February 2025 – Audio Version

Shall I tell you a tale? Will you dance this razor-thin waltz where our steps are illusions and partners vanish like the last sigh of a winter dream? I might tell you the full story—if I were the sort to deal in such illicit certainties. But where’s the delight in that? No, no, I much prefer to leave you suspended in that exquisite, unbearable moment of almost knowing every succulent detail.

Ah, but listen—did you hear it? The whisper of silk against the dark, the delicate click of a lock you never noticed before? Or was it something else—the ghost of a laugh curling around the edges of your memory, the phantom brush of a tail against your cheek before it vanishes into the ether? Wonderland never truly releases its travelers; it lingers in the corners of their thoughts, waiting, watching, beckoning. And now, my dear, the door is open. Continue reading if you dare.

Being the Cheshire Cat carries certain linguistic responsibilities, a symphony of flirtation, and a chorus of unspoken decadence. The bell attached to the ribbon at my tail chimes with each languid step, a mischievous melody that sets the rhythm of my gait. Clad in magenta and violet striped tights, my legs look long and sinus as I float in the rosy glow of Wonderland, weaving through its whimsical beauty. The air thickens with the curling tendrils of Absalom’s pipe. Its sweet, heady aroma intoxicates, lacing the night with the haze of youthful wonder and the giddy promise of perversity.

Ah, but my teacup—dear, beloved, inexhaustible vessel—never ran dry. Not with mere English Breakfast, mind you, but something darker, richer, distilled in the northern Highlands, lending a daring fire to my aura and emboldening my every feline antic. A proper lady might purse her lips, might demur at such excess, but the Cheshire Cat? Oh, I do as I please.

And what a pleasure it was.

Being a cat, and particularly this cat, there was a great deal of licking involved—scandalous to some, captivating to others. Who could fault a creature, such as I, for tasting, for savoring? And so, when the Queen of Hearts extended a kitchen spatula slick with melted chocolate, I did not hesitate.

Or rather, I let hesitation hang like the final note of a waltz, achingly beautiful in its fading.

I tilted my head, feline amusement curling at the corners of my lips, my fingers hovering just above hers—close enough to feel the heat of her skin, the pulse that leapt at my proximity. A second stretched, then another. The Queen’s hand was steady, but the way her throat bobbed in a slow, measured swallow betrayed her. A temptation resisted. Or was it considered?

I took a final breath, then I moved.

My fingers found her wrist—warm, unyielding. A slow caress of skin upon skin before I tightened my grip, feeling the quiet thrum of her pulse beneath my fingertips. My other hand did not reach for the spatula, not yet. Instead, it found its way around the Queen’s waist—feather-light, a whisper of touch, just enough for her to feel the ghost of nearness, the promise of something yet to come.

And then, with deliberate slowness, I let the very tip of my tongue sample just a taste.

A flicker. A tease. A barely-there stroke along the sweetness before retreating, drawing out a breath of aching stillness. Her Majesty’s heart-shaped lips parted—not quite a gasp, not quite a laugh. Amusement? Surprise? Her fingers twitched. A pullback—instinctive, involuntary. Moving to replace the utensil.

Ah, but not yet. I was not finished with her.

I held her wrist fast, just for a moment longer. Just long enough for that spellbinding uncertainty to coil tight between us, for the onlookers to inch forward, glasses suspended midair. Then, and only then, did I stroke my tongue along the spatula once more—this time from base to tip, sensual, unhurried. The Queen exhaled, soft and startled, a sound that shivered along my spine like the whisper of silk against my naked skin.

Somewhere, a giggle slipped free. The revelers—intoxicated by Wonderland’s frivolity—breathed in the tableau before them, leaning into the charged stillness as though waiting for it to shatter.

And shatter it soon would. But not yet. Meanwhile, the sands of the hourglass drifted ever upward—as they do only in Wonderland—marking time in its most peculiar fashion.

