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Your People Will Be My People

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The thing about marriages, Jenny learned, was that it had never occurred to Her Majesty or anyone else to say which ones weren't couth. When a diplomat arrived in London with his three wives, eyebrows were raised certainly. Filthy and rude jokes abounded. But not a soul claimed he wasn't wed to all three. Why, hadn't the Biblical patriarchs had more than one wife, Isaac and Jacob and David and Solomon?

Jenny wasn't one much for the Bible any more, not after the cruel lessons she'd picked up in the orphanage, the beatings she'd been given in God's name. But she was passing fond of the story of Ruth and Naomi.

Her lady, her love, spoke her vows in the tongue of her own people: you are mine and I am yours and we are for and of each other. Jenny found a tattered old leatherbound book and gave the pledge she'd already made: where you go I will go and where you stay I will stay. Strax made a poor preacher and a poorer judge, but he was no fool, and he mumbled something appropriately pious to someone's god and only made two or three attempts to start a war.

It didn't matter. They were wed, and no man could come between them.

Vastra was lovely, green and undulant under Jenny's tender touch. Jenny served her first, loving her the greater (Vastra said it was the reverse, that she loved Jenny more). Her wife – her wife! – tasted as delightfully smoky as she did yesterday, but Jenny lingered because she could, tickling at the tenderest scales, running eager fingers under crests until Vastra swore and moaned and called Jenny a terrible tease. It was always this way, her impatient mistress wanting the full pleasure of Jenny's tongue, and Jenny rude and playful in her denials.

The payback was just as sweet, Vastra's truly perfect tongue crawling the length of Jenny's body, her strong, talented fingers driving home into Jenny's eager cunt as her nose teased Jenny's equally eager clit. Vastra fucked dirty, and hard, and Jenny quaked with every stroke, shouted again and again at the unrelenting onslaught of single-minded pleasuring.

They went until they were too tired to move, too tired to speak, loving each other in turn, and collapsing limply to the bed they'd shared these several years like two spent newlyweds. Jenny couldn't imagine being happier.

"Madame," she said, in the teasing tone she liked to take, the one that made Vastra smile like a naughty green nun. "What'd'you say tomorrow we get married again?"

"What a perfect plan," Vastra agreed, and kissed her.