Sabrina in Stockings smartass switch sex worker

Okay, I try never to miss a HNT and can’t stand posting late but today I got spanked in public.

My panties are totally soaked. It was awesome.

This is a first for me so I’ll commemorate it appropriately:

“…and this is how I look when I’m really getting into [a spanking] and pushing my ass out, raising my hips, begging for more. Green panties are wicked awesome.”

(The pic is from St. P’s day, the text is from my Flickr album, the clutter is from digging around for my Flogging Molly CDs. I’m wearing green panties today too - this time a lace thong.)

If you too felt compelled to bare your soul and/or your bottom to the world this week, send me a link to your favorite entry from this week and join the Sugasm.

He’s sitting there bare-assed on the concrete basement floor, with his knees pulled up against his chest and his eyes wide. He’s waiting. I draw a card from the deck on my lap.

“Queen of Pentacles, reversed: The dark essence of earth behaving as water, such as ice. A cold but generous host, driven by an overwhelming need to accumulate and maintain opulence. A person so preoccupied with wealth and security that they can never stop to enjoy either. One who reflects the weaknesses of others, breeding suspicion and mistrust.”

I cross my legs. He jerks his head up at the nylon swish. He can’t see up my black pencil skirt from this angle, but maybe if I crossed my thigh a little higher… I slide my nylon-covered thigh up maybe half an inch, just to feel the faint silky texture rub against my skin. His eyes follow but he gains nothing.

“Do you think I’m cold? If I were cold I wouldn’t be keeping you company right now. I’d leave you where you’re sitting, with the bowl of water next to you, go upstairs, and lock the door. The best part of living in the mountains is the privacy, you know. I could turn up the Voltaire and never hear you yelling.”

He kicks the stainless steel dog dish; water splashes over his bare feet and the bowl slides a few inches to his left. I let the metal clang die in the air and wait for him to ask his questions.

His eyes have gone from panicked to blazing but he isn’t saying a word. Oh. I lean forward and pull his wife’s panties out of his mouth.

His mouth opens and he breathes in sharp, then out in puffs. Hyperventillating. His face is red and his fists are tight, and the words finally burst through: “Why am I here? Where’s my - what did you do with my clothes?”

“You know why you’re here, Paul. Or did you think you could just get away with embezzlement?”

“-It was only a little skim! I promise I can pay you back. I had some, ah, some gambling debts, and-”

“…and you were being blackmailed, by an anonymous stranger. I’ve heard your crap before, Paul. The money wasn’t coming fast enough for your blackmailer and you were getting nervous. But you didn’t just mess with me; you messed with my money.”

He works his jaw but no words come out. Then: “You knew about the blackmail?”

My crisp white blouse was buttoned obscenely low, just below my breasts. I’d had the fabric pulled forward to conceal my bra and make a last stab at decency. I lean forward and the blouse edges fall back and my breasts are pushed out over the tops of my bra cups, almost spilling out. I let the tarot card I was holding fall to my feet. His exposed cockhead twitches and stretches forward, toward what he can see of my areolae. He’s cold; he’s got to be cold, he’s naked in my basement and covered in goosebumps.

“You can’t just keep me here. The police will blah blah blah…”

I like watching his soft cock extend and swell with blood. I liked feeling it harden in my mouth, right against my tongue. I wet my lips (red lipstick, his favorite) and smile. “I found out about your wife.”

He looks like I’d hit him with a brick. Not that I would - the red and yellow bruises on his side said he was fun to kick with high heels on. “No - I never told her about us.”

“Thank you for that, at least.”

He spits the words out like they taste more bitter than the cum-soaked panties that were just crammed between his teeth.

“Thank you? Sarcasm doesn’t work with a hard cock, Paul.” He winces. “Go ahead.” My fingers are at that one button just below my breasts. My eyes never leave Paul’s cock. “I want you to look at my breasts while we talk about this.” Second-to-last button: undone. “Maybe it’ll help you pay attention.” The last button pops loose, and I draw the sides of my shirt back, baring my white lace bra and my belly. “Tits and money, Paul? Predictable.” I stand up and pull the white cotton blouse from my arms.