The Hound beckoned next, the spatula extended, eyes dark and gleaming with something primal. The room turned, shifting its weight toward the next moment, the next unraveling. I did not reach for the offering—not yet. Rather, I lifted my arms, manicured nails threading through my unruly curls, gathering them in a midnight ribbon. The movement was exaggerated, unhurried—practical, yes, but more so a deliberate, heedless provocation. A shadow-play of something deeper, an echo of temptation, brazen in the fractured light.

The bell at my tail chimed with each step I took. A knowing sound. A wicked sound.

This time, emboldened by Absalom’s haze, Highland amber, and my own feline naughtiness, I decided to tip the scales toward true madness. I took my place before the Hound. He did not move. Did not speak. A single, unreadable heartbeat passed between us—his expression carved from stone, save for the faintest flick of his fingers, coaxing me forward with the tilt of the spatula.

So I did.

This time, I did not stand. Instead, I lowered—slow, languorous, my knees honoring the floor in a motion both reverent and utterly profane. My hands settled lightly on my thighs, a submissive pose. My ruby lips parted, tongue flicking out in the smallest, subtlest of movements. Not yet a lick. Just a whisper of possibility.

The Hound did not flinch. Did not shift. But oh, did I detect a minute hitch in his breath? 

Then, and only then, did I taste. Delicately, my tongue flicked over the remnants of molten sugar, savoring its decadence with unhurried precision. A small, sinful moan curled from my lips. A whispered spell, a curse of desire crafted to ruin, to entice, to send a shiver through the gathering like a velvet-draped sin.

Having performed for the Hound and the gathered audience, I let out a bubbly laugh as I rose. One perfect nail dabbed the corner of my mouth before tugging the ribbon loose once more, allowing my sapphire waves to spill over my shoulders like a silken cascade.

And then—oh, then, madness truly unfurled.

A siren’s call, feminine and lilting, pulled me for a third time across the room. The March Hare stood poised, holding aloft the poor spatula slick with the sugared temptation, one eyebrow arched in libertine invitation. My tail twitched, my pupils shifting to roguish slits, black as obsidian. I stalked forward, a predator on the prowl, high on the revelry, the power, and the sheer Dionysian of Wonderland’s thrall. As I secured my curls once more, the air thickened—pulsing, feverish—saturated with the heady scent of spice, sweat, and gilded debauchery. Wonderland and her company held their breath.

Oh, the March Hare wanted to play, did she? Oh, darling, she had no idea what she had invited. The Cheshire Cat did not just play—she consumed, she bewitched, she ruled. And tonight, I was not merely a pawn in Wonderland’s mad little game. No, I was the madness, its maestro and its chaos.

And this?

This was my dance to lead.

On my knees before the March Hare, I let out a low, lilting laugh, my sultry gaze flicking toward the spatula—still slick with delectation. I arched, feline and sinuous, turning the simple act of lapping the luscious chocolate into an exquisite performance, a slow, decadent submission to pleasure.

But before I could fully savor the moment, the March Hare struck—darting forward, catching my lips in a kiss that was warm, insistent, and utterly unrepentant. Her tongue, bold and seeking, claimed the lingering sweetness as if she, too, wished to taste my every sin. I met her embrace without hesitation, only momentarily startled by the sheer fervor of her response. Had this been her plan all along?

The spatula lifted again, and like a creature of instinct, I followed, licking it a second time. This round, she was reckless—messy—chasing the remnants of cocoa with teasing, unbridled hunger, her hot tongue tracing my lips, cheeks, and tongue in a lavish, untamed embrace.

Curious. Was she merely indulging a whim? Or was she truly willing to play? I purred in thought.

Exuberant as I was, consent is sacred to a feline. I would not be bullied into a game I did not wish to partake in, nor would I take advantage of another. But was the March Hare merely a curious participant? Or was she game for a cat’s amusement?

