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Putting the Madge in Danna

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Blog: PUTTING THE MADGE IN DANNA by Dannika Elinopoulous

JULY 16, 2009 8:30am

Madonna and I are on stage. We are performing a choreographed song and dance to "Vogue". We look super-duper sexy wearing matching bustiers that lace tightly to our tiny waistlines and hold up fishnet stockings. Our nipsey-russells are covered with titty ta-ta tassels and it feels very comfortable to move around in the retro Vivienne Westwood 5" stilettos. We face each other and I notice her bare pussy. Mine is the regular way; a tidy trimmed dark cunt cover.

Suddenly I feel compelled to fall to my knees and offer her bare mons a kiss. She holds my head against her hungry hooey and I lick it. I feel like I am licking the oracle of a deity. I worship 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 knowledge. I threw my tongue into its dark and dirty corridor, hoping to unleash its secrets. It is a powerful and seductive orifice, one that has seen a lot of action, one that probably knows how to accept any and all cock, tongue, kink, and fetish.

"Strike a pose," she says.

I drop down on my hands and knees, and wait like the bitch that I want to be.

"Teach me," I say, "Teach me how to be a better fucker."

Madonna dances around me as the audience applauds. I watch her sidle by. She is buckling on a belt of some sort, changing costumes I think. I look up. It is a leather belt with a gy-normous black rubber dildo attached.

"Everywhere you look it's heartache," she sings.

She stands behind me. She grabs the microphone snuggled behind my ear and slaps my ass with it. She starts a count and gets the fans involved.

"One... two... three... four... five... six!"

Her voice is loud and fills the venue. She shoves the mic inside my wet and juicy pinkie pinkerson. I hope I don't get electrocuted. No, electrified is more like it. Madonna has just presented me with a gift and I feel her fingers twiddling around before she dislodges them.

"Six fuckers. Get your fuck on, and then be free to live your life," she says.

"Tell me how, Madonna. Give me a kick in the ass."

Madonna kneels behind me and sticks it to me. The dildo is slick, 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. It hurts, but nothing in this world is easy, right? I only want Madonna's wisdom and it's coming into my back end. The bulbous head drives forward now and stretches the doorway for the rest.

"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 gasp as the fake cock fills my anal cavity and meets my rectum. It fills me up and makes me cry out.

"Madonna, Madonna!"

The strap-on pushes in deeper with Madonna's impressive thrust. It ekes out and it sounds like a giant fart. Mortified, I move my ass up a little higher, shifting so that my shoulders lay on the stage. My hands fumble with the tassels on my titty-titty-bang- bangs. I then shift my right hand to my clit and begin to masturbate. Now another thrust comes, and another, and soon I'm being fucked in the ass just like it's my hooey. My idol is giving me the kick in the ass I desire, the fuck I need.

"Who's the deity now? Me or Zeus?"

"You are Madonna," I say.

Madonna says, "Six fucks. That's all you'll need."

Last night I fucked Madonna. And then I woke up.

Comments: 0

JULY 17, 2009 9:00am

My name is Danna and I live in Schenectady, NY. I got the idea for this blog from that one about Julia Child and all that French cooking. Really? Women like to cook? No Greek woman with a father in the restaurant business bothers with that. Or cleaning for that matter. My future in-laws own a cleaning business. I know. I'm one lucky lady-bitch who will never cook or clean. That or I'm living in Fantasyland, I'm not sure which.

I do like the idea of following in my celebrity idol's footsteps. So, I decided to channel Madonna. Madonna's sex life to be exact. The dream convinced me. You see, Zeus is in Japan on business. He works for an engineering firm. He'll be away for six weeks. And in that time I plan to replicate sex acts with partners who parallel the significant men in Madonna's life.

I will blog each week to share with you strangers every lurid detail of what I hope will be an educational summer. I need this. I'm only twenty-three and I'm getting married at the end of August. Sunday, August 30th, 2009 to be exact. Mom seems to think that marriage is the beginning of my life, but come on! Everyone knows it's the end. The beginning of the end. I'll get fat. I'll get preggers and have an ungrateful baby. And if it's a boy he will get spoiled and turn into every other misogynist Greek man on the planet Earth.