“You were freakier in bed than she was, oh, I’ll give you that.” He’s sitting up now, on his knees. Half-laughing. He’s seen the steel doors, the rolls of duct tape. “But she has a fucking heart! She’d never put some guy she fucked in a basement with a dog dish and… she… she would never just fuck some guy.”

My back is to him. I unhook my bra, pull the straps over my arms. My pink nipples stiffen in the cold air. I kick the pile of white lace out of my way and turn to face him, cupping my hands over my bare breasts. My palms feel good and warm drawn over my nipples, down my tits, my sides. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching. “Really? I wonder…”

I pick up the deck of tarot cards and hold it out to him. “We’re going to play a card game. Take one.”

He does. I’m watching a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, timed perfectly with the first clear drop of precum oozing from his slit.

“Show me.”

He shows me the king of pentacles. It’s the traditional Rider-Waite artwork, nothing fancy.

The zipper on my skirt sticks before opening to flash Paul the top of my black lace garter belt and prove to him that I was serious the day I said underwear were a waste of time. I tug my skirt from my hips - slowly.

“That was you. That was you. Another.”

He draws from the middle of the deck: three dancing women, raising their feasting cups, smiling. They’re dancing upside down.

Three of Cups, reversed. I start laughing. “A time of shallow overindulgence, followed by depletion. The successful but utterly unfulfilling conclusion of a matter. Satisfaction from sensual pleasures divorced from any sense of love. May indicate problems prematurely dismissed or a victory claimed before it is certain. Good choice, Paul. This is going to be all about shallow overindulgence.”

I step out of my skirt and bend over to take off my heels. I take my time - Paul loves breasts and legs and nude stockinged feet and he’s getting an eyeful of all three.

I grab his hand and put it on his cock. I curl his fingers loosely around the shaft and move his hand up and down, to get him started. My tits are in his face, close enough to lick, and he tries to catch a nipple in his mouth. I lean closer to whisper in his ear: “Stroke it.” I step back. “Stroke it for me while I watch.” He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock and nods a yes.

I lie on the couch, in my stockings and garter belt and almost-bare feet, and I caress my inner thighs through the nylon, and I tease my nipples with my nails, and I watch him circle the palm of his hand over the head of his cock.

He has a well-shaped, girthy cock and it’s always a treat to watch him stroke it. I like to watch him do it like I did it for him, use what I showed him. I like to guess which tricks were his and which were hers…

“I have some pictures for you, Paul. Pictures of me, new ones, for you to look at while you jerk that cock for me. Look in the deck.”

I’m not cold. I gave him something to remember her by before I offed her: cum-soaked panties and dozens of photographs of her and me in every possible position (and a few that stretched belief), photos of her tied, legs apart and begging like a whore, photos of her angel’s face in absolute bliss as the man I brought for her slid home, of her tear-streaked and screaming as the fifth, and the fifteenth, slammed her raw.

They’re mixed in with the cards. He finds them all. He cries, full-body racking sobs, broken and screaming and horrified and resigned. He doesn’t stop moving his fist up and down, up and down.

“Did you recognize the panties you were gagged with?” He’s nodding and crying and saying yes, yes, he thought they were hers, he knew they had to be hers, and oh God, her taste is still in his mouth…

“She was a good little slut for me, Paul. Your wife loved it when I told her I’d keep her secrets, never tell you what a whore she is, but she wanted you to taste her panties. She was wearing those when I fingered her until she came all over my fingers. I had the boys wipe off with them… thought you might like that touch.”

“Oh God… oh God. Where is she? Where’s Amy?”

I smile at him from the couch. “Last picture.”

He knew before he looked that he’d see her limbs splayed, legs wide open, cum staining her thighs, lips parted as if sucking a ghostly cock, and a dark red blotch where her heart was. The photo is blurry; I hadn’t used the tripod for that one, and my hands shook a little when I thought of that poor bitch on her knees for him, someone sad enough to cheat on such a vixen and stupid enough to steal money from me to pay me off.

