Sushigirl in Love #WickedWednesday

She thought it would make the job easier, being covered up, but she thought wrong. A maki roll over each nipple, the ebi nigiri across her rib cage, futomaki down her stomach and sashimi covering her mons pubis made her feel more naked, not less. Having it stripped away by wealthy businessmen, each piece elegantly removed by well-handled chopsticks… that was just icing on the shame-cake.

A decade before, a girl like her could have made ends meet on the street corner. It would have been dark, hurried, impersonal. A couple of sloppy blowjobs, a few minutes of dry thrusting in a back seat, and she would have had enough cash to cover rent. But now there were sexbots for that, dead-eyed women of perfectly toned silicone– which was what the johns had wanted in the first place. She didn’t have a voice box that could be turned from sweet and innocent to rich and sultry with the flip of a switch. She was flesh and blood, imperfections and skin flushed pink with embarrassment beneath the white imitation geisha face paint the Sushigirls had to wear as a man with a deep frown line in the middle of his handsome brow traced the tips of his chopsticks up her thigh.

If she hadn’t been laying down, she would have trembled.

He had an ad man’s haircut and a thousand dollar suit. He’d been a regular since before she started working at the Floating World sushi parlor, where the businessmen entertained their clients with the rare delicacy of perfectly prepared tempura and nigiri eaten off of real, live naked women. But after  the first time she had laid at his table, looking elegant as his business partners chuckled and plucked California rolls off of her collarbone, he had requested her every time since. She didn’t know why– she wore the same white face, black eyeliner and red lips as any of the other girls, and laid there just as still– but she had become a regular at his table, and he came nearly every night now.

His chopsticks lingered at the shallow valley where her thigh met her sex. She was meant to keep her eyes trained on the ceiling, but she let them stray to see the look on his face. Her gaze was met with steely grey eyes. He’d been watching her, waiting to see if she reacted. Briefly, she wondered if it had been a test– then one of his business partners tweaked her nipple with his chopsticks, and a roar of laughter followed as he played it off as a mistake. Her grey-eyed patron smirked, but he didn’t join in. Instead, he peeled the final piece of swordfish sashimi away from skin and raised it to his mouth. He ate it like he was tasting her, obviously savoring the salty freshness of the meat.

She loved him, she realized. Not true love, no, but something akin to it. She loved him even as his chopsticks returned to stroking her inner thigh, which wasn’t allowed. The clients weren’t supposed to touch the Sushigirls, only the sushi– but he was a man who didn’t seem to care for rules.

They all left in a hurry, sorting out whose suitjacket was whose in a bluster of designer labels and expensive cologne. No one wanted to linger for long after dinner was done. She supposed, in the grand scheme of things, she was just an appetizer for their evening– their main course was attached to chargers in the robo-brothels down the street, girls with silicone lips who had been programmed not to say no.

But the man with the grey eyes stayed, long after his companions had gone.

Her body felt dirty, sticky with soy sauce and lingering saltiness. Her patron didn’t seem to care, though. Not as he rose from his seat and rounded the table. Not as he grabbed her hips and pulled her to him, so she was just at the table’s edge, her legs spread. He didn’t seem to care about anything, really– not the rules, not his business partners, and certainly not about the sexbot brothel down the road– only about her, her body, the unspoken desire between them that felt as real and solid as a silver chain collared around her neck and held in his hand.

His tongue was dark pink and warm as he licked his lips, then licked hers, up and down and up and down until she could have begged him to take her– but she didn’t have the words. He pushed his tongue between her pussylips, claiming the salty sweet wetness between them. His tongue traced along her labia minora until her thighs trembled. There was a whimper that she held in her mouth for as long as she could stand it, but when his lips found her clitoris, it eased out of her desperately. His fingers teased her entrance, and against her will her hips bucked wildly as he pressed them inside of her.

She came hard, his perfect hairstyle ruined in the clutches of her fingers, his lips covered in her juices, her ankles crossed against the crisp collar of his dress shirt.

When he smiled up at her, the frown line between his brows seemed to have momentarily disappeared.

“A tip,” he said, as if that explained it all. He kissed her lips gently once, and then rough and full of longing. His tongue tasted like her, and like saltwater and sake.

“Next week?” she asked sweetly. Her voice sounded breathless and hopeful and small.

“Soon,” he promised, and then he was gone– before the bouncer or one of the other girls could discover the secret of their brief tryst. She watched him go, still tasting him on her lips. Sushi would never taste the same again.


This has been a Wicked Wednesday post, highlighting my deep yearning for some good sushi and even better sex (I’m home for the holidays and alas, landlocked again). Wicked Wednesday is on Week #182, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #2. Check out the other entries and drop me a comment or something 😉 xox

Silk and Velvet Beneath His Hand #WickedWednesday

It was a dark place, all black velvet and cool silk against her eyelids.