She held my face, cupping my cheek, devouring the last traces of chocolate with a deliciously unrestrained fervor.

Oh, I thought, let’s see how far she’s willing to play.

Still kneeling, my body an offering at her feet, I wound my arms around her waist, then higher—trailing upward, fingers grazing the delicate pulse at her throat with my thumb as my fingers curled at the nape of her neck. I pulled her in and pressed my body to hers, drinking her in as though she were the only thing worth tasting.

And again, she upended my expectations.

Not hesitant. Not reluctant. Not merely toying with madness but embracing it. Matching me, kiss for kiss, breath for breath, passion for passion.

Curiosity would be the death of this cat one day—but not tonight.

An idea slithered through the delirium of my thoughts. Just how far down the rabbit hole was this March Hare willing to go?

If I pulled her down onto the floor if I cushioned her fall with my own willing body, would she startle—gasp, cheeks flushed, and pull away? Or would she surrender to gravity, to madness, to me?

There was only one way to find out.

With a movement quick as only a cat could be, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her down in a flurry of laughter and unbridled profanation.

And once more, the March Hare did not disappoint.

Startled, yes, but in no way deterred. No, I had not caught the hare—she had ensnared me.

Fast as the White Rabbit, she disentangled herself from my grasp, slipping lower, lower still. Though the floor beneath me was unforgiving, I undulated beneath her touch, reveling in the deliciously unexpected shift in power.

And then—oh.

It was my turn to gasp.

With practiced ease, her fingers traced the path from my knees, gliding northward, teasing along the sensitive curve of my thighs. A deliberate hesitation—just enough to let anticipation coil, to let Wonderland itself pause in agonized suspense. She found the lace trim of my amethyst delicates and, with a deft flick, stripped me bare.

Exposed. Vulnerable. A rare and sacred thing.

Had any of us been in our right minds, I might have stopped her then and there. Might have shrunk into the shadows, gathered my dignity like a forgotten garment, and fled into the night.

But darling—

We’re all a little mad here.

And truly, where would be the fun in that?

To my shock and utter decimation, the March Hare proved to be a voracious player. Oh, her enthusiasm—her skill—how swiftly they unraveled me. Pleasure crashed through my body in rolling waves, my cries absorbed by the ever-listening hush of my fellow Wonderlanders.

A single moment of lucidity struck me—fleeting, like the glimmer of a cat’s grin in the dark. If I had been myself, perhaps I would have sought refuge, hands flying to shield my face, a mortified retreat into the solace of shadowed corners. I might have begged my companions’ forgiveness for such shameless abandon.

But I was not merely myself.

I was the Cheshire Cat.

And there were games afoot.

The Dormouse—boon companion of the March Hare—traded places and slipped between my thighs, his deft fingers unlocking the floodgates of my nectar before I had time to steel myself for decorum. Oh, and he was ruthless in his reverence. I was, after all, sprawled upon the kitchen floor. And yet, had I been anyone else, perhaps I would have balked.

But as the Cheshire Cat, a knowing glint overtook me, even in the throes of excruciating bliss.

And besides—Cheshire Cats did so love to play.

A choked, breathless laugh unfurled from my lips, though even that was stolen as a new presence emerged through the fog of my riotous climaxes. A shadow overhead. A deliberate offering.

Magnificent in its glory, a proud, girthy spectacle hovered just above the tip of my nose.

I would later learn it was Kingsleigh. Kneeling at my head, watching with that same bemused curiosity, ever the gentleman, even in his indulgence.

Oh, how Wonderland spoiled me.

Feline instinct itched at my fingertips and urged me to bat at him playfully, to watch the way he bobbed in response. But no—this moment demanded more. A deliberate surrender. I parted my lips, a consenting invitation laced with pernicious glee for the monolith to take possession of my throat a treat just as the spatula before had been.

Oh, what a hedonism! 

What revelry ensued.

