I’m back from my trip out of town. Did you miss me last weekend?
Sorry… I was busy getting my tease on. You guys make it too easy sometimes and I just can’t resist taking full advantage. A little flirting and men become physically, mentally, and financially weak.
Nowhere was this more evident than at the strip club. The South is known for ladies with big smiles and long tanned legs… women who know how to work a man. The real show wasn’t the gyration on the couches but in the subtleties: the blonde with the knee-high black boots who moved like a snake, the vixen who dragged her chestnut hair over Mr. Aging Jock’s torso, knelt, and smiled up at him so sweetly before taking his money. Hands at his sides – no touching. These men were paying for nothing but a well-executed tease, knowing they wouldn’t be allowed to place their hands on one inch of tanned skin, knowing the only satisfaction they’d get would be at their own hands, hours later, thinking back on the way she’d moved as she straddled his thighs.
It was inspiring.
I’ve talked about strip clubs before with one of my favorite callers and he was quick to admit that the highlight of his experience was the dynamic of the tease, that undercurrent of control. She had it; he didn’t. Money did not equal power, except in that he was surrendering both. He knew he wasn’t supposed to come; if he came it would probably be prematurely. And she would know, and laugh.
I’ll be back on the phones tonight. Lap dance anyone?
I want to write about it, but it all blurs together in my mind. I need to write about it – at least in private – to keep each time separate.
I like to remember.
Right now it’s like this:
Tonight I just went back to the first place he gave me an orgasm.
…Kissing in the kitchen – all over the kitchen, up on the counter, bent against the stove. I was bent over against the table and I don’t know if his hand was down the front of my pink capris or over them but I remember thinking they could all hear me from the next room, even though I bit my lip…
…And he just lay on top of me, and kissed and kissed me until I came…
…That was the first time anyone had ever facefucked me. I mean, grabbed my hair and just used my mouth. And I liked it. The next time he stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I looked like that (on my knees, licking the underside of his shaft) and I believed him.
…When I saw the lightning, I looked over, sure it was a camera flash and we were caught with our pants around our ankles, in the woods, with me bent over presenting my ass to him. Oh my God, I twined my fingers in the grass and clutched at the earth and the thunder sounded, and the lightning crackled overhead, and I know the earth didn’t move but we were shaking and sweating and I fell forward and all I could think was I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, I’m holding onto a blade of grass and I haven’t fallen off the earth. The rain didn’t start until we were clothed and out of the woods…
…He holds me down and spanks with his whole arm. Mmh. And waits for me to safeword, no matter how I squirm.
I told him I liked leather. I like to smell it, touch it – I just love the way it looks. He put on a leather jacket, leather pants, leather boots, a leather belt, and a skintight spandex shirt. All black. I creamed my panties right there and I was so obviously in his thrall… He looked over his shoulder at me and said, “You can call me Master now, if you want.” So I did.
I wore a little red plaid skirt and fuck-me boots up to there. And he did. Up to there. In the backseat. Pray for us sinners now, indeed.
…”Have you ever done it on your computer before?” Clearly cybersex doesn’t count. Neither does masturbating to internet porn. Neither do naked pictures, or recording orgasms… So, no. And damn.
“We’re running out of places to have sex in this town. Soon, it’ll be like, ‘Oh, look, it’s yet another place we’ve done it in _______.’”
…Can’t keep his hands off me long enough for me to install this damn case fan. Curses! Another screw lost. Can’t… fumble for screw… Hands on clit… clit on fire… Oh holy gods what is he DOING?…
…He bound my wrists together above my head with the pantyhose. Brand new pair. Silky, tan, reinforced toe. The nylon tightened around my wrists, and he gagged me with my own lace panties… He took the gag out of my mouth once. “How many times did you come?” “I… I don’t know?” “Wrong answer.” Then his fingers slammed into me and oh. my. GOD. My panties were filling my mouth and the lace scratching on my tongue kept me here holding on for half a second before I was just gone.
…Exhilirating, that’s what this has been. A fucking mental rollercoaster ride, but not in the moody sense. I love it.
This time he let me, or rather I did, well…
He was in the chair and I was tugging at his hair and kissing him slow and I decided to have some fun, so I did, and he got sort of still and passive and receptive and I think this boy could really dig on a little T&D.