By day she was messy, fast-moving, fast-talking, timid. That was how he had first found her: in a white thrift-store blouse stained with coffee dribbles down the front, a lilac pencil skirt that was two seasons out of fashion and straining at the seams of her hips. Ill-fitting pumps from the half-price shoe store down the road. A bad perm that frizzed up when it rained. When she remembered those days, she could barely believe he’d given her a first look, let alone a second.

At first, she thought he must have first talked to her just out of the goodness of his heart. That’s what she saw herself as, anyway: a charity case. She was used to men like him talking to her, men with stiff jawlines and immaculate stubble, men in designer suits. They flirted with her as a joke while they bought scarves for their wives and girlfriends– scarves that cost more than what she’d make in a whole month. But he’d been different. All charm, no laughing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She’d learned it too late: a man like him didn’t do anything out of some moral sense of obligation. He’d seen something in her that day at the department store, something deep below her messiness and her paygrade. Something intimate and forbidden and closed off from the rest of the world– but men like him knew a submissive streak when they saw it. It was like how men intrinsically knew when the stripper they were tipping was ovulating. Mother Nature at her best– or her worst.

His hand came down hard against the bare curve of her ass, just like it had done dozens of times before that moment. But where at first the spanking had come in brutal, painful waves, now she was removed from it. Somewhere else entirely. The hotel room that he rented weekly for their little sessions melted away, just like the whole world had when he first asked her that all important question: “Have you ever been disciplined?” Since that day, she’d been whipped. Paddled. But his hand was always her favorite. It took her to places deeper and darker than she’d ever imagined. His skin against her skin. The softness of the bedspread beneath her cheek. The hardness of his cock against her stomach as she laid across his lap.

He built up a rhythmic crescendo with his hand while she sang the melody in tiny coos and heartfelt moans. Beneath the blindfold of his tie across her eyes, the blackness ignited into multicolored fireworks. She was dripping. Every blow was felt in her clit as much as she felt it on her ass. By day, she was insignificant. But by night, on the nights he had her, she was powerful and charged with something darkly beautiful beneath his hand.

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post by your favorite slutty pink-haired… writer-type… thing– me! Wicked Wednesday is on Week #179, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #1. Check out the other entries and drop me a comment or something 😉 xoxo Zelda

Purchased & Forbidden (The Billionaire’s Little Princess #1)

November 3rd – 5th: GET IT FOR FREE!

Have we as a society beaten this billionaire thing to death yet? Personally, I think maybe. Probably. But then again… who’s stopping me?

Chanel is a busty brat with an addiction to couture. When her shopping addiction runs her trust fund dry, she finds herself at the mercy of mafia loan sharks with a price on her head.

Her only hope is the wallet of Dane DuPoint, the dangerously good looking man of the house (divorce papers pending). When she was younger, Chanel always loved playing damsel in distress with Dane, but this time, her knight in shining armor thinks she’s taken their game way too far.

Dane’s billionaire bank account might be able to bail Chanel out of her sticky situation, but in Dane’s world of luxury and glamour, nothing comes for free. As Dane sets out to discipline Chanel for her bad behavior, her own dark side is revealed. Paid for but forbidden, Chanel might be the princess of the castle– but Dane is clearly the king.

This is a 9,000-word erotic romance short involving a sexy older alpha male billionaire and a mouthy blonde brat in a taboo tryst. It features spanking, dominance, submission and light female bisexuality. Luxury, opulence and spicy hot chemistry!


Enjoy an excerpt, special, just from moi xx

The door clicked into its lock behind me and I felt my shoulders tense in anticipation. I wished he would just get it over already. Yell. Scream. Slap my face. Call me out for what I was: a spoiled brat whose trailer trash past would always catch up to her. An addict for luxuries I couldn’t afford. A leech. A bitch. The dumb cunt who had cost him dearly just because she couldn’t keep her spending habits in check. Hell– I was the daughter of the woman who was serving him papers for divorce settlement of the century. I knew he had it in him, and I knew that I was ready to take it.

Plus, I deserved it. I knew that most of all.

But Dane didn’t scream at me. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t say anything– not at first. He just walked over to a plush leather armchair and let his body fall back into it, the Manhattan skyline at his back.

Now that I could get a clear look at him, not even the room’s flattering amber glow could hide his fatigue. I saw the wrinkles in his white linen shirt, the kind that always worked their way into cloth in airplane seats. I saw the reddish tinge in the whites of his eyes– they didn’t call them red-eye flights for nothing. And as he poured himself a glass of bourbon from a decanter on the end table beside him, I saw it in his furrowed brow. The sleeplessness. The worry. The frustration.

“Take off your shoes.”

I startled at the sound of his voice, then nodded and bent down to undo the straps of my stilettos.