I watch his expression change. His face is blank for the moment it’s too much and he steps out of himself. Then it’s over, and he’s aching visibly, and he’s beat up and empty inside and still crying. His erection somehow never wilts. The man makes me look sane.

In that perfect moment I slide my fingers into my wet, waiting cunt. My toes curl inside my nude stockings. What a perfect, perfect cock that bastard has…

“You’re going to kill me.” He groans. His hand squeezes tighter around his dick; his knuckles are almost white. His wrist keeps working; the head of his cock keeps reappearing above his fist, then disappearing from view. I don’t think he wants to stop, but he doesn’t want to come either. He doesn’t know what will happen after.

“I’m going to… I’m going to rub my stockinged feet all over your face, let you lick my soles through the nylon. I’ll let you unfasten one of my stockings, pull it down my leg, rub that cock all over my just-bare skin, maybe I’ll let you jerk off using my stocking - Mmmh, I’d love to watch that! - let you flick your tongue over my clit, 69 me, and I’d press my lips against your cock, let you push it into my mouth slowly, feel them tight around your shaft as I take you down my throat…”

I’m stream-of-consciousness sexing him from across the room, and he’s moaning, and loosening his grip, and his hand is sliding on a cock slick with precum and it just looks so juicy and I want it in my mouth right then…

He’s waiting for something.

“Yes.” He gasps, and shakes, and his body bends in half to curl over itself. I fuck myself hard and fast watching the cum shoot out of his swollen, poisoned cock and drip down his chest, thick and sticky. I’d lick it off if I could.

“Yeah, I’m going to kill you.” And he smiles, and looks up at me from the floor, and his lips blow me a kiss right before he screams.

I come hard.

—

…That is the most fucked up thing I have ever written. Gah.

That was fun!

In other news, you’re going to want to check out Audacia’s thing if you’re in New York. She’s curating a sex worker art exhibit, and it is going to be crazy fun. The press release with details is up on Full Frontal Politics (which will experience a relaunch soon, it’s been quiet for a reason).

(Fucking long-assed personal sex work entry; if you just want the heart of the post and the boobies, scroll to the quote and the pic at the bottom.)

It’s been almost a year since I started phone sex as a part-time gig to get me through college. I needed a job, and it was tech support or phone sex. Easy decision, right? If I want people screaming in my ear, I want them screaming in pleasure.

I was at a weird point in my life, trying to figure out where to go, considering politics, tech, ordination, the Navy… Phone sex didn’t seem like much more than a strange detour at the time. I’m a very lusty girl, climbing-the-walls horny to the point of distraction. I’m always thinking about sex even when I have no intention of having any - it just endlessly fascinates me, always has. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I liked the job, even though I was phone sexing in secret around my roommates’ schedules. I liked servicing men around the world on demand, I loved playing along with them on the phone, and I needed the orgasms three times a day, the constant marination in sexual energy that sex work provided. I’d come home from classes, go up to my room, turn on my phone and spend an hour with my fingers jammed up my cunt, flexing and curling in deep, a pervert the match of me breathing in my ear in tandem with my moans, and I’d end the evening sweaty and dripping and utterly worn out. I felt fucking great.

I’ve always been the world’s flakiest, most indecisive person. I can’t commit to anything - a deity (I’m Pagan), a gender (bi), a D/s role (switch), a major… it’s ridiculous. I’m greedy and I want a taste of everything.

I was in a 7-year long monogamous relationship when I started my phone sex gig.

I’m poly, always have been.

And I wasn’t getting any.

…

That is the sound of my head hitting a wall for 7 years straight.

I found work that suited me, work I was good at. He’d come home and I’d be on my knees whipping my back uttering sacreligious prayers to a religion I haven’t followed in 10 years, and crying, and smiling, and laughing while my thumb stroked over my clit. He’d get freaked out and leave the room.

