At last he finished, stood away from her limp frame and poured two great slugs of cognac into the glasses. Sappho remained prone on the leather Chesterfield, oozing c*m from where her chamois skirt had been rucked-up around her flanks, but the General was having none of it.
He cradled her shoulders as though she was a wounded comrade, which, of course, she was, and, just like in the films, propped her against his knee and fed a few drops of the distilled spirit between her lips.
Sappho coughed, imbibed and swallowed, then, opening her eyes, looked up at the General and, as a broad smile broke out across her face, she asked: “We won but how many times did I get hit?”
They were the only words she uttered before reaching up to pull down the General’s head and kiss him. Then, as a measure o
