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

Uncharted Pleasures #WickedWednesday


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

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

Going His Way

She shouldn’t have been out so late, but that had never stopped her before. Her delicate, strappy stilettos and the plunging neckline of her dress broadcasted both her sex and her vulnerability. She might as well have stripped naked and painted a target on her back. To a strange man’s eyes, her look said, “Harass me. I’m obviously asking for it.

Was that what the man sitting across from her was thinking? Possibly. He was in formal wear too– not unusual for a Saturday night in the city. Tailored suit, black, silk lapels, thin tie. Crisp white shirt beneath. Shined shoes. Pleated pants. What was unusual was that they were alone in the subway car, entirely without company except for each other. Not even the city’s homeless were out on the trains this late.

It occurred to her that if he tried something, there wouldn’t be anyone to hear her scream.

If she’d been a smart girl, she would have gone home earlier. Tumbled into the back of a taxi with her girlfriends. Stumbled back into her apartment, downed a bottle of water, popped some aspirin, turned on Friends. Passed out safely between cool sheets behind a locked door.

But there was no thrill in playing things safe. That was what she told herself: that she was a thrill-seeker, an adrenaline junkie, a wild girl with no inhibitions. But that wasn’t it, was it? No– the excitement of the danger was secondary. What she really wanted was to live unconstrained by fear.

That’s what it was.

Slowly, she mimicked her companion’s posture. The friendly arm draped out over the neighboring seat, like he was making a move on a blind date in a darkened movie theater. The confident line of his lips, the look of superiority in his eyes as he watched her. She watched those eyes trail downward as she perfected her pose: a mirror image of this strange man across the subway car, she spread her legs wide, like a peep-show whore or a man asserting his ownership of the space.

The dress was too short to conceal much. Her panties had been discarded before she even left her apartment that evening– they made lines in the dress. She knew he had a full view of her sex, the dark curls of her pubic hair, the shadows in the dampening ravine between her pussy lips.

There was the clank of a belt. The sound of a zipper. And then, there he was, cock in hand. His lips said something else now, wordlessly smirking at her. Smug. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.

She didn’t allow herself to glance around suspiciously, ensuring they were alone. Now it was a challenge, a game of chicken beneath the glow of the subway lights. He pumped his cock once, twice, staring her down. Your move.

Her heels scraped against the floor of the car as she shifted. She was spread wider now, even more exposed. Always the entertainer, she traced her inner thighs with her fingertips first like a magician doing slight of hand. But even her sense of showmanship couldn’t stop her from the final destination of those fingers. They moved upward, teasing the damp curls of hair on her labia, slicking against the sensitive inner lips. Brushing up, then down, then circling around her clit. The movements of her fingers said, “I know how to please myself. Could you do as well?

If he understood her, his only response was to pump his cock harder.

Who was this man, this handsome stranger sharing the end of her night? A businessman, headed home after a long meeting? A club promoter on his way back from work? He had all of the refined good looks of an haughty heir of a huge fortune, a billionaire out on the town, riding the subway all through the night as he tried to remind himself how the lower class lived.

She was in love with him and in hate with him all at once. His scruffy, shadowed facial hair; the sleek style of his auburn locks; the way he devoured her with his eyes as he stroked himself, hard and erect beneath strong fingers. He clenched himself harder as she slipped her middle finger between her folds and deep into her pussy, then her index to follow. She strummed her g-spot like the string of a bass guitar, hitting note after note in perfect succession until her heels were digging deep into the floor of the car and her shoulders were tensed hard against the window at her back, braced for release.

When she came, she came violently. Orgasm hit her like a shotgun shell to the chest and she reveled in it. Her body bucked and trembled like that of a woman possessed, and all along she watched him watching her until he found his orgasm as well. His semen shot upward, onto his shirt and lapels. There was so much of it, an intoxicating amount.

Before she could control herself, she found herself rocked down on her hands and knees, crawling towards him despite the dirty floor like an animal stalking prey. She lapped it up, fulfilling the craving, giving into the need. Long, slow cat-licks, slurping as she cleaned his semen from the silk of his lapels, the linen of his shirt, the velvet of his tie.

He was going to have a hell of a dry cleaning bill.