It was everything that clashed about us amplified. I ended it, but that’s not important.

I have this drive inside me to seek out intensity, to find the weirdest fucking experiences and crawl right up inside them and experience joy in them. I don’t play around with cynicism. I’m sarcastic, I’m pessimistic, but I want passion in my life more than I want comfort or stagnation. Being overwhelmed with feelings, with rich electric energy… that’s what I need out of life.

I think too much, all day long, all night long. I can’t sleep because my brain keeps going all the time. Overanalysis, ranting, symbolism, sheer useless crap. When I work I want to shut the chatter off and use instinct.

I was looking for work that meant something, that filled an actual need. I needed to know I wasn’t doing something imaginary that would vanish without the internet. I love history and traditions (even when I break them with glee) and wanted a connection to something older than myself.

Like the oldest profession! Yeah. There ya go.

All right. So I’m doing phone sex, I’m loving it, I’m… not getting any sex outside of work and my own hands for months on end. Very sane way to live, when the thing that makes sex and talking both more interesting with someone else is the fact that it’s just not an interesting conversation with yourself. There are no surprises, there’s nothing new. I’m a pervert, I’m a kinky freaky bastard who has some bizarre sick fantasies, so I take those calls from other people. It doesn’t bother me.

I take those calls almost exclusively.

It only bothers me a little.

I go out and the shy professor types who gravitate towards me when they think I look 16, the ones who have that hidden dominant streak, start to creep me out. I was never a fearful gal before. Frankly I’m crazy and a good shot… nobody bothers me.

But this is after almost a year of hardcore humiliation almost uninterrupted by vanilla sex calls. I think of them cornering me and telling me things involving pee that I’m not allowed to talk about on the phone and really don’t want to think about before dinner, of them looking at me or at other girls and thinking of assrape with little lube and no mercy, of beatings and men with no concept of how to hit a masochist and make them beg for more. I’m scared and sickened and reluctantly turned on by things that never did it for me before.

The fear and the queasiness are new, very new. My sadistic streak has taken a darker turn and I’ve found the submissive streak this painslut masochist never had before.

I think some non-work sex would clear my head, but I’m afraid of scaring somebody off.

Vanilla sexuality took some twists. Power dynamics are sexier and they’re in everything. Feet and legs and clothes and nylon and saying yes and no are so much more interesting than they ever were before. My love for sexual torture with no implements other than some bondage and my own body (or someone else’s) is sharpened, refined. I love being the victim and the initiator.

I want to make them think “Yes” and then say “No,” I want to make them beg, because I hate it love it when it’s done to me. I want to give and to receive and take this into my sex work.

I’m out there now, physically, my image and my face, and it doesn’t freak me out now. I’m comfortable with it and the explicit compliments make me smile. Strangers orgasm looking at my panty-clad ass and thinking about giving me a spanking and I enjoy this and I give compliments by coming hard to pictures and words I think are worth it, my little orgiastic tribute, or blessing, or anointing with holy cum-nectar.

Heh. Holy cum-nectar. I said cum!

I still laugh when I say cum. (Heehee. Cum!) Now instead of having sex with myself and a lover or strangers online I have sex with everyone, and with you specifically, one at a time, with the door locked and your wrists or mine bound together and tied to the headboard.

The people are amazing. Work still makes me smile. I thought if I got on this path I’d wind up getting more into the sexual spiritual side of things but I’ve tried to use porn and sex work to distance myself from the otherworld and that was, well, pretty retarded of me. It’s not going away anymore than I can ignore the cars on the highway by sticking my fingers in my ears and singing, “Lalalala, I can’t HEAR YOU!” while I’m driving. I might wind up going off the road and into a field where I don’t see any cars any more but that doesn’t mean I succeeded, it just means I’m a freaking moron.

So, sex is a magical experience. It’s all kinds of goodness. It relaxes us, turns us on and makes us smile and connect or disconnect and I do this for a living? That is still pretty cool.

