#she's collecting a harem of men which makes her a HARLOT

[rorydrawsandwrites]

Watched Chalupa's sequel vids about The Princess' Jewels yesterday (because I love (vicariously) experiencing cringe)

Honestly, if the story just owned up to her villainy, I'd probably like the protagonist. I too have a feminine piece of turd named Rosie who's a spoiled rich brat and collects pretty men like toys. She deserves to be put in a gigantic blender and she's my special little darling. Let your female protagonist be a piece of shit that's acknowledged as one by the narrative and I'll be on board

[aaluminiumas]

The Exact Directions

        I should give up. I have to give up until it goes too far. I’m fed up with the Culper Ring, with espionage, with Brewster, Tallmadge, Washington – each and everyone involved. I cannot bear this bevy of ravening hounds chasing me. This war, implacable as it is, has already taken too much from me – it has bereaved me of my hick life, my everyday chores, my family, my Dad. I do not want to lose anything else – and I know better than to complain about the status quo. I already have a plan in my head – and after it’s carried out, I’m done. As I have said, I lost my father, and we didn’t vanquish. I had lost Anna even earlier – and yet didn’t receive a tad of safety I deserve. Despite her constant presence in the camp, side by side with Tallmadge, she didn’t do anything to indemnify me. Am I a whipping boy for the whole Continental Army?

        I heave a sigh, stroll nonchalantly across the hall nodding to the guests with an expression that I hope passes for interest. The festive dinner the Arnolds have arranged is truly captivating, I can’t but acknowledge that: the sheer grandeur of it is breathtaking, all the bigwigs are here and discussing Mrs. Arnold, General Washington and arduous schemes they’ve been speculating on for a certain amount of time. Hell with Washington, Howe, André and whoever else they bring up – all the names are supposed to strike a chord but not to cause contrition. They are mentioned just to tune the mood, to start the party.

        “Oh, you must be Abraham Woodhull,” comes a creaky voice, “Magistrate’s son!”

        “Exactly,” I offer a reverent smile. “And you are..?”

        He replies something, introduces me to his wife, to her friends, to their circle of acquaintances which will have erased by tomorrow. Where the hell Townsend? I’m sure he should be here. Ha has to be. Unfortunately, I’ve been taken away from my vantage point – this stout man talking to Arnold is thwarting the passage, so I cannot see a thing. Where’s he? Damn. I haven’t heard from him, and this concerns me a lot. What if something has befallen him?

        And then I catch a glimpse of his austere attire – his virtuously dark, inconspicuous garb. Maybe that’s what makes him such a good spy? He sends me a gander – and I forthwith intercept it, although his imperturbable, indistinguishable face stays as cool as always. He’s staid, and this trait gives him invincibility – he will not knuckle under anyone’s demands. He doesn’t show any sign he’s recognized me; furthermore, he’s normally neutral, nodding politely to everyone he is familiar with – to the whole hall full abrim with bigwigs used to loitering and lolling in his so-called coffeehouse.

        In a couple of moments, someone gives me a note – I seize it hurriedly, unfold it. Even if people spot me reading it, they’ll surely take it for a love letter from a lady.

        “Private Woodhull,” Colonel Cooke’s strident yet still orotund voice pierces my ears. He plows his way through the jostling people. “Glad you’ve come, boy.”

        “Couldn’t but accept the invitation,” here I smile again, wider than usual – I’m fed up with bandying pleasantries. I have to be in the opposite corner of the house, not to do the talking with another grandee. “Glad to see you here, too, Colonel. How’s the party going?”

        “Splendid,” he cackles and wrinkles his face, sipping exquisite wine. “It’s beyond my mind how Arnold’s managed to arrange such a soiree. Between us, he’s a little stiff. Stiff, pathetic and full of pathos – these are the components of his credo.”

        “Mrs. Arnold is sure to have helped him here. She definitely knows the ropes.”

        “She does!” he laughs in his squeakiest tone, obviously pleased. “I wager, you wouldn’t mind a wife like that! I’ll see to it personally, Woodhull. You’re already in the army, so the question of your promotion is just a matter of time, if you get me here. Women adore men in uniform – let alone despicable poons who spread their slits wide by meeting some regulars!”

