A Brief Leave of Absence

This is goodbye, sweethearts.

Not like, a long goodbye, or a final goodbye. This is comma or a semicolon, not a period. I’m not getting married, or undergoing a sex change, or going into witness protection or anything. No one has knocked me up, and when they try to make me go to rehab, I’m still all like, “No, no, no.”

What actually is going on is that I’m taking a very small break from blogging so I can pursue a Very Big Thing. I cannot say exactly what this Very Big Thing is yet, because that would suck all of the fun out of it like a vacuum hose around an erect penis (note: please don’t try that home). But it’s an awesome big thing, very cool, totally awesome, you’ll all fucking love it. Swear to God.

Have the decency to miss me a little, my darlings, but do not mourn my absence because I’ll be back by New Year’s day to continue to deliver sub-par erotica to the glorious internets.

And I’m bringing friends 😉

xoxo, Zelda

Crossing the Line #WickedWednesday

“I’m going to break you,” he says.

I spit in his face like I mean it. “I’d like to see you try.”

This is the delicate game that we play: love, hate and longing all tangled together in the sheets. He has my wrists tied to his bedposts and my chin in his hand. I anticipate the slap before it crashes against my cheek, but I don’t flinch. His secret police hit me harder when they brought me in.

The governor and the rebel– what a pair we make. He steps back from the bed and puts a gold ring on each finger of his fighting hand. I utter a string of curse words in a language that he’s banned. When his troops first invaded this land I call home, we slaughtered them by the thousands. When I’m in his bed, he makes me pay for it.

“You need to be taught a lesson, girl.” He cracks his knuckles like he scares me. “We told your kind to stay in your borders. This is what happens when you disobey orders.”

He straddles my stomach and teases my breasts out of my torn blouse. I feel his cock harden as he takes my nipples between his fingers and I pretend I don’t like it. He’s rough with them, vicious, neatly manicured nails biting into each rosy peak.

“Beg me not to,” he tells me.

“Eat shit.”

I know what comes next, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. He backhands me, one cheek then the other, so hard I see pretty colors. I can smell his cologne as his rings bruise my cheekbones. I open my mouth to cry out and accidentally bite my tongue. There’s the taste of blood: bright, tinny, warm.

“Does that make you feel like a man?” I growl. It’s only half an act. I hate him like a cat hates water, but there’s no denying the wetness between my legs as he pulls his knife and cuts me out of my breeches. My cause is my curse. I’m destined to despise all that he is, and to love every brutal second of how he makes my body feel.

This is the dance of a rough man and a rougher woman: He presses the edge of his knife against the curve of my left breast. I can feel it bruise my sternum. I kick him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs and his body off the bed. He loses the knife and I pick it up with my teeth. I’m cutting one wrist loose as he pulls his gun. I drop the knife and he brings the grip down on my temple. My world is spinning and I’m swimming in a sea of hurt as the weakened rope on my wrist finally snaps. I clap my free hand to his ear and he curses in pain, recoiling. I nearly have my second wrist free when he stops me with the click of a cocked gun. There’s cold metal at the base of my skull and a hard cock pressed against my ass. No white flag needed– he wouldn’t accept a surrender if I knew how to give one.

He uses my body like a solider uses a whore. I cum with his gun against my head. He has the decency not to fill me– neither of us want a bastard half-breed tied up in this war. He shoots his cum onto my back instead. It stains his fine linen sheets as he turns me over and uses my mouth until I’ve sucked him clean. He kisses me like I’ve been conquered, but we both know better. By morning, I’ll be picking off the guards on the border through the scope of my sniper rifle and he’ll be wishing he had just killed me when he had the chance.

He holds me after and I let him. I’ve got a fat lip and a bruised ego. He’s got a conscience. I wonder if I popped his eardrum. Probably not– if I did, he’d be sobbing.

I let myself sink into him, let him shield me with his warmth, but when he says it, I tense up like a deer in headlights:

“I love you.” His voice is hoarse as he presses the words into my ear.

I push his arm away and pick myself up out of his bed. He’s looking at me with those amber eyes like he’d give me the whole world if I would just say it back.

He ought to know better. I won’t.

I walk out the door naked. His guards know by now that I’m not to be touched. A string of words follows me out. They sound like “please” and “no” and “don’t leave” but I’ve got no will to listen. There are some lines you just don’t cross.


This has been a Wicked Wednesday post! Wicked Wednesday is on Week #184, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #4. We’re on the subject of boundaries this week– is there anything in bed that you just won’t do? Let me know in the comments! xxx

A Chronic Dependence on Good Vibrations

This is me right now: huddled beneath four blankets in a bed and breakfast, the closest to my hometown I’ve been since I decided to ditch the States and become Rambling Bohemian Barbie, shivering and tea-sipping my way through the Lovecraftian horror of all stomach flus, and mourning the recent passing of the only vibrator I brought back with me (which isn’t so much Dead-dead as it is Battery-dead, thank god).

Ah, yes. As you can imagine, I am the picture of sexuality right now. May God smile down on the kind soul who can manage to a modicum of attraction to my frail trembling body beneath two layers of long johns and an oversized Motley Crue t-shirt I used to wear as a dress back in high school.

The vibrator thing is getting to me, though. My typical mountain climbing, nightclubbing, wild child self gets all Jekyl-and-Hyde when it comes to being sick. In fact, I reckon the only thing I AM capable of right now is casual masturbation– which has been thoroughly thwarted by the aforementioned dead batteries in my weapon of choice.

I wasn’t always this way– swear to god. In the pre-vibrator years (some of which were when I wasn’t legally allowed into a sex store, some when I didn’t have real access to one, some when I was scared shitless of someone catching me perusing the local dildo aisle) I was like a sex toy MacGyver. Chuck me a condom, a spent toilet paper roll and a rubber band and I could jerry-rig something to get me off in five minutes flat.

