The whistling was mediocre; the arse was magnificent. Well, son of a sword! I think I have died and gone to Asgard…or is it heaven? Have I sunk so low that I now lust after a nun? Pitiful…I have become pitiful. But not in a million years would Toste inform Lady Esme—or Sister Esme—or Eat-me (don’t think he had forgotten that erotic misspeak)—of his presence in the abbey gardens…not until absolutely necessary. He was enjoying the view too much on this unseasonably warm November day…and he didn’t mean the scenic village and forests which surrounded the tidy grounds of the religious community. His brother Vagn had always claimed to favor women with big breasts, but Toste ever did appreciate a shapely female arse. I wonder what she would do if I dropped down behind her, real close, and— “Go away, Viking.” Apparently, she was aware of his presence, after all, but didn’t even bother to turn and look at him, just continued trying to lure a cat out of a low bush by waving a peacock feather about.
