Spoof Story: Desolately Part I by Theresa Bland aka Tez Miller

Hi friends! The first Thursday in December brings us another fun month of spoof stories! Well, one written in parts, by Tez Miller. 😀 I hope you enjoy it! And remember, the covers were created and from the brilliant mind of Jen W. at Cover Remix.

DesolatelyDesolately by Theresa Bland (a.k.a. Tez Miller)

Elle American is a New Orleans princess with ambitions of becoming queen. But to achieve that, she’d have to kill her parents and older sisters, or wait for them all to die, and she really couldn’t be bothered.

Meanwhile, a land far, far away needs a queen. But when Elle arrives, Batmania is nothing like the brochure. Instead of a tropical paradise with buff, bronzed bodies, it’s a burnt-out wasteland with only bogans for company, and no palace.

Elle could return to New Orleans with no queen title to her name – or she could convert Batmania’s dystopia into a utopia. She has no particular skills of note, but perhaps her mere presence is the perfect thing to turn around the kingdom’s fortunes…

Tez Miller is a reader, reviewer, and blogger based in Batmania (a.k.a. Melbourne), Australia. She’s the queen of her own blog, Tez Says.


In which our heroine indulges in stream of consciousness, so the plot doesn’t require her to actually do anything.

I’d taken all kinds of substances on the seemingly endless plane trip. It may have been first class, but a plane was still a plane, and that meant leaving the cushioned comfort of my kingdom.

No one would dare give up being a princess, unless there was a suitable incentive: an upgrade. I could hardly refuse an offer to make me a queen, even if it meant moving to some godforsaken place. On the plus side, its name was a hell of a lot more awesome than that of my homeland.

I would’ve eventually become the queen of New Orleans. My parents would’ve had to die; and my older sisters, before they could produce heirs. But my family was far too healthy, damn them all, and mass homicides required too much organisation and effort. That would mean work, and I don’t do that.

First was my pharmaceutically-slumberous plane ride. Then like a zombie, I was summoned to a helicopter, and I’d just opened my eyes to discover that we’d landed in a shit-hole. And by that, I mean there was no palace. Where was my freaking palace? I hadn’t travelled all this way to live in a… All I could see beyond the clearing were trees. What the hell? I turned to ask the helicopter pilot, but she’d already flown off, the bitch. I suppose I should’ve been grateful that she’d at least dumped my luggage beside me, but gratitude is not in my nature.

Okay, so it wasn’t a total shit-hole. It wasn’t mucky enough for my stiletto-heels to sink into where I stood. Fortunately, if you could consider anything about this place fortunate, the ground was rock-hard, like the abs of the future king to my queen. Or so I imagined them to be. There hadn’t actually been mention of a king; just that the people of Batmania wanted a queen, and they wanted me. I didn’t blame them. Everyone wanted me, whether they were straight, gay, bisexual, or asexual. And if they didn’t want to fuck me, they wanted to fight me, because I’m so desirable, and they’re all haters, blah-blah-blah. They really needed to just shut up and put up with the status quo.

The helicopter must’ve landed on Batmania’s lame excuse for a helipad: a cleared circle on the ground. Elsewhere were tall grasses, crops, or whatever. They looked dead. If that was how the local people treated their own stuff, how the fuck would they treat me? I’d be their queen, which better meant I’d be more of a priority than a bunch of weeds. And if they didn’t treat me better, I’d burn them all…

Oops. I wasn’t supposed to think that kind of thing. That’s why I’d always “needed” a minder back in New Orleans, because I couldn’t be trusted alone, due to my being “psychotic”, or whatever. They’re just labels; everyone tries to put others into boxes. Including my family, who’d clearly kept themselves alive this long just so I couldn’t be the queen. Jealous haters.

Through the thin – like me – satin of my navy ball-gown, the grasses stabbed at my legs, like stiff, dead boners. Hopefully the locals weren’t the type of people who put their thing in everything. I love a hard wang as much as anyone else does; if not more, depending on whose wang, but even I drew a line at leg humping. I wasn’t a dog. Well, I was a bitch, but that goes without saying.

A cold breeze breathed on the flesh bared by my flimsy dress, which was admittedly quite a lot of bared flesh; because there’s no point being this good-looking if I’m covered. I welcomed the chilly winter wind, all the better for my nipples to point like a compass toward where I should find signs of life – even if the only signs of life were in my underpants, if I happened to be wearing any, which I wasn’t. A new location meant a load of new people to fuck, and I was damned if I would waste time not fucking people. Men got blue balls, and I got blue labia.

My high-beam antennae nipples pointed reception from directly in front. I strode toward the trees…


So what did you all think? Does it fit the cover? 😉

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