This is the most personal entry I’ll ever write on this blog. I probably won’t do this here ever again, but it needed to be done after the semi-absence, and I’m not going to regret doing it. I’m totally in the mood to write a ton of erotic flashfic tonight so I’ll flip a coin and decide if I’m giving or receiving the erotic torture in tonight’s scene, but there will be a tonight’s scene, and I’m not changing the focus of this blog: I’m launching back into it with a fucking stiletto-heeled, topless vengeance.

Before you embark on any path ask the question: Does this path have a heart? If the answer is no, you will know it, and then you must choose another path. The trouble is nobody asks the question; and when a man finally realizes that he has taken a path without a heart, the path is ready to kill him. At that point very few men can stop to deliberate, and leave the path. A path without a heart is never enjoyable. You have to work hard even to take it. On the other hand, a path with heart is easy; it does not make you work at liking it.

I have told you that to choose a path you must be free from fear and ambition. The desire to learn is not ambition. It is our lot as men to want to know.

The path without a heart will turn against men and destroy them. It does not take much to die, and to seek death is to seek nothing.

-The Teachings of Don Juan, Carlos Castaneda

101°F and rising, and I’m here on the one night I’m actually obligated to listen to a lot of Flogging Molly and get drunk, because it occurrs to me that I can’t remember what state I’m in, what my middle name is, or when the last time I had oral sex was. Everything is fuzzy right now and I can’t walk right and that makes now the perfect time to write this review, because this is what reading Dermaphoria was like.

(Sadly I’m sober… this is all natural. It’s a tragedy, I know.)

Dermaphoria’s about God and memory loss and love and betrayal and curiosity and fixation and identity and insects and paranoia and a whole fucking lot of drugs. Craig Clevenger, the guy to blame for all this, is a friend of Sam Sugar’s so it really hurts me to have to say this, but I did promise to be brutally honest.

I hated this book.

It was too fucking short.

I started reading Dermaphoria on an 8 hour car trip and it didn’t even make it to the hotel room. It’s a fast read - it feels more like a short story sometimes in the pacing, and that’s not a bad thing - and Clevenger’s writing is… okay, look, all the reviews said if you’re a Chuck Palahniuk fan you’ll be hooked. I am, so that on top of Sam’s recommendation put Clevenger on my list to check out.

I’m not so sure I’m still a Palahniuk fan. Of the two, I think Craig’s the better writer. That’s the other reason Dermaphoria feels like a short story - it’s a very well crafted novel, with no unintentional loose ends, a tight and consistent use of metaphor to build the themes, and fun, almost over the top, pulpy writing. I said almost. Clevenger stays cool and never crosses the line into downright silly purple prose, but every other page has something for your quotes file.

Look, I’ll prove it to you. Hang on - let me flip to a page at random.

“Either follow me, or talk to me at work.”
“You mean you can’t talk.”

No, I can’t. My girlfriend’s naked, blindfolded, gagged and tied with duct tape on my living room floor.

Doesn’t that just beg to be sigfiled?

Or another:

God’s own clock quicksand slows to an ice-whisper quiet. I follow the smell of morning glories, pear blossoms, wet summer grass, sweet lemon and electricity, everything in God’s chain braided into a single warm breeze and the chain leads me to you. Your pale skin shines in the dark, and your hands leave dim tracers when you move, shrouding you in the cloudy embrace of your own ghost a hundred times over.

See, back in the good old days, people had to sacrifice their health and their youth to life-draining faeries to write like that. All right, so the man can write: how’s the sex plot?

The sex is hot. It’s not the focus of the story, but when it is the story it isn’t glossed over but tense and awkward and intense, like real sex between different people. The duct tape scene is my personal favorite… The interactions around the sex are very real and if you’ve ever had a fixation, an addiction or a passion consume you the conversations might play out like ones you’ve actually had.

The plot? It’s surreal, twisty-turny, and has enough action to keep me awake through the love story parts (which aren’t corny so much as raw). Dermaphoria reads like a puzzle, and yes, there’s a twist ending, but I wouldn’t call it a surprise. It builds very naturally.