It was an odd request– or so I thought until I saw the way that my feet were bleeding. Give it to the high fashion world to sucker a girl into paying five thousand dollars for foot torture. Across my toes and at the backs of my heels, the straps of the shoes had left my skin painful and raw. After the night I’d had, it felt good to finally have them off. Hell, it felt like heaven.

“Now my jacket.” He was the picture of casual confidence, one leg crossed over the other as he sipped at his bourbon.

Wiggling my toes against the plush rug beneath my feet, I slipped the jacket off my shoulders. I dropped it on the ground next to my shoes and looked to Dane for his next order.

He shook his head from side to side. “Didn’t anyone teach you manners, Chanel? Hang it up.”

Suppressing an eye roll– what did it matter? They cleaned the rooms at the Oriental twice a day– I bent down and retrieved the jacket. When it was hanging on the coat rack, I crossed my arms and turned back to Dane.

“Next time you throw something on the floor like that, you’ll be punished,” he said.

That time, I couldn’t have contained my eye roll even if I wanted to.

“Punished?” I laughed, hard and dry. “You can’t be serious.”

He looked serious.

That scared me.

“Take off your dress,” he said.

My mouth fell open into a perfect, round O.

“You’re fucking with me,” I accused.

The look on his face told me he wasn’t.

To my horror, I found myself struggling to reach behind my back for the zipper. I was shocked. Annoyed. And I was struggling to follow his orders anyway.

Dane DuPoint was a dangerous man like that.

I’d marveled at Dane’s ability to do that, to bend the wills of others to his own, so many times as a young girl. Like most teens, I had wanting nothing more than to do exactly that. Have my way. Get it every time. I’d seen Dane use it on his business associates, his friends, store clerks and telemarketers. He’d even been able to master my mother with it, for time. Stray dogs would trot over to Dane at his slightest whistle. I’d seen them do it. Then, they would roll over and flash their bellies to him, wag their tails and lick his hand.

“Come here,” Dane said. It had become clear to him that my dress wasn’t coming undone without some help.

My uncanny willingness to follow Dane’s commands said as much about me as it did about him. I was no better than those dogs.

We were one and the same.

My aching feet crossed onto cool wooden floorboards and back to carpet again as I approached him. I was wary of Dane DuPoint. I was scared of what he could make me do and even more afraid of how good it felt to obey. But I was also wary of what might happen if I didn’t. The threat was suspended, unspoken between us but entirely understood. Dane had bought my freedom, and he could sell it right back, too.

Subconsciously, at least, I had known that when I gave Tony Fortunato Dane’s number. It wasn’t kinship that I had counted on to bring Dane to my aid. It wasn’t sympathy or a soft heart. Men didn’t get to where Dane was in life by handing out favors– especially not million-dollar ones. I’d known that if Dane came, it was because he thought he could get something out of it in return. I’d just suspected that the “something” would be testimony against my mother in their divorce case.

I stood in front of Dane, my knees shaking, as he grabbed either side of my dress’ ripped neckline and tore it off of me.

I had never imagined that he might have wanted that.

I was suddenly more exposed than I had been all night. The low hum of the suite’s heater did little to change that. Beneath Dane’s gaze, I felt my skin prickle until every hair follicle on my body felt as if it was standing on end. He poured over my body with his eyes like I was a legal textbook and he had a case to win. He left no visible curve unexamined. Not a single uncovered inch.

And I still had my bra and panties on.

“Bra off,” Dane said, obviously keen to rectify that.

It was then that we stood on the precipice between inappropriate and utterly wrong. The shoes– that had been normal. Practically intuitive. We were in for the night. They’d been killing my feet. The dress– that too I could explain away for my own peace of mind. It had been ripped, ruined. I would have needed help out of it either way. A little T&A for his troubles? I could understand that. I could forgive him that.

But as my fingertips danced against the clasp of my bra, I knew that once it was undone, there was no turning back.

Liked it? Loved it? Neeeeeeeeed it? GET IT! 100% free from now until Saturday… no strings attached 😉

xoxo Zelda

Slumming it #MasturbationMonday

They called it slumming. That was what it was.

She could see the limousine coming from a mile away. The roads were flat in the slums, but the women had curves. That was about half of the reason rich, arrogant assholes made their way to the rough side of town. They wanted something to hold onto while they fucked. The girls uptown had delicate china bones and less fat on them than a top sirloin steak. Those girls couldn’t take it rough. They were too valuable to break and they didn’t know how.

The limo pulled up alongside her corner and she got in, ripped fishnets sliding against expensive leather apolstery.

The other reason why the rich came to the slums was pure superiority. They liked that they could own a girl like her for mere pocket change. She held out her hand and five hundred dollars was placed into it. For them, it was the interest accrued on their savings account that month. For her, it was rent for that month and the next and the next.

