Starved Beast

"Drink, my love! Drink! Keep drinking! Keep drinking!"

The wretches were soon unable to walk, or talk, and the soldiers liked it that they were naked and insensible. The soldiers slapped their breasts and tickled their ludicrous backsides. They pressed sticks between their legs searching for holes; and they laughed because the women were incapable of connecting two meaningful words, too drunk to grasp the sticks penetrating their pussies, too drunk to know what was causing their pain: too drunk.

And what had either of them done? Nothing. That's what!

The soldiers were blinded by this comedy. It was farce, a good show, public entertainment, for there is nothing more ridiculous than a naked woman attempting to run while drunk and being unable to find her own feet, or hands, or tits; and these were dangerously drunk.

The Marquis was the organizer. He was the villain.

I stared impassively at these women's breasts and nipples as the men poked them with sticks, and I saw in place of bold re