Problem is, I enjoyed Craig’s writing so much I wanted to reread. Eh heh. Ever try rereading a suspense novel? Same problem (although it was cool to see how there really were no loose ends, everything was worked in from the beginning and I caught double meanings I’d missed on the first read).

There is only one solution to this problem: Must. Have. More. Clevenger.

…In unrelated news, happy (green panties!) St. Patrick’s Day. I won’t starve you of updates like that again - I’ll audioblog from the hospital for you people, dammit! Can you feel the love? CAN YOU?

Sit down.

Shut up.

Hold still.

You could tug my garters off with your teeth, from where you’re sitting.

You know it’s never going to happen, but I want you to think about it. Think about kissing me right where the nylon stocking tops almost give way to skin. Think about darting your tongue over that border, feeling the smooth texture of the nylon, tasting my thigh.

You’re leaning in so close; your head is almost under my skirt. My panties are just out of view but you can barely smell the tang of heat and musk. The nylon swish when I crisscross my legs distracts you, then you feel my bare stockinged foot pressed against you there - firmly - my toes pointed to heaven.

Do you want it?

Do you want me to touch you there, again, with my hands? Do you want to feel me run them over your thighs, up your sides, rubbing my palms over your nipples?

Do you want my tongue - I wet my lips - do you want my tongue there, or higher up? Tell me where you want it. I’ll straddle your lap and grind my wet lace panties against you right where my foot was and there will be no mercy until you tell me exactly where you want it.

You don’t have to use words. I’ll just experiment… you can just twitch, and breathe, and moan. Just don’t hold back. I love to see you squirm.

Want the audio? Right-click here and save to keep. (just under 3MB, 192kbps, mp3 format) Who loves ya, baby?

My mouth was dry. My shirt fell to the floor.

Turn.

One quarter turn to the right, lengthen the spine, flex the leg. I stretch out my curves - arms at my sides - and your eyes trace them. Appraise them.

I know why I’m here. You’re just here to look. If I’m not good enough - if I don’t measure up - I won’t get touched, no, not right where it throbs.

I won’t get to touch you.

My hands curve reflexively and I want to feel your skin stretch and firm against my palm. I want to put on a show, but I can’t. You said no. I’m on display.

The skirt. Off.

Your commands are bitten off, but the edge in your voice is husky, not sharp. I reach back, pull down my zipper. I tug the black pleated skirt below my hips and feel it slide down over my stockings.

I step out. I keep my heels on.

Now the bra. Turn around, I want to see you.

Oh gods I’m wet and you’re right there and I hadn’t seen you before not like this and my nipples are hard and pink and there are goosebumps on my skin and I kept my garter belt on and I’m not wearing any panties and I’m wet and you’re right here…

One quarter turn to the right. I hesitate. You touch my cheek.

Then my face.

The landing strip follows the line of my garters and your eyes follow the line of the landing strip. You’re tracing my verticals and I want to taste you, horizontal. I wet my lips.

Spread your legs for me. Just enough.

You’re such a tease. Breath on the back of my neck, your lips not touching me. The whispering of your rough fingerpads along my satin garter straps but not my skin. My thighs apart just enough for you to slide your hand between, draw a finger from my plump ass to my eager clit. (You tell me you will, if I…) Enough to feel the heat of your cock brush against my ass right at that downcurving detour line, then bob away.

‘Enough.’

‘Please.’

I can’t tell if I whisper the words or yell them, if I said them out loud or mouthed them as I arched my hips back and raised my ass in a primal wordless invitation.

Your smooth rounded head slides along my slit so easily, pushes apart my pouty lips so that they straddle your shaft. You grip my hips. Fingers. Digging into skin. Sliding agains skin. Stop. Teasing. Me.

