Nightstand Necessities: Wednesday Addams

Happy Friday the 13th and early Halloween, my loves! Nightstand Necessities is a feature where I pick a fictional character and imagine what sex products they would own. Previously: Rosa Diaz, Chuck Bass. Content note: this post contains mentions of bloodplay, knives, bruising, and hypothetical death/murder. Also note that this post describes leaving someone in bondage for hours, which you shouldn’t do in real life because it’s a safety issue.

Wednesday Addams has been a known troublemaker ever since, as a child, she obsessively guillotined her dolls and attempted to execute her brother Pugsley in an electric chair. Now, all grown up, she’s the sadistic domme she never knew she could be until she discovered the kink scene. (Secretly, she still takes joy in decapitating dolls, and wonders what it would look like if she’d thrown that switch while Pugsley was strapped down.)

You meet her at a goth fetish club, which she finds boring because bloodplay is strictly not allowed on the premises (“Even if it’s consensual and you’re professionally trained in switchblade safety,” she whines, pouting and rolling her kohl-rimmed eyes). She’s bedecked in an elegant black dress and a black leather choker bearing the word “Mistress.” From her black PVC clutch, she produces a ballgag. “You’d look good with this in your mouth,” she deadpans, in what you don’t immediately realize is her way of flirting.

Less than an hour later, she’s throwing you onto a bed in a nearby hotel. (“I don’t want to ruin my sheets,” she explained when you looked quizzical.) She dumps out her little clutch on the bed and out tumbles a menagerie of silver-glinting implements.

The bed is pre-fitted with under-the-bed restraints. (“I have this room on retainer,” she purrs with a shrug. “It’s neater.”) After a brief consent negotiation so smooth as to seem practiced, she cuffs you and tugs the straps tight. You’re mentally comparing your current predicament to medieval torture racks – only hot – when she lifts a Wartenberg wheel from her sadistic stack of utensils. “Close your eyes,” she barks as she begins to roll it along your left arm. “It’s more fun that way.” The metal tines creep along your skin in tingly little lines. You catch yourself thinking, I’ve never felt anything like this, unsure if you mean the Wartenberg wheel or the crushy feelings growing fonder in your heart the longer you spend with this mysterious, witchy minx.

Hours later, your body is rife with scratches, bite marks, and hickeys. Your thighs are bruised from a heavy paddling you’re astonished to have begged for. And now you find yourself begging for something else: you want her to fuck you. Maybe you need it. Maybe you will actually die if she doesn’t. (Maybe she would like that.)

She quirks an eyebrow at your pathetic form on the bed. “I hardly think you’ve earned that, but okay.”

Soundlessly, she unzips her dress, which somehow has remained on and impeccable through this entire rigamarole. A cold smile crosses her face when she catches you outright staring at the way her creamy, bloodless skin peeks through her black lace lingerie. “Turn over,” she commands, and laughs wryly as you struggle against your bonds to try to obey. She unbuckles the cuffs and gives you just a few seconds to rub at the welts that have formed on your wrists before she kicks you over with her shiny leather boot. “Now.

You arrange yourself on all fours. In the carpet-dampened acoustics of the otherwise silent hotel room, you hear the telltale clicking and creaking of a lithe goth princess stepping into a leather harness. Then the soft slick squelch of lube being applied. Then… a clink? Maybe one of her sparkling rings tapping against a…?

You don’t have time to finish the thought, because suddenly something cold and wet collides with your most sensitive bits, and you squeak your surprise. As your body acclimatizes to the sensation, you realize it’s a glass dildo. And it’s huge and veiny. And it’s strapped to Wednesday. And she’s pushing it inside you.

You’re so turned on already from those hours of delicious torture that you don’t even need warm-up. The veins are tricky at first but then they’re fine – better than fine, divine – and you’re pushing back against her, breath catching. “Did I say you could move?” she warns, and stills. You drop your forehead to the cheap hotel bedspread and let all the tension melt out of your body, til you’re just her plaything. Her good little fucktoy. “There you go,” you barely hear her say as she resumes those long strokes in and out of you.

