by Mia Natasha
eXcessica publishing
A Smashwords Edition
Putting The Madge In Danna © May 2012 by Mia Natasha
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Putting the Madge in Danna
By
Mia Natasha
PUTTING THE MADGE IN DANNA
A Blog by Dannika Elinopoulous (soon to be Zepkos)
And Toto Too
Sunday, JULY 12, 2009 - 8:30am
Sometimes I end sentences with and Toto too. It’s something I picked up after years of watching The Wizard of Oz, my father’s favorite movie. He’s from the old country, a man with a dream to come to America, you know – over the rainbow. He did that when he left Greece for New York then opened his own restaurant and banquet hall all by himself - no parents or wife (until later when he met Mom here) or any extraneous baggage, just him and a raggedy stuffed teddy named Toto. Whenever he tells the tale, I always say, and Toto too? And he says, Toto too.
Naturally, I admire my father. I guess I’m a Daddy’s girl, since I’m his only daughter. I love hearing Dad’s stories, which he embellishes more every time he tells them. There’s always a new tale too, told at the family dinner table, usually at parties or holidays and always filled with intrigue and humor, and such. I doubt there was an actual Toto though – what do you think? I mean, what grown up man brings a toy on a transcontinental journey? I can see a comic book or two. Dad loves Wonder Woman. Maybe that’s what it was.
The truth about Dad’s voyage to the United States, according to my Auntie Sofia, was that he wasn’t alone at all. He was actually with a group of people led by a guy named Christos, his great uncle or something, who parted ways at JFK airport and then ended up heading west to become a rodeo clown. I think he died trying to save a cowboy. A beautiful woman named Eleni had traveled with them, but she’d returned to Crete after only two months because of a broken heart, apparently. I heard she’s a spinster who bakes honey puffs for a living now. That leads me to believe that Dad had been the heartbreaker, not Uncle Christos, even though Dad was just a teenager at the time. Food must have been their common denominator, right? He’s such a great cook, always coming up with different concoctions for salads, and easily the best baklava maker in the world. When my Auntie Sofia told me the Eleni part of the story, she’d sworn me to secrecy. Mom doesn’t even know - which proves that some things are best kept secret.
And I’m sure Mom has secrets of her own, by the way. Yaya has alluded to her less than stellar teenage ways on more than one occasion, something about bringing a kid named Shaun Cassidy into her bedroom. Growing up, Mom had often hounded me on the importance of being a virgin for your intended, even though neither she nor Dad had ever been issued that advice or taken it from their parents, as far as I know.
I think everyone has to grab a little gusto before the big day, just as my parents had done. They’ve been happily married for twenty-five years now – it’s obviously worked for them. Testing out hooey-pricker connections makes sense. Makes a love affair with your spouse even that more special, because you’ll have had more experience.
Zeus Zepkos is the only man I’ve ever been with in a fucksy sort of way. We’re getting married at the end of August. He’s the perfect man, but I’m afraid we’re going to fall into a rut - same old, same old, until sex gets boring and…old. I don’t want a rutzie to happen to Zeus and me. I won’t let it. I need to do something though, because my hoo-ha hasn’t seen much action beyond the big kazoo, which is the code name we have for Zeus’ cock.
I have to do something to justify our love, a top-secret mission of sexual proportion before the big day. I need to have my wild oats sown so that I can been there, done that to my daughter someday - when we have the talk. I wish I could be more like Madonna Ciccione, a.k.a. Madonna, my musical hero. She had left a trail of lovers on her way to becoming the superist-duperist pop star of all time. She fucked like a man and lived to tell the tale. I love that about her, that unashamed of her sexuality thingy. I love everything about her, really – her talent, beauty, strength, and her almost immortal timelessness, which is sort-of god-like. I touched her toe at a concert once. Zeus and I had front row at the Madison Square Garden Sticky & Sweet Tour show last year. Our connection had a God to Moses vibe, like in the Sistine Chapel, you know? It meant something. Zeus kept calling me Madannika afterwards, as if a part of Madonna’s spirit had hopped into me.
It’s Sunday morning on the anniversary of Dad’s first day in the United States of America, a day we always celebrate with hot dogs and chocolate milk, which was his first meal on Coney Island. I’m sure there will be more stories. If I don’t get too drunk, I’ll try to remember to ask him more about Toto.
I need to get ready for the party. After the big meal, we usually folk dance in the backyard around the rose garden trellis to the beat of a kettledrum, but Zeus is going out of town tomorrow so we’ll have to cut our visit short for some wham-bam.
We’re getting married in seven weeks! I really hope our marriage is as successful as my parents’ is and Mr. and Mrs. Zepkos’, of course, although even better than theirs sounds much dreamier. My parents are closed lip about their past, which leads me to believe that what I assume is fact. I don’t actually know if Auntie Sofia’s gossip is true, and Yaya has dementia. Anyhow, Mom and Dad do seem happy for two people who were raised in the 1970s - not drunks or hippies, or slutsie-whatzies.
