Tuesday, June 1, 2010

a MiST returnsssssss...

misty's been bizzzy, doing those kills that just wouldn't
get done without her. but i'm back, for awhilst...

     well lovelies and dahlinks, no doubt you had never expected
to hear from your sweet mist again.
     goes to show you may not deserve a sweetie that doesn't
forget her fans.
     sick and twisted fans albeit, who drool reading
of sexpots icing doomed guys in the most gourmet ways. julia
childs eat your heart out. and rest your soul.

     but, of course, no one's more sick and twisted than moi, so
don't feel all alone and abandoned sweeties.

     speaking of abandoned...misty dahl would not leave her
dedicated readership for six longgg and lonelyyy months
unless forced by the necessities of murdering guys in hottt
sexy ways for large amounts of cool sexy cash (well, actually,
deposits in offshore bank accounts).

je suis such the writer...n'est pas? tho misty does so
love to write about us women and our straaange desires ;D

     this forced delay in sharing my innermoist (pun. i slay
myself) secrets was trying on your dark heroine. i get off
almost as much recounting exploits as i do commiting them.
maketh moi thinketh i be a writer at heart.
     a murdering hot bitch of a writer. yet one

     as such, i enter my verrry early misty 30s (give or
take five years to keep offguard you junior detectives,
interpol, fbi, mafia, narcotrafficos, cia, mossad,
komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti, gru,
etc, etc, etc).
     coming of age, misty finds une certaine maturite unfolding.

     these days (et nuits) je desire a smidge of emotional
attachment with sex partners. of late, lusciously killing
targets for obscene amounts of cash has become
like that 50th straight rollercoaster ride. twentieth
el presidente shot. tenth snort of blow. that
seventh la perla panty model of the evening
you've soixante-neufed. that fifth season of
dexter (can yOu believe they nixed his wife!
someone needs to serial kill the writing staff...
i sooo volunteer. oooops, just a joke fbi ;) ...
     all of it has become a tad like the peggy
lee song.

myyy darlinggg young gal pal 'Dorreen'...a sweet young thang
who happened to share misty's naughty naughty delite in...
let's just say it...murderrr. yum.

     what does it all mean my honies? hmmmmmmm..?
     i remind myself of one of misty's naughtier intimates. a
sweet 20-something wickedsweeet asphyxia domme with a
taste for male sacrifice. as readers of moi know, misty does
nOT approve of thrill killing. so de classe. for me, 'murder
sweet' is a calling. a profession. a career.
     however, her kills died in such ecstasy, just how
misty recommends chix nix their vix, i turned the
other cheek (no pun intended, children).
     besides, her ass tasted like Heaven.

     dorreen (let's call her for purposes here), like all addicts,
found kills became less and less satisfying. misty
could relate.
     as a severe christian louboutin addict, after
my 37th pair, the thrill of slipping my hot,
deliciously sculpted foot into a louboutin
stiletto lost it's gloss. at a grand a pair, such
a waste. misty practised immense self-control.
limiting my purchases to a louboutin
every two months got my cunt wet again.
and misty's always best with a wet cunt.
hydroponic. drowning. glub. glub.

what can misty say!? i'd kill for a new pair of 
Christian Louboutins! annnnnd...i often do!

     and so dorreen's murderous addiction led
to her catching yummy sacrificial prey at an
alarming rate. almost a doomed male a
month. kindly, she chose single males who
were loveless. not just because it was easier,
but, bless her soul, dorreen didn't want a
poor wife, child or girlfriend to be bereft.
dorreen always had a big heart.
     and strong piece of rope.

     then one hellacious weekend of skiing,
sucking and fucking each other dans les alpes
francais, my young dear admitted a tidbat
over a very dark steamy cup of sumatra roast at
chamonix mont blanc.
     yummy sacrifices of bound, frightened yet
orgasm-ing lonely, handsome males had worn a bit...
     "mist...i admit it's getting to lose that...qu'est-ce
que c'est?"
     of course, misty thought it was a joking
reference to the talking heads first hit. but
mist was wrong.
     my sweet asphyxia domme-slash-ski-slash-
fuck and suck partner's translucent eyes looked
sooo bleue. so sad at slowly losing her sweet
     misty understood. killing was love itself.
union with your prey. a meeting of the souls.
that moment when vic yields, becoming
part of your very being.
     we were not sadists, or certainly not
misty. sure dorreen could enjoy administering a
wicked whipping. a harsh strapon to a
wimpering hogtied male. but with killing...
it was pure love.
     this she was losing. the dahl had come to
a crossroads in life...sweet thang.

as if you had not guessed, Dorreen and i were close friends.
verrry closssssssse!

     "it doesn't make me come as before. i used to be
a river. now i drip. you, have what, a job three, four
times a year? maybe that makes it better. you have
the thrill of planning. waiting for the assignment. right?
makes it more special."
     misty nodded.
     "maybe doing it whenever is the problem.
quelle probleme, n'est pas, mon amour?
remembering is becoming more exciting than
doing. what is happening to me! you know?"

     i did.
     why misty never let hunger for le
meurtre make her compromise principles.
     oh yesss, dahlings, pay for murder killers can
have principles.

     enjoy the kill. but never kill just for enjoyment.

it was a weekend of getting lost in powdery moguls togetherrr.
we also left the room and threw in some skiing...wink wink.

     as my honey dorreen's crimson lips sipped her black sumatra
roast, the oblivious holiday skiers shussed by.
     her long tongue flicked, and licked her red lips. there's a
shade of blood red only a murderess wears. it looked good
on dorreen.
     to see her tongue run across that color, circle around
the lips of her half open mouth, soiled my panties then and
there. don't think that's a load. misty's a fucking good writer
who doesn't need hyperbole, dahlings.

     i imagined the blessed victims, falling into wicked, fatal
unconsciousness. she, bringing them to sexual release. that
tongue, now innocently licking her cup, licking their
dying faces. tasting her kill...as i had done so many times

     as we sat, a wind blew. the chill of chamonix mont
blanc swept the patio, adding to the misty shivers through
my misty body.

[to be deliciously continued...can you stand it?]

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