But in the post-vibrator years, I thought that those skills would only be useful during an inevitable prison stint (and only if I didn’t get wifed by some sex-kitten Alex Vause type first, naturally).

These years of vibrating my way to Pleasureville have been that kind of luxury that, to quote sub-par 80’s hair metal band Cinderella, “you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.” But now, in my sober, sorry state, I wonder if this isn’t a good thing. Maybe there’s really such a thing as too much good vibrations– maybe it’s time to stop humping a motorized piece of plastic and really get back to my roots. Remind myself of the magic that my own fingers create.

And barring that, I’ve got three magnums, some lube and a cucumber in the fridge. I’ve never really been the veggie-fetish type, but I mean, a girl’s gotta do…


 

So, what’s your preference? Do you vibrate along all night long, or do you prefer manual mode? Ever gone on a sabbatical from your sex toys? Unfortunate vibrator-related stories? Talk to me in the comments, lovelies xx

Uncharted Pleasures #WickedWednesday

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Just take some soil samples, they said.

It’ll be easy, they said.

The air was breathable on the alien planet, which was lucky because halfway through filling her first test tube, her oxygen supply had been wrecked. The bubblegum pink suction cups had come out of nowhere, latched onto her helmet, ripped it off and flung it away.

She might have been scared, but the planet’s atmosphere also had a pretty high nitrous oxide content. Instead, she felt giddy. Floaty. Dreamlike and flying high.

Every breath left her head spinning deliciously, her glasses askew as she watched the tentacle slither toward her. Her toppled test tubes and extraction kit laid scattered around her, already forgotten. She knew she should recoiled when the tentacle reached out to stroke the boot of her space suit, but the instead the nitrous left her feeling euphoric. The suction cups along its bottom sucked against the boot’s ankle, released and climbed upward. She knew she should have tried to scamble away from it as it wound its way up her leg. Maybe it was the scientist in her. Maybe it was way If she had thought to scream, she might have– but there wouldn’t have been anyone to hear it, anyway. The planet was supposed to be totally uninhabited.

Apparently, the tentacle currently curling around her upper thigh hadn’t gotten the memo.

It ripped the bottom half of her suit away like it was pulling apart cotton candy. Four thousand dollars of high tech protective synthetics, ruined just like that. The sensor in her ear was beeping frantically, alerting her to the danger of being so exposed, but it seemed so secondary to the way the planet’s sun warmed her tanned calves, her bare thighs. The heat between her legs.. well, that was all her own. She was wet, she realized, and she couldn’t tell whether that was because of the nitrous or because of the way the tentacle returned to her– this time, with a friend.

They tickled their way up her legs, suction cups kissing her skin gently like twin lovers. She found herself bound by them as they wrapped around the thickness of her thighs and flexed tight. No escape– not even if she wanted to. She didn’t. Her clit radiated with longing, pulsing along with her heart beat. She was aching to be touched, and every breath only made that wanting worse.

The next tentacle to appear over the edge of the rockface were full of rough promise. The first shot out demandingly and tore away the front of her suit, revealing her breasts. She’d been effectively stripped by them, she realized– all of her most delicate parts bared for the taking. When it had rid her of the last barrier between her breasts and the warm alien air, it snaked behind her, binding her arms together tight. To her delight, she found herself lifted up off of the ground and suspended in the air, chest pushed out garishly, legs spread.

Tied and helpless, she watched two more tentacles pop over the edge of the cliff. Her nipples, hard and taunt and throbbing, were their targets. These tentacles lacked the suction cups of the others she’d encountered so far. Instead, they ended in two bulbs that hovered over her tender pink areola. The blubs opened up to reveal several rows of dull teeth that latched onto her nipples viciously. There was a desperate suction to them and a gentle bite that sent sensation coursing through her nervous system. The pleasure and pain were practically indiscernible, irrevocably bound to one another.

She was brimming with the need to be filled now, so badly she could feel it in the roots of her teeth.

When the final tentacle appeared, she couldn’t just blame it on the euphoria of the air she was breathing anymore. She wanted it. Desperately. The thin line separating want from need had dissolved in the wetness between her legs, even as the tentacles holding her thighs spread them wider and the teeth at her nipples twisted them until she was moaning in delicious agony.

The last tentacle was slick and streamlined. It left a warm gooeyness on her inner thigh as it stroked her, almost lovingly, before sliding between her pussylips and pressing in. She whimpered for it as it expanded inside of her, adjusting its thickness to fill her tight. The sensation was surreal. She had never been filled so thoroughly, so comfortably. It fit her like it had been made to, pressing up against her g-spot so hard she was spasming in moments, gasping, bright colors all around as it brought her to orgasm, the sounds of her own pleasure amplified by the atmospheric high.

At some point, she passed out.

When she awoke, she was inside her spaceship again, a thick creamy wetness between her legs that tasted of hazelnuts and vanilla. Her test tubes had been filled with soil and carefully lined up in their holders on her console. She was naked, but wrapped gently in a soft blanket from the ship’s bunk.

She almost didn’t believe it had happened at all as she set her coordinates for homebase and prepared to launch. But as she looked down at her wrists, her forearms, her thighs, she knew it had been more than just a dream. The tentacles had left their mark on her, purple hickies from the suction cups marking every few inches of her skin, bruised reminders of the greatest pleasure she had ever know.


This has been a Wicked Wednesday post and my first foray into the weird world of tentacle porn. Wicked Wednesday is on Week #183, brought to you by the delectable and most admirable Marie Rebelle of Rebel’s Notes. As for me, this is week #3. Check out the other entries and drop me a comment or something 😉 xox