Maybe not. Madonna has a son. A daughter, and a son, and a little black one to boot. I want to learn from her, to learn to be a better person, you know, a humanitarian and such. But most of all I want to learn to be a better fucker. I love Madonna. I know all the words to all of her songs. (I love to sing. In elementary school, my music teacher, Miss Lanu, said I had perfect pitch). And we have loads in common. O.K. so I'm not Italian but my old country is only a hop, skip and a jump from hers. I have brown hair that I have highlighted, and blue eyes when I wear my colored contacts. I exercise a lot (a little?). Oh, and like I said, my name is Dannika Elinopoulous. They call me Danna. Get it? Like Donna, and that's pretty close to Madonna, isn't it?

I've done a little research into Madonna's love/sex life and I've come up with a list of types of people I'll need to find, and fuck. Madonna moved to NYC right after high school to become a dancer. Somehow or other she ended up playing drums in a band. That led to some singing and songwriting and then into the arms of a record producer. I can't remember his name. But I'm pretty sure it's true. My heroine must have slept her way to the top, right? So I need to find myself a record producer and I actually know one. (More on that later).

Madonna had a highly publicized affair with Dennis Rodman, that big, black, tatted basketball star who had that freaky meltdown recently on "Celebrity Apprentice". Rodman once famously said that Madonna wanted to have his baby. Madonna also fucked her personal trainer, Carlos Leon, and produced Lourdes out of that union. So I'm pretty sure they were both important to her. Sandra Burnhardt, did she or didn't she? I'm not sure if I want to go gay in this blog, but what the hell; I did it in my dream, right? And what's good for Madonna can only make me stronger. Is that the saying?

I'm wondering if Madonna tried out the BDSM lifestyle. Those snapshots in that famous Sex picture book she sold looked kind of realistic, didn't they? And you know what? I'm getting married and I'm pretty sure I won't see any of that type of action if I don't seek it out Madonna style. Zeus might be named for the Greek God, but keep in mind he was raised with Eastern Orthodox conservatism.

Madonna was married twice, to Sean Penn, an actor, and Guy Ritchie, a director. But I can't do both. It's either one or the other, or someone who's both. Then that whole A-Rod thing... I don't know. Baseball's not really my sport. I get that it's all American and apple pie and all but, you know, those guys look fat in their dorky costumes. We'll see. If there's time.

O.K. I'm doing this whether you follow along or not, bloggers. I'm committed. But shush O.K.? Don't tell anybody because this is all on the down low. Fucking like Madonna? Now that's a blog.

Comments: 0

JULY 18, 2009 10:20am

O.K. so I've mapped out a list of types and I'm working on finding real men (and a woman) to be facsimiles to Madonna's lovers. The types are as follows:

  1. the record producer
  2. the black basketball star
  3. the personal trainer
  4. the lesbian
  5. the Dom
  6. the actor/director


Six weeks, six fucks. Am I up to the challenge? You bet!

Comments: 0

JULY 20, 2009 9:30am

Chad Mavis' band played at my high school prom senior year. It was the Chad Mavis Band. We all thought he would become wildly successful. He was hot, kind of like an American Mick Jagger circa 1968 -- lean, longish dark hair and a mouth that could swallow a cunt.

His career tanked. My guess is drugs and such. It's a shame he gave up so soon. I've only been out of high school for like five years. He obviously didn't believe in self-efficacy. Well, now he runs a tiny recording studio in Albany. It's mostly for vanity CDs, people willing to pay top dollar because in their minds they are the next American Idol. I suspect that Chad is a little like that himself. I'm sure he'd be flattered to have a groupie like me, right?

I have an appointment this Friday to meet with him. I'm using my wedding as a cover. You know, I'll say I'm thinking of having CDs made with our favorite music. Let the seduction begin.

Comments: 1

I'm an actor. Please fuck me.

Rob, NY, NY

JULY 24, 2009 6:00pm

I made first contact with Chad Mavis. (He looked the same, only now he has a goatee mustache combo and he's about twenty pounds heavier). I laid it on really thick. It started with my cover story, you know, about the music for my wedding. He showed me a sample of a tape he'd put together for some Russian couple. I think he had it in his head that all foreigners are interchangeable.

I said, "I'd like some Madonna for my processional, the older stuff, like "Crazy for You". Then I started singing it, a cappella. I looked into his eyes and just belted it out.

He said, "You sound amazing. Have you thought about singing it yourself?"

I said, "I don't know, isn't that kind of tacky?"

He said, "Why don't we lay a track down, see how you like it? I have an opening tomorrow."

I said, "Will that cost a lot?"

He said, "Maybe we can negotiate something that works for the both of us."