You work my pussy over with the length of your cock, making me whimper, quiver, beg. I’m feeling every inch of you but not where I need to and I’m grinding that aching pink emptiness - I’m grinding my cunt down against your cock so tightly you can feel me clenching and unclenching, shivering and waiting. Slide back. Slide up. Slide in.

One slow push and I half-scream.

I’m sitting here right now, in (thrown back on) soaked black panties, MST3King my own porn.

This is so, so totally wrong.

…Yeah. I totally came.

I recorded it.

My cats kept wandering in.

I recorded that too.

Of course, I can’t publish the “good” parts or I’ll have to also publish my home address (disclaimer: stalkers will not get actual tease and denial scenes). But I love you in that you’re-still-not-getting-anything-next-Valentine’s way, so stockings and garters tease clips you shall have.

(320×240, mpeg4, just under 3 MB - click below to play, right click here and save to keep)

I’d never jilled off in stockings and garters before. They definitely add something. I love the way nylon feels on bare legs (and toes!), and garter straps just look sexy.

I’d never taped myself jilling before either. While I was working my fingers against my slit it seemed playful and sexy and even a little adventurous but looking at the finished product is totally bizarre. I just keep wishing I’d had somebody around to tell me to use different angles, tilt my chin, or move my arm to the side when I was playing with my nipples.

That would’ve been fun.

I hold my legs almost completely still when I’m coming hard and I never realized that before now.

…

Audio you shall also have (tomorrow?). It’s 9am and I’m awake because Mia needs audio porn, and dammit, what Mia needs, Mia gets. I was waiting for privacy. This is fucked up because I still don’t have any privacy and now I’m half asleep, marinating in my own juices and still don’t have any audio for Mia.

So, tomorrow: HNT, audio for the queen of erotica and fishnets, maybe even a real post or three… G’night.

The knock on the door froze me. I stopped unbuckling my heels.

“Room service.”

Not likely. I hadn’t ordered any. Your voice caught my attention - it was familiar in an impossible way. You couldn’t be here. Not now.

I knew better, and I answered the door anyway, with my shirt half unbuttoned and my pale pink bra strap peeking out. You had the fucking nerve to be on the other side of it, without warning me, without any…

“Hi. Sabrina.”

…any precursor other than the emails, the voicemails, and then nothing for a month.

“…Hi. What are you doing here?” You looked good. I didn’t tell you where I was staying. But you looked so, so good.

“I came to see you. Surprise.”

You came in - I don’t remember if I invited you in, or if I just stepped backwards and you followed me into the room. I looked at my feet, at your feet, at the cheap teal hotel carpet; never at your eyes. You were smiling, I was smiling, but I wasn’t sure why. I think I said something about being glad to see you. Funny thing to say, but I was too confused to be mad. Yet.

I just wanted revenge.

I could feel your eyes on me and I knew just how to start. One hand, along the unbuttoned collar of my blouse, like so. Tugging it open. I’d stopped unbuttoning it just under my breasts - you were getting a narrow eyeful of cleavage edged in a crisp white cotton blouse. The deep V gave my hand enough room to caress the swell of my breasts and almost, but not quite, cut off your view.

“So you came to see me… Do you like what you see?”

My left hand slid up, stroked the back of my neck. My right was toying with the bottom two buttons of my blouse. Pop. It’s a trick I learned from a stripper. Pop. Start at the bottom and work your way up… builds anticipation. He sees bare belly before he sees breasts.

I only looked down once, the second to last button; I looked down, and smiled coyly, and played innocent. I liked keeping my eyes on you, watching you smile, and shift, and run your eyes over my tits like you were using them as stand-ins for your hands. I liked watching your pants tent up when I let the shirt slide off my arms and crumple by my feet. I stepped on it, kicked it aside; you’re next.

Cherry red lips shifted into a grin. My tongue flicked out, danced over my lower lip for a second too long. Yours followed. Mirror mirror. I stepped into your space. My hips were shifting in some slow unconscious dance. I rested my high-heeled foot on the arm of the chair you were pinned to; my fingers circled my ankle, slid up, broke apart. The faint hiss of my palms sliding up my calves over the sheer black nylon of my stockings… I closed my eyes, and when they flickered open your mouth was parted. Hungry and wanting.

