Sorry again for the blogging hiatus, but I do have a life of my own, you know. So don't be so possessive, so demanding, or you'll push me away altogether! And then where would you be? Yes, where would you be then?
Look, I have a confession. I should have told you, I know, but don't read anything into it that simply isn't there. I published a book. I published a book and forgot to tell you. When? Weeks ago! Yes, weeks. It's no big deal, surely? So why are you looking at me like that? Yes, like that! Look, this isn't all about you, yer know! I thought we knew each other well enough to trust each other. No, I'm not seeing someone else. I don't know why I forgot to tell you. It just slipped by somehow. I just published it. No big deal. And before you say it is, it isn't. It's just another fucking book. So either accept it for what it is or just leave me alone. I can't take any more of this. You are doing my head in...
Sorry about that. It's why I live alone most of the time. Even my two and a half cats (all stuffed, and all a bit threadbare) are generally on the edge of walking out. But it's okay. If I need someone to talk to, I know you'll always be here, no matter how incredulous your expression is right now. And if I need more than that, then I have the money, clothes, car, shoes, handbags, scatter cushions, physical attributes and wherewithal to get the other too. And generally at the drop of a hat. So there!
This book (the one mentioned in the blog's title if you're wondering what I'm on about) concerns a design, an esoteric design of interlocking circles, that some say has an incredible ancient power. I first saw it tattooed on a tit, the nipple and areola acting as the pattern's centre. And a very pretty tit it was too; it demanded to be licked, sucked, fondled... Mmm, what a night that was. As the owner nippled my slippery clit to orgasm (that was a first, but not a last: I am very partial to nipple/clit intimacy. There's probably a word for that, a word I'm too vanilla to know. Fill me in please if you know what it is. Thank you x), I glanced down at that pattern and thought, 'There's a story in this'. And so it proved. It's a bit dark in places, a bit paranormal too, but the sex is well worth waiting for. I think so, anyway - it's made me cum a few times, if that's anything to go by.
Back to the story. It took me a while to gain the experience that triggered it, a little longer to research the symbol further, and several tortured hours, days, weeks, of writing and rewriting, but I got there in the end. All you have to do is pay 99p and read it. How hard can that be? It can be found here:
This little book is number thirteen in my Naughty Nibbles series. And before you say, 'What happened to number twelve', I'll tell you what happened. Twelve is my unlucky number, so I left it out. A dozen doesn't do it for me. It never has. If I buy a dozen eggs, one is always broken by the time I get them home. 'The Dirty Dozen' was my most disappointing film ever. Jesus had the same problem, so I'm in good company - not sure about the eggs or film, but his twelve disciples were a disastrous bunch, brought him (and subsequently the world) nothing but trouble... Thirteen, meanwhile has brought me nothing but joy. Did I ever tell you about that rugby team? At one in the afternoon? Friday the thirteenth? Thirteen tongues? A baker's dozen of dicks? And one of them a prodigious inch over a foot long? Remind me one day, and I'll relate that one. I still haven't found that rugby ball...
Right. I'm off. And so are my knickers. I need a naked nub of nipple between my legs and fast. See you soon,
Lots of love,
Alexandra
Brief extract from 'The flower of life':
Green shoots coil around my naked limbs, cutting into my flesh like wires. I struggle, but know it is futile. It always is. But though I am never strong enough to escape, I fight on, regardless. Side stems sprout, buds form, and the familiar flowers quickly bloom. They rear their huge white heads and release a perfume that intoxicates me, eroding my will until I simply do not want to escape. Two prehensile stalks snake silently into the air. Their flowers hover above me. They sway menacingly, hypnotically, then strike like cobras. One monstrous flower snaps closed over my face and immediately begins to suck the life from me. I lie rigid in the velvet darkness, unable to breathe. With accustomed horror, I feel the second bloom close like a vice around my naked groin. It pulses rhythmically, drawing me into hardness as the pressure and frequency of its efforts increase. Sticky-sweet stamens invade my mouth and nose, the tendrils forcing their way into every orifice, choking me, as the pain in my groin melts into pleasure and intensifies.
‘Oh, God! I’m… I’m…’
I panic then gasp for air and thrash my arms. Trembling hands tear the nightmare from my face and crotch and I sit up in the darkness of my room, drenched in sweat, fighting for breath, heart hammering in its bony cage. I reach beneath the sheets. Reassuringly firm and painfully hard, my erection throbs in my palm, my abstinence still intact.
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