The sheer, unrelenting presence of him forced my throat to bulge, my back to arch, my thighs to tremble. I was no longer merely a participant but an opus—a momentary, capricious dalliance woven into the madness of Wonderland’s intoxicating whims.

A choked moan. A slick, silken rivulet of drool spilled from the corner of my lips. I should have felt shame. Instead, I reveled in it. Devoured it.

And why not? My hunger—my rapacious, insatiable desire—drove me to take him deeper (or at least strive to), to surrender to the sheer sport of it all, to let the sweet torment of my body consume me whole.

My feline mind was a swirling haze of mania and desire, chasing the thrill of the unknown. Heat pooled at my hips, thick and molten, seeping against the unyielding rock beneath me, a testament to the Dormouse’s vigorous offering, his fingers buried far within the reaches of my sanctuary. It had nowhere to go but everywhere, my pleasure manifesting in wicked streams. The murmurs and laughter of my gathered audience remained a thrilling hum, their voices laced with intrigue and hunger—an ever-present invitation to further abandon.

Somewhere in the haze, a voice pierced through—the Mad Hatter’s. His words slipped through the fog of my wild, delirious cries, though I scarcely comprehended them beyond something about a more comfortable pavilion.

Comfort. A foreign notion—one I should have liked to entertain, had not the determined Dormouse been intent on unraveling me fully, his diligent labor keeping me bound to the depths of my own debauchery. I succumbed to the abyssal waves once more.

When, at last, the Hatter’s plan was heeded, gentle hands assisted me upright. A moment of transition. A breath of reality sliced through the delirium. It was only then that I truly beheld the scene around me—nearly the entire congregation encircled me, witnesses to my unbidden performance. Their gazes lingered, heavy with intrigue.

A flush, genuine and warm, bloomed beneath my already scarlet skin. Not quite embarrassment. Not quite modesty. No, almost carnal jubilation.

Because, my darling, a Cheshire Cat does exactly as she pleases, and revels in the delicious chaos it stirs. For nothing is sweeter than surrendering to the madness.

I was drenched in my own nectar, my ephemeral vice staining the stone beneath me. Busy hands reached for me. I allowed them to shoo me away, their murmured insistence coaxing me to remove the drenched fabric clinging to my skin in exchange for something soft and alluring, at the very least dry.

I hastened from the scene to my perch, my body still thrumming with satisfaction, a smug sort of pleasure curling within me.

And yet—just the faintest whisper of caution crept into my thoughts.

Perhaps I ought to pace myself. Not from the libations, no—those had not reached my lips for some time. But rather, the faintest flicker of concern, a sense of being too much, too visible, too loud.

But then again…

Where would be the fun in that? Was I the Cheshire Cat, a creature of mischief and moonlight, or some trembling ingenue, blushing and untested? The very idea curled in on itself, dying a swift and ignoble death.

Descending from my cradle, I slipped once more into Wonderland’s velvet embrace, finding my way to the Queen of Hearts’ boudoir and into her very bed. The air within was thick with perfume and indulgence, and I, a creature of carnality, was ensnared before a single paw advanced over the threshold. In moments, my limbs tangled in hers, breath stolen, senses drowning in the vibrant heat of her essence. But it was not only her warmth I found myself enveloped in. Beside her lay a vision of moonlit reverence—the White Queen, her bonny face a picture of beaming depravity.

Ah, but I was in rare form. With feline grace, I pounced, my keenest worship lavished upon them both. The White Queen’s lips, honey-sweet and trembling beneath my own, parted in unbidden delight, her ethereal smile melting under the onslaught of my affections. As with the March Hare before, I was determined to leave her breathless—bewitched—her very being unraveled by my touch.