She counted her money before she looked at them, but when she did look, she wasn’t exactly displeased. They were the handsome rich, good-looking as they were wealthy. It meant that their personalities were shit, of course– no man ever had all three– but it made her job easier. No matter what the romance novels said, sex wasn’t about personality. Sex was about power, first and foremost, and then it was about physical attraction.

She’d done worse on a Monday night.

“Full service?” Her lips were thick, glossy red with cheap lipstick. They didn’t make lips like those uptown– not without collagen injections, anyway.


The dark one spoke first, his accent elegant and cultured. He had hair slicked back like a 1950’s ad man, sharp features, oil slick eyes. He and his friend sat across from her in the limo. They beckoned her to them with their index fingers, all come hither with their eyes. She crawled to them on her hands and knees to close the distance. They always loved it when she crawled.

“Blow us.”

The fair one had a rougher accent– a self made man? She’d never know, but she could tell that the silver spoon in his mouth wasn’t quite as large as the dark one’s. The fair man had a broader jaw and cornflower eyes. His hair was shorter, unstyled. There was a scar across his left eye that cut straight through his heavy brow. The dark man looked like an aristocrat. The fair man, a mercenary.

She undid their belts one by one, methodically. One buckle, then the other. One button, then the other. Their cocks emerged erect– a good sign. They wanted her, hard with longing. Hard cocks, she adored. There was nothing more unsatisfying than a limp cock in her mouth, especially since some of their owners couldn’t get it up at all– not even for a downtown girl.

The dark man was circumcised. The fair one was not. Apart from that, their cocks were practically twins. The same handsome, even color of flesh. The same luscious pink glans. She could hardly decide which to lick first. They stared down at her expectantly, as eager to see who she would choose as she was to begin.

It was the fair man’s, she decided as she slid his foreskin back and took the head into his mouth. Uncircumcised men had a natural beauty to their cock’s– and they were more sensitive. As she ran her tongue around the head, the fair man hissed and bucked his hips. Intensity. She loved that sound. It was what kept her on the streetcorners instead of in the factories. It was a pleasure to please.

The second man was far more reserved. She went at his cock with long, quick puppy-dog licks. Eager to please. Ecstatic.

She had a cock in each fist by the time she could truly study the two men. She wondered what their relationship was– why they had come together. It wasn’t unusual for men to come in groups. They loved to gangbang the cheap whores, all of them throwing in five dollars and getting a whole night’s worth of entertainment from it. But if they didn’t come in hordes, they almost always came alone. Were they best friends? Lovers? Not brothers– if you took away their designer suits, they would have looked like they were from two different worlds.

As she moved her mouth from one cock to the other, sucking back and forth, she watched their heads tip backward simultaneously, their eyes fall closed in the pleasure of it. That was odd too– usually, they liked to watch. She was all smudged eyeliner and cheap mascara, her breasts bouncing heavy in the low cut of her top. Her skirt rode up as she bent over them, and she could feel herself growing wet. Hot. Longing.

They smelled like mint and citrus, tasted like salt and musk. That was the best thing about the rich men– they were clean, more often than not. Sometimes, they would come in dirty, but that was just because they liked the look on a girl’s face when they forced her mouth down on it. These two were impeccable, though. Even their fingernails were clean as they dug them into the leather of their seats.

She plunged lower, taking one all the way down her throat then the other. They were close now, side by side and grunting softly. The dark man came first as she pumped his cock in her fist. His cum shot everywhere: her hand, the door, his own thigh and across the fair man’s pelvis. And then, just like that, the fair man came as well– right down her throat and into her stomach.

“Lick us clean,” the dark one commanded. He was breathless. They both were.

As she laid in her bed after, the darkness of her tiny, shitty apartment swallowing her whole, she slipped her fingers between her legs and thought of that moment. The way the two men held each other’s gaze as she slurped up every last bit of the dark one’s cum off of muscled skin and hairy thigh. Creamy. Delectable. Rich men had better tasting cum, the other girls always said. It was the first time she believed it. It had been sweet. Delicious.

She was slick as she touched herself, remembering the way that the dark one must have discovered that too. When she had straightened her skirt, she’d seen the money change hands. A roll of bills from the dark man’s fingers into the fair man’s pocket. The dark one had reached over then and stroked the fair man’s cock once, twice, squeezing out the last remnants of the fair man’s cum. And then, he had dipped his dark head low and licked it off, the final drop that she had missed.

If you liked that, then you’ll love Kayla Lords‘ Masturbation Monday! Like somebody probably once said, two is better than one! This is week 61 for the rest of the MM crowd and week #3 for me. TELL ME THAT I DID A GOOD JOB OKAY? Blow up that motherfucking comment section and validate my sense of self worth, you beautiful bastards.
xoxo Zelda