His gaze was paralyzing as she licked her lips clean: hazel eyes, bright like a harvest moon. She knew she should say something, but what was there to say? Her arsenal of witticisms had escaped her.

Instead, she pushed off of his knees and brought herself to her feet. The slow, rocking motion of the train settled as it pulled into the station: her stop.

And silently, she straightened her skirt and winked at him before she broke his gaze and left the car, stepping out into the night.

If you liked that, then you’ll love Kayla Lords‘ Masturbation Monday, where getting off is only a right-click away. Masturbation is good for you– so this week, don’t settle for doing it alone. This is week 55 and my first go at a submission, but there’s a whole hell of a lot more where that came from and much, much more left to come.
xoxo Zelda

The Progressive Sub: My Submission Is a Feminist Statement


*stands up*

My name is Zelda O’Bannon and I’m a dirty, submissive slut.

*Awkward silence. This is an AA meeting.


I love to be spanked, ordered around, forced, teased and tortured. I like the feeling of a long, hard cock all the way down my throat, my nose pressed against his pelvic bone, his balls against my chin. I love being taken and used from behind, forced to cum over and over again.

I like relentless men, violent men, dangerous men. Pretty women. Various genders and identities in between.

And yet, I’m also a big, fat, raging feminist.

This is the part where you chime in: How the fuck do you manage that? After all, female submission is all about playing up the power imbalance, right? How can someone who seeks to abolish such a thing possibly also really love getting off to it?

If that shit dropped your jaw, allow me to do you one further: I fucking love to cook. I find my zen in scrubbing bathroom floors. I would rather delicately prepare a 5-course dinner and clean up afterward than I would ever mow the lawn or change the oil or man the manly thing that only men are traditionally acknowledged for manning.

See, there’s this crazy thing about submission that nobody seems to get but is 100% part of the lifestyle’s allure: the submissive, at all times, is entirely in control.

It’s so simple that it almost doesn’t make any sense at all. Being a submissive is firstly, about acknowledging one’s power over one’s own body. I own my body. I am its master. I decide what goes in it, around it, in it again, and again, and again, and OH GOD YES, YES, PLEASE FUCK ME YES!

And it’s only after I acknowledge that power that I can relinquish it to someone else. After all, if my body isn’t my own, then its certainly not mine to give– so when I say, “Please Sir, take my tight little pussy with your big, hard rod,” I am firstly letting Sir know: this is my pussy, and I am giving it to you. I am submitting to you. These are my gifts to you: my obedience– my consent– myself.


Good girls don’t need to see what’s going on.

“Kneel,” he tells her, and she obeys.

She’s a good girl.

She does what Daddy says.

“Eyes on the ground,” he tells her.

Maybe not such a good girl after all: she looks up.

He smirks down at her. “We’re still working on following orders, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, cheeks flushed. She hates looking down. He only lets her speak when spoken to; her eyes are her only form of communication. She wants to gaze up at him adoringly, tell him how she loves him in a flutter of eyelashes.

Instead, she lowers her eyes and stares at her reflection in the black shine of his shoes. Her hair has fallen over her cheeks, hiding her face. Her collar encircles her neck, a delicate silver choker. Her leash is an elegant string of pearls that hangs before her and leads up to his hands. Her breasts are bared. Her hands are behind her back. In her dark reflection, she looks every bit the slave that she’s meant to be– but it’s too late for that now. She knows her Daddy better than that.

“Close your eyes,” he tells her.

When she does, she feels cold silk against her eyelids.

The world has gone dark, but her other senses are heightened now. She can hear her own heart thrumming, quick like a bunny’s. She can feel the cold, hard tile of the floor beneath her, bruising her knees with her every move.

She can sense him move before her.

His hands smell like coffee and ink. She can smell them as he runs his fingers through her hair, stirring up the scent of her shampoo. Vanilla and roses. She smells as sweet as he is masculine, but her scent is light, and his is strong.

The smell fades as he withdraws his hands. She hears the sound of a zipper.

He pulls her closer.

“Open your mouth, girl,” he tells her.

She’s a good girl.

She does what Daddy says.

His cock is hard and demanding against her lower lip. When she flicks her tongue out, she tastes the salt of his pre-cum, slick and still warm from his body heat.