I said, "Do you take cunt currency?"

And that my friends, was that. We kissed. He kind of did this slobbering thing, like he was too excited or something. I let him fondle my titty-titty bang bangs a little, and then I said I had another appointment and I'd see him tomorrow. I need to groom up.

I am on my way.

Comments: 3

Why you are using Dannika's name for this vulgar writing? She is good girl.

Aunt Sofia, Toronto, Ont. Canada

Call me. I'm your guy, your actor guy. This isn't a joke.

Rob, NY, NY

I believe Madonna's record producer friend was Mark Kamins, who sent a copy of "Everybody" to Seymour Stein at Sire Records thus launching her career. She didn't fuck him as far as I know.

Antoinette, Little Rock, AK

JULY 25, 2009 8:00pm

You might want to have an Ouzo first before you read this entry, because liquor is the only thing that helped me after it happened.

My appointment with Chad Mavis was scheduled for noon today. But it was very difficult to shake Mrs. Zepkos, Zeus' mom. She wanted me to meet her at Zepkos Cleaners and then take me out shopping for sheets and towels. She kept me on the phone for hours. I promised to meet her tomorrow, which will give me time to wash the fuck off my other face.

I had barely enough time to dress for my first Madonna-like tryst. I wore the La Perla white lace bra with matching thong from my wedding trousseau, and strappy stone encrusted wedding shoes (hey, I have to break in my Jimmy Choos if I'm to do hours of folk dancing at my wedding, right?) The Kors sundress with the halter straps didn't cover the bra straps but that was the idea. I was my own version of "Like a Virgin".

I met Chad at 12:20pm. He looked like he was packing up for the day. I guess he'd thought I was just a tease.

I said, "Hi. Sorry I'm late, wedding stuff, you know."

He said, "You sure you want to get married? My wife and I barely have sex anymore."

I said, "Why not? Is there something wrong with your cock?"

He said, "Uh, no, she just lost interest." I thought, TMI alert. Should I abort the mission? There was an awkward silence as I digested his words.

Then he said, "So, do you want to try that song? I have the instrumental track set up. All you have to do is put on the headphones and then sing into the microphone."

I said, "O.K."

I tried to get comfortable on the stool he had there. I hiked up my dress so that my bare ass cheeks landed on the hard wood of the stool (he, he, get it? Hard wood?) I sang the song twice, which, I must admit, seemed kind of boring. I thought, why would anyone want to sing in rerun all the time? It's like -- sing, songbird, sing -- and you're supposed to hit the notes perfectly or get boo-ed off the stage. Madonna's been doing it for thirty years or so, longer than I have been alive. Wow. She's a real trouper.

I watched Chad manipulate the gadgets on the recording equipment. I couldn't tell if he liked my singing or not. Perhaps he'd created a poker face from years of pretending that he liked his client's singing. It's a living I guess.

I said, "You know, I bet I could hit the high note a little better if you came over here and tweaked my clit. I heard that was part of Madonna's regimen when she trained her voice for her role in 'Evita'."

Gee, I thought, he seemed so easily persuaded. I was obviously making that up. I'm not even sure he set the record button because he dashed over lickity-split. But, fuck, I wasn't really there to sing, right?

He came into the little recording booth and approached me from behind. I tried to pretend he wasn't there. I kept singing the ballad like I would if I was singing in the shower, I guess, because I wasn't really thinking about the lovely-dovey words. I knew them by heart. Chad put his arms around my waist and then his hands found my nips. He tried squeezing them but my halter-top kind of reined them in too much, you know? I reached for the left side zipper and started to undress myself. Too forward? WWMD, right?

Chad helped me lose the dress and I couldn't tell if he liked what he saw. But please! A twenty-three-year-old pseudo virgin in white lace and heels? I'm not bragging, but I could go toe-to-toe with Madonna (if only I had her work ethic, that is). I have a bit of a jiggle, but jiggle is good. It gives a guy some leverage. At least that's what my gyno, Martha Quirk, said once.

She also said, "Never say no. You never know when Tom Jones will be walking into your neighborhood (She's old, O.K.? Because I don't even know who Tom Jones is).

I love having my titty-ta-tas tweaked. (Tweaking in general is always a good thing). It sends like a telegraphic message to my uterus that an army is approaching and I need to send the secretion troops out to intercept and defend the Egg Queen.

