Thursday, September 27, 2012


We sat and lamestormed the subjects of our upcoming blogs.  Pedicures lamenting... lame.  Opinions on ink cartridges... lame.  Fire ants vs. Firing Aunts... lame.  Finally we decided that we'd write something about ourselves that no one knows.

Zi runs regularly.  He has repeatedly stated calling what he does running or jogging disrespects every runner and jogger.  He describes his exercise as making it 3.5 miles without needing any ambulatory services. 

So why does he so torture himself? 

He'd throw out health.  But that would be a lie. 

Weight control.  Another lie. 

He's all-male and runs at a busy park near the University of Delaware's campus.  So is it the clench and release of a tight buttocks that he's following, the swish and sway of the perfect pair of child-bearing hips, the healthy red glow of hearts racing, the rhythmic bounce of pendulous breasts mimicking the runner's pace held in a sports bra which is one size too large, the soak of sweat making female's garb cling, the unique and interesting malady of other's runner's nipple, or the heavy breathing of wild monkey lovin' remembered?  Maybe.  Maybe not!

I suspect it  is the writer's curse.  Writers like Hemingway, Poe, Milton, Shakespeare, and Tennyson were thought to find idea-creation beneath the influence of their drug of choice.  Zi's drug is the endorphins released during long distance running.  It is called runner's high.  In the wash of that euphoria he finds the freedom to free-float through the landscape of ideas.  A happy healthy pituitary gland pissin' endogenous opioid polypeptide compounds is a cheap buzz.  Zi's a nickel-squeezer about some things.  I am suspecting opiates for the creation of a state of well-being may be on his short-list of skinflintery.  So after each econo-buzz at the park he returns and sits at the keyboard and recapitulates.  Some inspirations recalled are as soggy as his perspiration.  Some insights are quite trite.  But there are those moments of endorphin spirited brainstorming that float above the norm.

This is all more the conjecture why he runs.  It could be the clench and release of that tight buttocks.

The shower scene in KILLER DOLLS came from one of those post runs.  It is different.  Angelica laughed then said no, we re-word-pictured it, and she was sold that it was complicated, noble, and risqué.  A splashy moment of naughty and nice. 


There beneath the rain of water, she saw him raw. His

legs as if massive spruce trunks she felt she was to be drawn

between. She could not delineate that line between reality

and fantasy and relished that domain.


She found herself gulping both water and reactions.

Immediately it was obvious he was an exemplary example of

man, his hairless chest was chiseled as hard and finely as

marble beneath the hands of Michelangelo. His wide

shoulders were flawless except what could have been an old

knife wound, healed well but ragged. His hips narrowed and

framed his male scepter. Her mouth formed an ‘O’, yet

withheld the accompanying and matching sound. He was

indeed the Elephant King.


With pragmatic intent he poured the entirety of the

provided shampoo onto her head and began to lather while

blocking the water from her. Generally a banal act while in a

shower but his purpose was powerful, use as much soap and

water to cleanse the area.


She pressed her hands against the glass shower door

and the ceramic tiled wall. They turned into claws as her

breathing became sporadic. The thick viscosity of the

shampoo made for the slow ooze of the matter, it bringing

stellar sensation as it crept downward. It seemed odd that

having her hair washed could produce such intoxicating

arousal, but it did. It was the feel of his hands on her that

provoked the sloshing tide of almost hot water flowing over

her like caressing feathers drawn slowly upon flesh. She

wanted to scream, Now! Do it now!


He continued to lather her, slowly, thoroughly, fingers

delving into every crevice, around her neck engulfing her

throat, fingers kneading, under the wedge of her breasts,

circling them, up and down the demarcation of her spine,

caressing shoulders and buttocks, one arm, the other,

smoothly dragging lather past her underarm toward the

slope of her waist, back to her buttocks and between those

cheeks, viciously and then between her legs, deliberately

thrusting inside her until her insides clenched, squeezed at

his fingers, pressed against them, and then exploded,

coming in a sudden silent scream of release. He didn't seem

to realize what had happened and continued his laborious,

detailed cleansing over her thighs, calves and feet, and then

he washed himself quickly yet just as thoroughly. Watching

him aroused her all over again. She tried to reach for him, to

be the one to touch every part of him, especially his massive

appointment, but he ignored her timid attempts.


Once washed, he turned off the shower and toweled

her dry. He followed the guidelines. She should be fine. She

had to be fine. He'd call for clean up and then get her away.

He'd find a safe place for her. He couldn't risk losing her


We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at (Write - Blog - in subject line) and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~

Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane STEEL EMBRACE



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