He pushes in, and she takes him. Her mouth is wanton, wet with longing. He pushes deeper, and she feels his foreskin pull back as it slides against her open lips. The underside of his cock, the sensitive ridge that connects head and shaft, smooths against her tongue, in and in and in, and then back out. She hears Daddy’s breath hiss. She knows then that she’s pleased him. He loves the feel of her tongue.

As his cock slips back out of her mouth, she draws in a breath. Her heart is racing with excitement. She knows what comes next.

He presses in again, harder this time. He is no longer relishing the warm wetness of her mouth. He’s only taking now, taking the mouth that he owns, the tongue that serves him, the lips that worship him. He uses her mouth like it was made only for his pleasure. In the moment, she believes it: she was made for this. She was made for him to fuck and him to own, him to use as he pleases.

In another thrust, he takes her throat.

There’s the old choking sensation, the inevitable panic as he pushes past her gag reflex and down her throat. She can’t breath, and he knows this. He’s waiting for the signal, the three quick taps against his thigh, but she doesn’t give it. She can take it. She can take whatever her Daddy gives her.

He wraps one hand around the back of her head– leverage. The other, he wraps around her throat. She imagines he can feel it, the way his cock bulges beneath the skin of her neck.

He ravages her and she loves him for it.

And just as she fears she has neared her limit, he withdraws. The first shot of cum lands against her lips, all salt and musk. The next finds her cheek; another still shoots all the way across her face, from forehead to jaw. He presses his cock back into her mouth for the final few spurts. His seed is sweet, salty, sour– a whole palette of flavors that he paints her tongue with.

He replaces his cock with his fingers, wiping the cum from her face and feeding it to her. Not a drop is wasted. She loves her Daddy’s cum. She licks his fingers clean.

When the blindfold is removed, he’s smiling down on her, soft and sweet so she knows that she’s done a good job.

“I’m afraid that we’ve stained my tie,” he says with a laugh. She watches as he examines the length of cloth that was covering her eyes: his favorite tie, the black silk one she picked out for his birthday.

“I’ll wash it,” she offers, but he shakes his head no.

“Let the housekeepers deal with it,” he tells her. He helps her up and she leans against him. Kneeling for so long has made her knees weak. “You did too well today, darling girl. I want to pamper you now.”

She smiles. She loves being pampered.

“How’s your throat?” he asks, but before she can answer, his lips are on hers.

“A little sore,” she admits when he finally pulls away.

“We’ll get you some tea with honey,” he says.

He holds her against him like a small kitten, pressing her cheek to his chest until she can hear his heartbeat through the linen of his shirt. It’s strong and steady, just like he is, and she slows her breathing until it matches her own.

Who the Hell is Zelda O’Bannon?

If this was a romance novel, it’d be raining right now.

But this isn’t, and so it’s not. At some point, I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m not a woman of romance novels. I do not sigh forlornly. I don’t pine after brooding, dark-haired English gentlemen. My feet are not dainty, my features are not delicate, and my near-death experiences rarely, if ever, come from catching cold after getting caught in the rain.

Being a romance novel heroine is all good and well for the women who can hack it, but I’m not that kind of woman. In reality, I’m the kind of woman that romance novel heroines hear their friends whisper about. I’m the plot device that serves a sole purpose of causing other, more socially minded and appropriate characters to become utterly appalled. I’m the girl who blows the hero in a dimly lit alleyway right before he goes off to profess his undying love to someone else.

What can I say? It’s a gift.

And the thing is, I don’t even mourn the fact that I will never be a Jane Eyre or a Lizzie Bennet anymore, because in reality, all of that pining and sighing seems like it would wear on a woman, not to mention the fact that I would look perfectly ridiculous in a fucking bonnet. If you want something, dammit, you go get it yourself. There’s no shame in the wanting– even when it’s forbidden. There’s no time like the present to stop waiting around for some handsome, rich man to take you to O-Town and start getting some for yourself.

Or at least, that’s the conclusion you’ve gotta come to when you’re not a romance heroine and it’s not raining.

I’m Zelda O’Bannon, and I’m here to break all of your rules.

Expect me.