        “I’m a married man, Colonel,” I chortle, although his blatant humor nettles me. “I’m afraid, harems aren’t allowed here.” I make a move.

        “That’s what I call inequity!” he guffaws louder, his voice rides up a notch. “Those wogs found the approach that worked wonders, didn’t they? No compliment to them, though.” he belches and scratches his turkey neck. “Anyway, when your ball and chain isn’t around, you can let yourself loose. Remember this advice, son. This saves marriages!”

        He’s certain he’s taking an image of a sage who has just outwitted me. I feverishly seek any excuse to leave him here on his own devices.

        “Oh. What a disaster,” he suddenly adds, putting his hand on the stomach. “My guts are in the mood to play a song or two. Don’t think I’m planning to get rid of you, Woodhull,” he creaks, “but this is the matter of high importance. Bubbling bowels aren’t the best when you have so many delicacies on the table – even if the table belongs to such a mess as Arnold.”

        “Of course, Colonel.”

        He swaggers to the servant, but before reaching this point, he turns around – he does have a ton more things to say. And I have to hear him out – and hope for his entrails to haul him to the latrine as fast as possible.

           “You are late,” Townsend states dryly with evident exasperation in his tone. His face as lurid as ever, especially in the dimly lit cubbyhole, his dark eyes shimmering with an emotion I cannot discern – and they are replete with confidence.

        “Colonel Cooke,” I explain hastily, “he’s buttonholed me in the hall.”

        He doesn’t say a word about it – just glares at me.

        “What?” I get inflamed immediately. “What should’ve I done? I couldn’t tell him to wait until I finish my spy chores!” I hiss at him, but it still doesn’t affect him in the slightest.

        “So listen,” he starts hesitantly, seesawing, “it’ll be quick.”

        I hear him out – his dry facts, the dry facts they appreciate so much, Culper Jr. they adore. But this is not enough: Townsend lacks the tads that can develop the operation Caleb mentioned once. They’re doing something.

        “Is that all?”

        “That is.”

        “Didn’t they say anything about future movements deeper in the country?”

        “No.”

        “You sure?”

        “I am.”

        “Townsend, this is not enough.”

        His visage hasn’t altered a tad, but I feel him tense. He is calm and collected, his movements – or rather lack of them – composed, but I can fathom his change of heart.

        “Then what would be?”

        That, honestly, strikes me dumb. I am not certain as to what should be said, what I can make seem important. I’m flummoxed and perplexed.

        “What would be enough?” he repeats, tapping at every word, his gloomy brown eyes penetrating me. “You don’t know, do you?”

        He suddenly draws closer, and it feels unsettling. “Woodhull,” he growls in the lowest tone possible, although his voice is never loud enough to be perfectly heard, “Private Woodhull,” he corrects himself, his tone morphing into ominous hissing, “next time provide me with the exact directions.” He whispers and stares deeply into my eyes for a while longer.

        And then it happened – something I cannot forget or explain. He grabbed me with his sinewy hands, squeezed me, and kissed me right in the lips. This sufficiently passionate kiss was the manifestation of his well-concealed temper I have never spotted before. I am not aware of the reason what cause such wave of feelings inside me, but I clutch his wrists in my fingers and return the kiss. It rives my vision of normalcy, but I for some obscure reason… I don’t care.

        I just stick my nails into his cassock, into his flesh and devour his hidden fervor, the flame I have never bumped into. Is that what’s stowed away inside that severe robe?

        “Exact directions, Woodhull,” he reminds, panting and moving away from me. “That’s the crucial thing I need while working for you, or Washington.”

        With this, not saying anything else, Townsend leaves me in this nook. I come up to the surface – to see Colonel Cooke telling another dirty joke.

        “Harlots are expensive,” he guffaws with a short cough, “but there’s a way to finagle a few pounds out of her, or, say, screw the hoe over!.. Once I had to do the trick…”

        I don’t get the rest – now I have to muster all the exact directions to give them to Townsend – and to meet him again.