Chad whispered into my ear, "Baby, you are hot." I was a little off-put. I didn't want his voice showing up on my recording. If my song was truly any good, I might actually play it at my wedding reception.

He moved his hands down my waist. He slid my thong aside and used his fingers to clamp my hoo-ha open, and simultaneously my voice hit that note. I've never sung so well. He rubbed me out and now it really felt like shower singing because I always did that to myself in there. And Zeus always complains that I'm using too much hot water. He's so practical.

Chad moved around to face me. He squatted down and kind of took in the whiff of sex emanating from my hooey. It was like one of those wine experts who sniff the liquor and then announce the fragrance -- fruity, nutty, etc. What would Chad say about my smell? I haven't been eating meat lately because I read that a cunt smells more lady-like on veggies alone. Would he say I smelled fresh or pungent? Hmm, he didn't say.

There was something so provocative about singing the words "I'm crazy for you -- you know it's true" while being prodded by a relative stranger. It made me think about Madonna again. Could she separate sex from emotion, like a guy could? I thought, then I could do it too.

Now, once I'd finished my third rendition of "Crazy for You", Chad rose and lifted me off the stool. Maybe he had weak knees or something because he didn't carry me around like Zeus does. He immediately put me down and I spread-eagled on the carpeted floor. I was so like a virgin circa Madonna 1980s at the VMAs!

He placed his pubic style goatee on my tidy mons and used his tongue to dart about my pink tunnel (Dr. Quirk says it's the pinkiest she's ever seen). He worked like he was getting paid to do it, sucking my lab lips and reaching deep inside. I was wrong. Chad didn't have a Mick Jagger face, it was more of a Steven Tyler thing, like the mouth you enter in the tunnel of love ride at the fair, you know? His tongue thrusted deep inside me, practically licking me dry I believe, like a tongue cock. I thought, doesn't his wife like this? It's pretty fucking great!

Once I was at the precipice of orgasm I decided to go after his cock. Because to me sex isn't sex without the presence of a clean healthy schlong. I jimmied my way to his zipper and slid it open. And I found that Chad's cock was only slightly erect. I touched it to pump it up a bit and then I pulled him down on top of me. He penetrated me and then he turned Mr. Softee. It felt like melted butter. Definitely weird, my friends. I forced it to go in again. I saw him frantically trying to slap it into form. He was doing this insane masturbating thing. But it was a no go.

I said, "Don't you like me?"

He said, "You're beautiful, Dannika."

I said, "Does this happen often?"

He said, "Not exactly... well... sometimes."

I said, "Well try harder. I need a cock to finish me off."

Then and this is where it gets weird, bloggers, he started crying! Like a pussy. I have known Zeus since church school when we were both eight years old, and I've never seen him cry.

Chad said, "I can't please you. I'm sorry." While he was bawling I got up and casually wiggled back into my dress.

I said, "Hey, no. It's totally cool. This was great. Thanks for the opportunity to cut the record. You did me a favor, not the other way around. Don't sweat it."

I gave him a pity kiss. I let him slobber my lips with my own cunt-drenched juices that were lingering on his. I tasted like robust sugary koulurakia cookies. After I left, I hoped it had been an amiable parting in his mind. I wouldn't want him to take a drug overdose, you know, off himself over it.

Tomorrow I'm headed to my future mother-in-law's. I should probably buy some cream colored towels when she takes me to Macy's. Something that hides cunt residue. I sure do leak a lot.

Comments: 5

The lesbian friend of Madonna's, Sandra Bernhard, did indeed have a relationship with Madonna. I bet you can't guess who was the top and who the bottom?

Shae Stewart, Long Beach, CA

Dannika, I'll be waiting for you at the Marriott in Times Square. August 29th. I'll give you the ride of your life. And you won't see a flaccid penis.

Rob, NY, NY

You may be a feisty Greek goddess but sexy you ain't!

Boxman, Inside-a-cunt, IL

This is all lies. May you get a gypsy curse for stealing my niece's identity!

Aunt Sofia, Toronto, Ont., Canada

When are you going to fuck the black guy? I'm on stand-by if you need me.

Tyrone, Atlanta, GA

JULY 26, 2009

Mrs. Zepkos does think I'm a virgin. I knew it. She made a weird comment while we were out buying sheets that we needed white sheets to "capture the essence of my chastity". What does she think Zeus and I have been doing for the last six months? We practically live together in my apartment. Technically, he lives with his parents. I guess he has them fooled.

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