Hmm. They are always having some sort of passionate yelling match that ends in a series of smooch-a-roonies as they make their way to the bedroom - and this after all those years of marriage. I’m pretty sure that if I can slap some notches on my cuntessa, then maybe Zeus and I will achieve that same happiness. It’s the right thing to do. I will have it all…and Toto too.
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The Vision
Thursday, JULY 16, 2009 - 8:00am
It’s too spectacular for words. Have I fallen into a Technicolor dream? Yes and yes. The lights flash blue, red and yellow in the white mist of the concert stage, and the sea of yellow flames from lighters in the black abyss come with screams from the ecstatic fans, many of whom have paid hundreds of dollars to see this spectacle. We’ve practiced long and hard, and are ready for our close-ups - just my pop idol and me, singing and dancing in sexy syncopation.
Madonna and I are on the
stage of the Saratoga Performing Arts Center. We have just begun performing the choreographed song and dance to Vogue. It’s very Kalamatiano step-wise, totally easy for a Greek girl like me to follow. Madonna would have a great time at a Greek wedding, I’m thinking the whole time I’m doing back-two-three. I throw in a toe-ball-change as Madonna turns then I pose with lips pursed before the runway part starts. I’ve never modeled before, but I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it if Madonna can do it, because I’ll do whatever it takes to be just like her.
We are the same height and look a little like sisters or mother and daughter, really. I have brown hair just like her daughter, Lourdes. Madonna has her hair in those tight ringlet platinum curls from the Truth or Dare movie. I think her boobsies are bigger than mine are, but that’s because hers have been squeezed, prodded and sucked on way more than mine. She’s a mother after all, not to mention her years of fuck-a-doodle-doos. She’s just so beautiful though, like the goddess of sexy-sexy.
We both look super-duper sexy, wearing matching bustiers that lace tightly to our tiny waistlines and hold up fishnet stockings with slutty rips in them. Our nipsey-russells are covered with titty ta-ta tassels that swish when we move. I love the black velvet mixed with red and green ribbon, and the white lace of our corsets that she has picked to represent her Italian heritage. And, I have to say, it feels very comfortable to move around in the retro Vivienne Westwood five-inch stilettos. Not at all like those supermodels who kept falling down the runway when they wore them – I can do this!
Madonna and I face each other and I finally notice her bare pussy. Wow. It is just like a little girl’s with tiny little lips dangling a drip to lick. I look down and find that mine is exposed too, but it’s the regular way, a tidy trimmed dark cunt cover. I don’t seem to mind this at all. I don’t try to cover myself, even though I’m not the kind of girl who normally goes for T & A flashy-flash. I’m not ashamed of my body, especially my pinkie, which is as clean as you can get it. It has welcomed the cock of only one man, after all.
I’ve never had the inclination to go lez, but I can’t stop staring at those wicked lips. They are singing to me. Suddenly I feel compelled to fall to my knees and offer her bare mon-mons a kiss. I see it as the fountain of youth summoning a protégé. It will give me all history and all knowledge – which sounds biblical, doesn’t it? Because this is like an omen or something. Madonna holds my head against her hungry hooey and I lick it. The fluid I catch lingers on my tongue like a salty elixir that makes me stronger, the way Gatorade does when I drink it after a run or something. I feel like I am licking the oracle of a deity, quite frankly, and I will lick-lick forever and a day if I can. I drink and drink. My tongue worships her.
“Just get to it...Vogue,” she raps.
Just get to it, I think. Lick the deep recesses of the hoo-ha and it will give you all the knowledge you seek. Wisdom in juicy-juice. I throw my tongue into her dark and dirty corridor, hoping to unleash more secrets. There are so many that my head sees mathematical formulae, literature in ancient languages and works of art even as my eyes are tightly closed. It is a powerful and seductive orifice, I know, one that has seen a lot of action, one that probably knows how to accept any and all cock, tongue, kink, and fetish. I feel like I have successfully unlocked its gate. I’ve been drawn into the inner sanctum, and it feels like home.
“Strike a pose,” she says in her breathy voice.
I drop down on my hands and knees, and wait like the bitch that I desperately want to be.
“Teach me,” I say. “Teach me how to be a better fucker, oh great goddess of pleasure and music.”
Madonna dances around me as the audience applauds. They like what they see. They’re cheering like Romans at the Coliseum, screaming her name, and mine it seems, but only because they sound so similar. Madonna, Dannika….
I watch her sidle by. Please don’t go, I think. Don’t leave me. Not yet.
No, she is only over by the speaker grabbing a drink of water. Now she’s buckling on a belt of some sort, changing costumes I think. She’s so fashionable, I wonder if it’s a Gaultier piece? I look up. Turns out, it’s a leather belt with a gy-normous black rubber dildo attached. For me?
“Everywhere you look, it’s heartache,” she sings.
She stands behind me. Madonna grabs the microphone snuggled behind my ear like a Bluetooth - and slaps my ass with it! It tingles but not with pain. It’s more of a cunt ignition, if you must know. My hooey is salivating at the bit. She starts a count and gets the fans involved.
“One...two...three...four...five...six!” My ass is on fire – ouchie!
