacked her bottom with my hand. Quite hard. It went a bit pink.

“Yow!” she yelped. “Sol!” I smacked it again. I was really getting quite fond of her bottom.

She yelped again. I found it quite an arousing sound. “Again,” she said breathlessly.

“Hmmmm,” I said. I hit her bottom again and she shrieked and jerked on the rope. Things got a little out of hand, or in hand, or something.

Anyway, I took my robe off at one point, for greater mobility on my part, you understand, and there she was naked from the waist down, and her bottom was getting pinker, and then she would swing around and face me, looking at me with those wide dove eyes and gasping for breath. Finally, I inserted one of my hands between her thighs to stop her rotation, letting her rest on two of my fingers.

“Oh, Sol!” she whispered. She may have squirmed a little.

Anyway, that’s why there’s no description of her bottom in any of my poetry.

A great surprise after finishing of the eBook. But Madiosi inserted the last part.

 

[windar]

A fitting coda to a wonderful story. It really got to the bottom of things...