Wednesday keeps her grip firm on your hips. “You’ve been so good for me,” she murmurs. “And this is your reward.” The glass cock slides in to the hilt, then out to the tip. You groan into the pillow beneath you. “Next time I won’t be so nice.” It’s with this that the orgasm building within you coils and tips and you’re spilling, coming, yelling hard into soap-scented bedlinens, lips forming something like “Wednesday.”

Minutes later, when you’ve caught your breath, you turn to the side and see her, stately in the high-backed hotel-room armchair. She’s dragging on a black and gold cigarette in flagrant violation of hotel fire safety regulations, legs crossed at the knee, wearing nothing but her black harness and black boots.

“Come here, pet,” she says, and you kneel at her feet. She strokes your hair as you begin licking and kissing her boots. You’ve never done this before with anyone else. You’ve never wanted to. But here, beside this pale and devastating queen who smells like leather and blood oranges, there’s nothing else you’d rather do. You feel safe with her fingernails scritching along your scalp and your tongue lathing all the leather you can find.

 

This post was sponsored by the excellent folks at SheVibe! Go shop their wonderful selection of sex toys, lingerie, kink gear, and more. As always, all writing and opinions are my own. All the photos in this post were taken by my friend Cadence, who is magnificent.

Nightstand Necessities: Chuck Bass

gossip-girl-5x15-crazy-cupid-love-episode-screencaps-chuck-bass-29084805-960-540

Chuck Bass, of the long-gone masterful TV drama Gossip Girl, is an ethical mess of a character. He’s a rapist, for one thing, and arguably emotionally abusive. He’s a cutthroat businessman who sometimes makes cruel decisions to keep his bottom line afloat, he’s rude to his parents and step-parents, and he usually doesn’t even treat his closest friends with consideration or love.

None of this is excusable. But sexual fantasy exists beyond the plane of ethics. So, admittedly, Chuck Bass is one of my favorite fictional characters to fantasize about, read fanfic about, and make sexual speculations about. Here are some of my headcanons for what’s lurking in Chuck’s sex toy collection…

chuck-bass-1

90bacba99cc7382090344fd25458c19bLike Christian Grey, Chuck Bass has a “playroom,” though he would never be so churlish as to call it that: it’s his boudoir. It’s kitted out with a Liberator Esse chaise, which he uses in a wide variety of imaginative ways. However, despite his Grey-esque proclivities, he thinks Fifty Shades of Grey is pathetic trash, an opiate of the suburban kink-curious masses. The day he catches you reading it is the day you discover what it feels like to get repeatedly and aggressively spanked with a trade paperback.

He keeps an Njoy Eleven displayed elegantly on a sideboard in his bedroom, atop a charcoal-grey velvet Throe. When you’ve been very, very good, he has you fetch both for him, and he makes you squirt with deft, almost businesslike precision. Afterwards, he leaves both items outside his bedroom door for the maid to wash. She does this quickly and without asking questions.

chuck-bass-2

6fb3e739d60d97cedb668f5e9cb52b3dHe’s obsessed with gold-plated bedroom accoutrements, because he’s always got scads of cash burning a hole in his silk-lined pockets. He keeps a gold Eroscillator near the bed for use on beautiful visitors. Occasionally he mentions an interest in forced orgasm play – sometimes it’s a threat, sometimes a promise. One day he actually follows through, blindfolding you, then tying you to a rococo chair and the Eroscillator to you with black silk rope. He turns it to the top setting and sits back in his leather recliner with his fingers steepled, watching with quiet mirth as you squirm and scream.

He owns a gold-plated Lelo Earl prostate massager (he would never be so crass as to call it a “butt plug”). It was a celebratory gift he bought for himself when an important merger went through. You’ve come to know that when he wears the accompanying gold cufflinks out to dinner with you, it means he’s feeling libidinous. But he never lets you fuck him. You never dare to ask.

