Isabella watched the other man come around to stand beside her. He surely saw that she had been jutting her hips out, and let her skirt drape over her curves. At least he did not want anything of her, and he clearly could keep his temptations in. Isabella smiled at him as he came to pick up the rooster she had gestured to, and he had handed it to her. She took it as he had suggested, keeping the wings pinned to its side. He was right to think she knew nothing about chickens, especially considering she care little for them except for the eggs in particularly rich foods. Last Suppers were accentuated with more and more luxury, she noticed as the months went on. Isabella was happy to see it, for she was a woman that liked her things rich, and her tastes were expensive.
As the man wrestled with the next chicken and another rooster, Isabella slipped her choice of cock into the saddle bag, careful to secure him in the bag. She quickly buttoned the bag, leaving only a small hole for the creature's head to pop up. He clucked rapidly, head bobbing around as he looked at the horse and at the woman who had put him in it. Thinking ahead, she had put the chicken facing out, so that it couldn't peck her pour Ducky or her own legs. She could do without leg scars from an angry pair of chickens. Isabella had the other bag ready as she turned to look at the man as he fought the rooster. But he came up victorious and the hen went into her bag too. They were surprisingly calm for being locked in a bag without any potential for movement."
"Perhaps I ought to have taken that one. I have a hen who needs a good man to quiet her." She thought no such thing, but it would certainly add to the lie. Isabella's eyes widened as she saw the blood on his arm. She rushed to him and touched the area near the cuts. "Oh you poor thing," she cooed, almost surprising herself with her sugary falseness. She puckered her lips, wondering if it was all a little too much.
Photo courtesy of john curley. Table by Kitty.
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