My fingers tangled in the thick cascade of her tresses, dark as midnight, a soft wave against the ivory spill of pillows. A crown fit for royalty, a river of silken shadows. Her kisses left me lightheaded, her fingers clutching at my hair, her body pressed against mine with a feverish insistence that thrilled me to my core. We were a worshipful exhibition, a consecrated display of hedonistic excess, and our gathered audience—silent, reverent—only heightened the maddening thrill of it. Why, I wondered hazily, were such moments confined to the depths of Wonderland or the lofty heights of Olympus? Would that we could bask in the carnal light unbothered by the responsibilities and demands of man.

Time blurred, a fever dream of whispered gasps and ravenous mouths, until at last, I found myself sprawled upon my back. The Queen of Hearts, never to be outdone, loomed above me, her eyes dark with intent. And when she struck—oh, she struck—her touch was conquest incarnate. There was no tenderness in her hunger—only ruthless, insatiable abandon. She devoured me, consumed me, her sharp teeth and bruising lips branding me as her own. Oh, the marks she would leave! A cartography of sin mapped across my bosom and abdomen, a constellation of pricked bruises that would burn with remembrance long after I clawed my way back to the mundane world above.

I was weightless, mindless, a vessel of pleasure with no tether to reality—until something distinctive slithered into my awareness. A shift in the air, a rich cologne, the scent of raw masculinity. My lashes fluttered open, and there—poised above me like a baited offering—once more kneeled Kingsleigh.

A throbbing transgression–a dangerous proposition.

I bit my bottom lip and sniffed. As if cats played by the rules. My neck arched in acceptance, baring the vulnerable line of my throat as my fingers gripped the monolith above me, firm and deliberate. I guided him down with long strokes, surrendering and savoring the intoxicating intrusion stretching my throat, craving to obtain every iron inch. The Queen of Hearts, relentless in her ministrations at my wanton apex, sent waves of drowning euphoria crashing through me. The wicked tide of ecstasy should have long since ebbed, yet it gushed anew—spectral, magnificent, merciless.

Had I been anyone else, I might have been scandalized.

But I was the Cheshire Cat.

And I was far too lazy to care.

Besides, the Queen’s clever paramours had prepared her bedding well—layers of protection ensuring every indulgence, every exquisite undoing, could be relished without regret. Who was I to deny her the pleasure of causing my unraveling at the behest of her lips and elegant fingers?

Time lost meaning in Wonderland’s embrace, the night flowing like honeyed wine, thick, golden, impossibly sweet. Eventually, I drifted, drawn away by the neon hum of talking moonflowers, their hypnotic pulsing luring me toward the heart of the revelry. A cave, alive with riotous joy, with the pounding pulse of music that reverberated in my very bones.

Oh, but I was still a cat.

And when faced with a world of bedlam, where else would I be but at the very center of it?

Not perched delicately on plush mushrooms like the honored guests, no—such docile affairs were for tamer souls. I belonged in the thick of it, writhing, twisting, surrendering to the primal beat. I danced, my laughter wild and untamed, my body a vessel of reckless abandon. I sang, off-key, delirious, reveling in the exquisite abandon of sheer, uninhibited existence.

At that moment, I was Wonderland.

And I would not waste a single, iniquitous second of it.

At last, the revelry waned, though Wonderland itself thrummed on—eternal, unrepentant. My limbs, listless with my brazen corruption, my senses still thrumming with the echoes of escapades, led me through the lingering haze of moonlit bacchanalia. And there, waiting with that knowing smirk, that glint of devilry beneath the brim of his hat, waited my inescapable fate.

The Mad Hatter gathered me into his arms, the scent of spiced tea and adoration thick in the air as I melted into him, a weary kitten seeking solace in the chaos. A whisper of laughter against my temple, a brush of divine fingers brushing aside my limp curls as his lips painted caresses over my shoulder. I melted into the haven of his very existence. Perhaps the night was done. Perhaps morning would steal me away.

But for this one eternal night, I belonged to Wonderland.

And I would slumber in the embrace of madness itself, lost in its fevered lullaby.

Until next time, XO. The Cheshire Cat (Elsie)