Monsieur de Guerre and Madame de Milo . . .

Scribbler59’s entry in the backstory competition:  read on and enjoy the romp!

“But, Marsie, it’s The Must Have Invitation of the Year,” I pouted. “And I toiled to persuade the Direttore of the Museo di Veniche to grant me an invitation … for the two of us, of course,” I added quickly as I squeezed close on the loveseat and caressed a lock of his blonde hair off his furrowed brow.

My husband looked at me askance. “And what did you do to … for … the Direttore in order to acquire this invitation, my dear VeeVee?”

“Why flirtation, that’s all.” I rested my head against his chest so he could not see my betraying eyes. “You know those days of offering more than that — to anyone but you, my love — are long gone.”

He slipped the invitation from the envelope and read, “A ball, you say. A masked ball,” he sighed. I knew I had him. “And what, pray tell, is your interest in this event?” He placed his index finger under my chin and tipped my face  towards him.

“Why, it’s a perfect opportunity for both of us,” I said, surprised that he didn’t see as clearly as I. “Imagine. As the event of the year, budding young girls, yet not plucked playing coy with eligible suitors. Their loins throbbing with expectation. Women of a certain age, shamelessly spilling their engorged breasts atop the Regency bodice, pitifully hopeful that this be their final walk as lonely, single females. Men, much like yourself, will prance like show ponies and strut like the peacocks they imprison on their manor lawns. With the hunger of wolves they’ll hunt for their inamorata and ready themselves for the fight. The air will fill with the aroma of carnal hope, competition, triumph and defeat, subjugation, love and loathing.” My breath quickened as I felt my own lusts rise. The thought of the masked ball and all its promise excited me.

My husband wasn’t blind. We knew each other for what seemed millennia. “Put that way, my dear VeeVee, we will of course go.” He gently tugged my long, flowing locks, raising my face to his.

His eyes locked to mine and ever so slowly descended to my lips, to my décolletage and we embraced with a passion that only the two of us could know.

With near violence, our lips parted. I moaned. “Yes, I see where we could both have much work to do at this event, my dear.”

“But,” he paused. “Who or what shall we be?”

“Why we shall go as ourselves. What better disguise, my darling?”

A powerful laugh rose from deep within. “Brilliant, my dear. Brilliant.”

“Wait til you see what I plan to wear. This Regency style that is all the rage is perfect.

I’ve found a lovely gown that accentuates my lines. I must merely find a mask to hide behind.”

“And, I, what do you have planned for me?” he asked, rising from the loveseat. I don’t think it will do for me to arrive in my normal ‘costume.’ He stood before me naked, but for his crested helmet.

We shall find some original way to clothe you, my dear.” I ran my fingers across his firm, rippling chest muscles and pressed my own nakedness against him. “Though you are God of War, my dear Mars, let’s not begin the masked ball with a clash amongst all the fairer sex to ravage your body.

That would leave so little opportunity for me to have a bit of fun coupling the young fruit with the hungry animals.”

Mars swept me up and slung me over his shoulder, my most intimate regions exposed to the Gods. “Venus, you are an unrelenting tease,” he thundered. “We shall go to your masked ball. But this moment, we have other business to attend.”

PS: The availability of much ambrosia and nectar would be most appreciated.