Also being bitten and manhandled makes him twitch down low and YUM.
Goosebumps on his neck when I kissed it, and held his hair back, tugging his head back, running my teeth along his neck, and he liked the vulnerability, he didn’t have to say a word. My tongue licking right where his pulse was, the goosebumps when I ran a nail down the side of his neck slowly, the little moans when I just straddled his thighs, fully clothed the both of us, and didn’t touch anything below his collarbone except his arms and back, but touched everything above his collarbone with fingers and lips and teeth and tongue.
I swear we went into a trance when we kissed. It was very sensual and still and sacramental…
…Bent over doggystyle on his bed and I can’t walk right for a week after, he’s pounding me so hard, and it’s worth every limping step…
And there are so many times he’s just gone to town on me, and I’ve become nothing more than a bundle of oversensitized nerve endings and jumbled rushing feelings, and I’ll just lie there with my arms bound above my head and twitch, and rise up toward his touch, and whimper, and moan, and scream into the gag because it’s all I can do, just respond, as he overwhelms my body with sensations of warm breath and wet lips and strong hands and thick cock…
There you have it, chronological order be damned. The juiciest parts, of course, I’ll keep to myself. I’m not going to regale you with every saucy detail – he likes his privacy and my face is attached to these posts. I’m just going to start keeping a private journal, so that my private life can inspire my public fiction. And vice versa.
It’s 4am, I’ve just gotten back from IHOP, I’m half-asleep, my makeup’s faded off, and all I really want to do is curl up in a satin button-front nightshirt and tell y’all a sexy bedtime story. But – oh shit – it’s Half-Nekkid Thursday, and here I am with no new pics. That won’t do.
So I did a quickie setup (cam, desk lamp, and room complete with that just-moved-in look) and shot a few stills. I was in the mood… lounging in my wooden chair, rocking it sleepy sexy girlfriend style for ya.
(Yeah – I’ll post one of the sexies tonight with that bedtime story. HHNT indeed, darlings.)
You’ve been watching me from the doorway. I fell asleep on your couch again after dinner, my trust absolute and my exhaustion past the point of denial. There’s a fur blanket puddled beneath my head; you think about covering me with it. A glance at my nipples, to see if I’m cold.
I am. They are.
Your mouth puckers for a second; there’s that flash of an impulse to take one in your mouth, press your lips against it, flick it with your tongue. Your rough thumbpad rubs my nipple through the satin and you can feel it stiffen and press into your skin. You trace the borderlines with your nail and watch my shoulders shift. My breasts are resting loose, draped in the silky black fabric, and they roll to the side when I lean forward into your cupped and waiting hand.
It’s a soft caress at first, almost a tease, when your fingers curl around my breast; just enough to move the satin against my bare skin. Then you grasp, and knead, and squeeze. My oversensitive nipple is tortured, rubbed raw against your palm, then barely touched at all while you work your fingers into my breast.
My breathing changes, and one leg slides down beside the other. I part my thighs.
Your hand lets my tit bob free. I feel you cup my mound – your palm, pressed right up against me, there, gyrating against my clit. You trace the line of my slit over and over, embedding the double layer of satin encasing my slit (one for the slip, one for the thong) between my lips. Wet through the satin… One finger, right up against (and almost into) the wettest, hottest center spot. You press in.
I’m pressing back. My mouth is open just enough.
There’s one shining drop of precum on the head of your cock and you rub it across my lips, tracing their outline, almost like applying lipstick. You slide the first inch of your cock past my lips, gently forcing them open until you feel my lips sealed around and circling the rim of your cockhead. My tongue curls against your cock automatically. You feed it to me slowly. You don’t want to wake me.
Signs of a good weekend: Your scalp is sore but very relaxed from having your hair tugged behind your head and pulled, your inner thigh muscles feel tighter than they have in weeks, and there is now a spare thong in your purse just in case you need to change your panties (again).
That’s all you’re getting out of me. I’m sworn to secrecy. Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!
(And yes, I did steal this bra from a goth bordello. Isn’t it great?)
I might post some erotic flash fiction tonight if I get a chance. If.
(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.
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?
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.
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.