Chapter 4: National Rivalry Ignition

Victoria lay in the centre of the ruined bed. Legs still spread. Inner walls gaping and glistening with the mixed warmth of four nations. Release leaked steadily from her. Pooling on the black silk in thick white streaks. The air was heavy with the scent of sex and defeat. Salt sweat. Sharp wine. The faint, lingering cologne of each man now overwhelmed by raw musk.

She propped herself on her elbows. Surveying the four men like a queen reviewing a conquered army.

“Opening statements complete,” she said. Voice husky and amused. “Now the debate.

Who performed best for the womb?

Let’s hear your cases.”

Langley recovered first. Chest still heaving.

“England took you first,” he declared. Voice clipped with aristocratic certainty. “I set the depth. The others merely followed.”

Macrae, still on his knees, shook his head.

“Scotland endured,” he said quietly. Guilt rough in his throat. “Longest. Deepest. My warmth reached where hasty English dribble could not.”

Llewelyn laughed. A bitter poetic bark.

“Wales gave passion,” he countered. Gesturing dramatically. “Fire that made her sing. Volume and rhythm. England was a sputter. Scotland a dirge.”

Ó Néill spoke last. Voice cool and measured.

“Ireland finished strongest. Controlled. Last and deepest. The rest wasted themselves early.”

Victoria’s laughter rang out. Low. Delighted. Cruel.

“Listen to you,” she said. “Four proud nations reduced to arguing over who left the most useless warmth inside a single woman.

But you’re right about one thing: performance matters.”

She reached down. Scooped a thick rivulet of their mixed release from her centre. Held it up to the light. Let it drip slowly between her fingers. The viscous strands caught the candlelight. Stretched. Broke. Fell warm against her thigh.

“England: quick, arrogant, barely coated the entrance.

Scotland: long, but so guilt-soaked it felt like penance, not potency.

Wales: pretty words, pretty thrusts. Then premature poetry all over my thighs.

Ireland: controlled ... until the mask slipped and you came like the rest.”