Nightstand Necessities: Rosa Diaz

BROOKLYN NINE-NINE -- "Operation Broken Feather" Episode 116 -- Pictured: Stephanie Beatriz as Rosa Diaz -- (Photo by: Eddy Chen/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images)
BROOKLYN NINE-NINE — “Operation Broken Feather” Episode 116 — Pictured: Stephanie Beatriz as Rosa Diaz — (Photo by: Eddy Chen/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank via Getty Images)

Y’all know how much I love Brooklyn Nine-Nine, FOX’s goofy, racially diverse, and arguably quite feminist cop comedy. I unreservedly adore every single character on this damn show, but I must admit I have a favorite: Rosa Diaz. She’s a mystery, inside an enigma, wrapped in black leather.

dcad1fa2e51cda4e53e6870c51f8abe9860ed0e37d547c35bf2a5162460800fe-1

There are times when I doubt my sexual identity. I date and fuck men so predominantly that sometimes I wonder if my queer days are behind me. But then I watch Stephanie Beatriz dominate the screen as Rosa Diaz, and I think: Nope. Definitely still queer.

Nightstand Necessities is a new feature I’m launching here at Girly Juice, all about what I imagine is hiding in my favorite fictional characters’ bedside tables (or purses or pockets or sex toy chests, as the case may be). I could think of no better way to kick off this series than by writing about Rosa. My headcanons for her are plentiful and searing hot. Let’s get into it…

image

Rosa definitely straps on. (A fanfic I wrote says so, so it must be true.) Her whole aesthetic is based around black leather, and of course that’s true of her boudoir accoutrements as well. She rocks a black Aslan Leather Jaguar harness, worn in to buttery perfection. You’ve come to associate the sound of metal buckles sliding against leather straps with the imminent hope of getting fucked, and the smell of leather reminds you of being face-down and throat-deep on her silicone cock. Naturally, this Pavlovian conditioning enables her to turn you on in public any time she wants, by getting close to you in one of her many leather jackets, zipping it tight, idly fondling the chrome hardware. She knows exactly what she’s doing, but when you call her out on it, she just sneers, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Her sharp-tongued bossiness extends to the bedroom. She calls you her dirty slut, her fucktoy, hers. She spanks you with her bare hands, leaving stingy welts from the wallops. She thinks impact implements are for wimps who don’t know how to hit – but she’ll occasionally whip out her hardcover copy of Howl and leave book-shaped bruises on your ass. You know she’s feeling especially mean when she slips her leather vampire gloves on and says, “Bend over. Now.” If you get too bratty, she puts a black glass ballgag in your mouth until she’s done with you – but she always checks in, softly muttering “Is that okay?” and waiting for your nod before she pushes you back down onto the bed.

image

She bought you a Crave leather cuff bracelet and likes for you to always wear it when you’re going to be seeing her. (She’d like for you to wear it all the time – as a symbol of her owning you – but she hasn’t quite felt brave enough to have that conversation with you yet. One of her core beliefs is that emotions are sappy and dumb, so she’s not sure how to parse the imperious affection she feels for you.) The bracelet can be converted into bondage cuffs at a moment’s notice. She’s bought you beautiful jewelry, books, and other treasures, but the leather cuff is your favorite present she’s given you – because you know what it means, even if she doesn’t feel ready to tell you yet.

BROOKLYN NINE-NINE: Stephanie Beatriz. ©2014 Fox Broadcasting Co. CR: Scott Schafer/FOX
BROOKLYN NINE-NINE: Stephanie Beatriz. ©2014 Fox Broadcasting Co. CR: Scott Schafer/FOX

In bed, she’s normally stone, preferring to direct her energies onto your body rather than lie back and receive. But on the rare nights when she’s achy and exhausted from a long day at the precinct, she lets you use her favorite toys on her. You smear Sliquid Silver lube all over her red Fucking Sculptures Corkscrew dildo and slowly slide it into her, so careful and kind. She holds her black Doxy Die Cast to her clit with one hand, and with the other, strokes your hair and arms and face with a tenderness you rarely see in her. She looks so beautiful with her black curls fanned out against the pillow. “Faster,” she barks. “Harder.” You do your best to angle the Corkscrew against her G-spot, and she grunts the way she does when she’s tackling a perp in an alley. If you fuck her just right, hard and quick for as long as she needs, she comes with a resonant roar and squirts triumphantly on your hands, your arms, your face.

She watches as you slip the dildo out of her and into your mouth. You so rarely get to taste her; it’s a treat. The warmth in her face is rare, too, you reflect as she pets your hair and purrs, “You were so good for me, baby.”