Her voice is loud, very old-school Madonna, with the nasally Michigan accent, not the British thingy she’s been doing lately. It resonates like the voice of the announcer at the soccer game Zeus and I went to last month, filling the venue and making me crave popcorn for some reason.
She wraps her arm around me placing the microphone up to my lips.
“Do you want something to remember?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say into the mic. The word echoes as though a series of clones of me have been strategically placed throughout the room, like a bunch of fem-bots about to share in a collective experience and I will feel them all.
Now Madonna shoves the mic inside my wet and juicy pinkie-pinkerson. Yikes! I wasn’t expecting that. I hope I don’t get electrocuted, I think. No, electrified is more like it. She startles me with her strength and power. Madonna has just presented me with a gift. I feel her fingers twiddling around stretching it hokey-pokey style the way Zeus likes to do when he’s drunk and playful. Yes, yes. Beautiful!
I begin to feel serene like a yogi practicing extreme meditation – ahhh yesss - before she dislodges them and the device. I think I have just solved the riddles of the universe that will transform my life. It’s all up my ass and inside my hoo-ha. Namaste.
“Six fuckers,” she says. “Get your fuck on, and then be free to live your life.”
Wait. What does she mean? Is it what I’m thinking? Does she want me to have more sex and with a variety of men? Is she giving me her blessing? “Tell me how, Madonna,” I plead. “Give me a kick in the ass.”
“What do you say?” she demands.
“More, please!” I reply as she tugs on my hair.
The cheering crowd goes wild. Turns into a sort of mob, repeating Madonna’s words to the melody of Like a Prayer as they clap Russian-style as well, rhythmic and all together-like.
Madonna kneels behind me. She sticks it to me. Hard. The dildo is slick and slippery with lubricant that smells of patchouli oil. It bobs against my rose bud, tickling the tight opening, forcing it to open its anal gate. What am I doing? It hurts, but nothing in this world is easy, right? I mean, that’s what I’m thinking.
I’m not normally the kind of girl who follows the crowd. Some would actually say that I’m a bit of a wild card. Zeus does. He loves my silly-willy descriptions of life and all of my zany opinions. But this is different. I’m not the one offering my quirky one-liner advice. I only want Madonna’s wisdom. I have to have it. And it’s coming into my back end via a mega black rubber cock. The bulbous head drives forward now and stretches the doorway for the rest. Ow, mother-fuckers and lucky charms!
“Open wide,” she says, “and get the treatment reserved only for my special love. It’s what I used to do to Guy, to all my guys.”
I’m special to her. She likes me. She really likes me! Yay! This is the greatest night of my life.
I gasp as the fake pricker fills my anal cavity and meets my rectum, stretching and taunting its way to completely possessing me like a fuck demon. It fills me up and makes me cry out.
“Madonna, Madonna!” I scream with tears in my eyes. The mob begins to climb the stairs to the stage. The muscley security guards in the yellow fluorescent shirts can’t hold them back. They have gathered, as if to stone me or something – probably not, maybe it’s just to see an up-close and personal version of this unorthodox educ
ation.
The strap-on pushes in deeper and deeper with Madonna’s impressive thrust. Its scent has consumed me and I feel like we are close to becoming one. The dildo ekes out and it sounds like a giant fart as it thrusts in again. Mortified, I move my booty-boot up a little higher, shifting so that my shoulders lay on the stage downward doggie. My hands fumble with the tassels on my titty-titty-bang-bangs. It soothes me somewhat, reminding me of my femininity. I then shift my right hand to my clit and begin to masturbate. Yes, this is so much better. I am a fuck slave. Everyone knows it now. Everything else is just irrelevant.
Now another thrust comes, and another, and soon I’m being fucked in the back end just like it’s my hooey. It feels so, so good. It’s falling from my fingertips, chasing away the pain or whatever those lyrics are. My idol is giving me the kick in the ass I desire, the fuck I need as I help myself to a pinkie invasion of the orgasmic kind.
“Who’s the deity now?” Madonna asks. “Me or Zeus?”
“You are Madonna,” I say. I don’t have a choice. It’s not as if it’s a toss-up or whatever. Zeus has never done anything like this to me. I certainly wouldn’t mind it if he did, so I start pretending that Zeus is giving it to me, his strong hands on my hips, his beardy face rustling across the back of my neck, teeth bearing down like a vampire the way we play all Twilighty and stuff sometimes. Then I hear her voice again and I remember where I am.
“Six fucks,” Madonna says. “Six men. That’s all you’ll need.”
Six fucks. Yes, that makes perfect sense, I think.
Last night I fucked Madonna. Then I woke up.
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Introductions & Such
Friday, JULY 17, 2009 - 9:00am
Hi everyone or no one, or whoever is out there. Call me Danna. I live in Schenectady, New York via Greece. That’s where my parents are from. I’m a first generation American, which is weird because aside from the culture immersion of church, food, dancing, travel and dating a Greek guy, I’m perfectly American. I have a New York state accent - nothing strange about that, because I don’t think it’s an accent at all. I sound just like broadcast journalists and movie stars. Some say I write exactly the way I talk, that they can almost hear me when they read my emails and thank you notes, and other correspondence. So this is me.