My skirt slid up just enough to expose the lace band at the top of my stocking. I wiggled my stockinged foot inside my shoe and kicked it off, flexed my now almost bare foot for you. You knew what was coming. You leaned back and thrust your hips forward. Your breath stuttered.

Your cock stretched out your pants obscenely - I could see where your shaft ended and your cockhead began, and I followed that sweet hard line with my nyloned toes. The ball of my foot pressed your shaft up against your stomach and when I released you from that firmness the arch of my foot just barely rubbed right above your balls.

I made you unzip, watched you pull your cock out. Were you hoping I’d touch it?

I raised my leg and rested my foot on your shoulder and I know you could see my panties underneath my skirt. You could see how the pale pink satin clung to my mound and the wet spot, that giveaway trace of juices right along my slit… It made your cock jump. Oh, and when I ran my hand up my inner thigh, tracing the garter strap and then the edging of my panties…

My fingers slid to the side. Just enough. I ran two fingers over my panty-clad lips.

My breath caught. I leaned forward until my satin-and-lace bra was pushing my breasts right into your face. One pink nipple popped out and your greedy lips rubbed it raw.

I straddled your thighs and grazed your pulsing cock with my silky panties. I know you could feel the warmth and wetness of my pussy right through them. Your shaft pressed the crotch of my panties between my pussy lips so that the length of your cock was wedged between them. I could feel the head of your cock twitching against my throbbing clit.

You groaned. I slid - up and down along your shaft, teasing you with the wettest part of my pussy, right where you could feel me indent and imagine pushing up - I think you did push up, but so did I - and feeling my slick walls tighten, then expand around you. I’d hover right above the aching tip of your cock and laugh as you bucked your hips into the air. I held your arms down. You were pinned to the chair. You were hoarse, begging - it just made me wetter, and you could feel it, and it drove you crazy.

“I need to come, babe… Let me slide down just like this, feel you parting my lips, pressing up against them…” Right in your ear, whispering. Voice husky and almost moaning and I could feel the weight and thickness of your swollen cock pressed up against my slit, against my belly as I slid down, then back up.

I pressed forward, riding your cock with my clit, sliding every inch against my silk-covered pussy lips. Faster - the friction had to hurt, had to burn a little, but you let out a low moan and worked your cock pressed against my pink panties, worked every bump and curve against my throbbing pussy.

You weren’t getting enough - I made sure of that. Your legs shook as you got close and I’d raise my ass, denying you enough touch to get off. Your face was flushed and your whole body was trembling. Mine was too. I was so, so close just seeing how much you ached. The quivering was a low rumble coming from somewhere deep and my cunt clenched around nothing as I rocked back and forth against your body, my hair in your face…

11:10 PM. I slid down your cock and left a streak of sweet girl-juice. My smile wasn’t a smile. It was the biggest shit-eating grin you’d ever seen on a face this flushed. I dismounted and left you, sweaty palms, soaking wet dick, and blue balls, in my hotel room.I took your key, your coffee, my purse, and your wallet and walked out.

The door locked behind me. I didn’t need to look back to know you were nearly crying.

This is just a quickie tease post. I’ll be gone til late Friday. Sorry about the late video - I didn’t forget you.

From the set my first HNT was from:

My feet aren’t actually bigger than my head. I learned a very valuable lesson about camera angles that day…

Okay, I have to pack two hours ago. XO, more later.

Congrats Sam.

Dawn is nature’s way of telling us to go to bed. On that note, here’s my first official Half-Nekkid Thursday post:

Still from a video during which I was seriously horny and seriously about to take an involuntary nap, at the same time. I hope those of you into sleeping women will get a kick out of this one. (That’s one of my favorite fetishes- giving and receiving. More on that later.)

Have a boobtastic Imbolc/Candlemas/Groundhog Day, everyone. I know I will.