Sabrina in Stockings smartass switch sex worker

(Yes, this tease and denial domme switches - but only for a select few. If you’ll only ever know what it’s like to make a woman come this hard secondhand then you do not qualify. Go back to your left hand.)

There’s a white towel on my bed that we laid down last night so we wouldn’t stain my sheets, but by the time that occurred to us it was too late (of course).

I’d been after him for sex all day - grabbing his ass, informing him of the myriad handholds his range vest gave me for sex standing up, telling him his balls belonged in my mouth right as we were about to head out for dinner with friends.

We fed each other sushi and maki with chopsticks and shared in the latest news and it was all very sweet. I behaved throughout dinner (which surprised him), only squeezing his leg and ass under the table a few times. I behaved throughout the movie, and throughout the planning of our own movies, which thoroughly shocked our friends.

They called it a night early; thank Gods.

Bright pink lace thongs aren’t enough these days. The computer’s very tempting, late at night.

Apparently looking slightly forlorn accomplished what the pink thong didn’t and I got KISSED.

This man kisses like most men fuck. It’s a treat in itself. Rough, firm, slow, sensual, slippery with just a hint of bite… Rrrowr. If I could bribe him to quit his job and kiss me all day it’d be worth every penny.

We made it to the bed; I rolled over and straddled him, nipped his neck, let my long red hair fall over his face and buried my own in his chest while I ground my lace-thong-covered ass down against his cock.

I didn’t move… I didn’t want to move.

But you know I didn’t hold still.

Lips against lips, pressure yielding to pressure, tongues teasing and breath puffing into each other’s breath… My body undulating on top of him, slowly and deliberately snaking over his skin, his own toned and tan and holding firm beneath my squirming curves…

At this point we’re still teasing each other. I’m running my hands through his hair, tracing nails over his wrists and collarbone. My pink nipples pop free of my bra. His lips are right there and I’m holding my breast out to him… brushing the nipple over his lips… feeding it to him.

(I saw bite marks this morning in the shower.)

Rubbing my panty-clad pussy over his cock feels incredible but I’ve moved past horny into hungry for it.

I love to grip his biceps while I thrust back against his cock, use his muscle as leverage to drop my hips down and pound my body against his. There’s no hesitation - just fierce and rhythmic. It’s holding on while my hands are shaking, feeling my ass bounce off his tensed thighs, his thick cockhead pressing insistently against the wettest spot of my panties, right where they indent.

His hands are on my nipples now and oh my God. They’re sensitive. They’re very sensitive. I don’t always like having them toyed with but he knows just how to time it. Play with them when I’m warming up, leave them alone, then come back when I’m almost there and push those buttons to send me over the edge. There’s this thing he does where he presses them inward and tugs and vibrates them right in time with his thrusts.

He matches his beat to my pussy walls trying to squeeze his cock through my underwear and his.

Fuck yeah I came. Over and over. It went like this:

please

He doesn’t say anything, just looks up at me, watches me intently, and squeezes my tits together. And thrusts right in time with me. And my shaking thighs wrapped around his hips.

please, I need…

I need to come around your cock

He doesn’t stop. Not for a heartbeat. It’s an incessant wave crashing through me, over and over, not evenly timed, not enough that I could anticipate, brace for it… I’m pressing my lips to his neck, kissing his open mouth, stifling a gasp. Trying not to dig my nails into his skin.

Failing.

pleasepleaseplease

I try to look him in the eye, earnest, pleading. My face scrunches up and I throw my body back to push my full weight down onto his cock. My tits are bouncing free of my bra. (He’s getting a show.) Somewhere deep in the part of my brain that formulates thought, I want to feel his naked balls slap against my skin. My body just wants, just wants him pistoning in and out of me, driving his thick cock in so hard I can’t catch my breath, so deep it almost hurts, so my poor pussy won’t be like it is now - orgasming around nothing but air, milking every last drop of cum out of absolutely nothing.

And I’m repeating:

pleasefuckmepleaseIneedyoutopleasefuckmeplease

please

babyIneedyoutofuckmepleasejustfuckme

p-pleasepleasefuckmepleasfuckmepleasefuckme

Like it’s some kind of chant, like if I beg him while I’m coming over and over he’ll make it stop by not making it stop, he’ll pull my panties aside and slide his underwear down and press it into my pussy inch by inch while I’m clenching and unclenching around his perfect cock.

I’m almost crying just from the need of it, I’m shaking all over, and at times I’m not even able to form words, I just lie on top of him and hold still, and then shake, and pump my hips in time with his.

There’s this slow wicked smile that curves across his face when I go back to begging him. He’s savoring keeping me in this state, having this kind of power over me. Seeing what he’s doing to me.

His hands go back to my nipples and just before it’s all blasting through me again he says yes.

And I’m so far gone I actually ask him… “You promise?”

…

When I can finally dismount I look down at the outline of that deliciously prominent cock. That I’ve just drenched. In blood.

The hot pink thong? No longer pink. The sex immediately following? Well worth feeling almost guilty enough to wash his underwear.

Of course this makes me wonder about whether or not I can convince him “salt etching” has ruined my glasses…

I hope you all had a very happy holiday season and rang in the new year with lots of kisses and good alcohol (if you imbibe - and if not, then I assume you lost your inhibitions some other way). I’ve ridden the holiday party circuit until my legs got tired. It’s good to be back home with my charming perverts.

On New Year’s eve, 2007, I did shots of absinthe. Undiluted, unmixed, no sugar, no water. It was interesting… I didn’t need a chaser, but it did make me pause before going for the drops left at the bottom of the shot glass. I felt like I’d finally found my sparring partner.

I’m now terrified of what would happen if I ever let myself drink it, actually drink it instead of just sample. I wonder which would give first, the bottle or my liver.

If you haven’t had it before I’ll warn you: absinthe tastes like licorice, only greener and marinated in strong booze. I tried it prepared in the traditional style first and frankly I’d rather shoot it. Less classy, sure. Less pretentious, perhaps. Less like sucking off an alcoholic Twizzler, certainly…

I woke up with a kiss from the green fairy on my lips. Stained green - she’s an interesting gal.

…

In other, completely unrelated news both of my tease photo sets are on sale until Valentine’s Day (Feb. 14th). These photos are the real deal, shot by yours truly with my digital camcorder in classic amateur style (iffy lighting). This is a limited time sale and my photos are exclusive to Niteflirt. Membership is free and if you’re new, you get three free minutes to use on live calls or phone sex recordings.

See my amateur tease pics - I pose for you in a satin button-front nightshirt and black bra, teasing you by keeping the full view hidden. 25 quality softcore pics of me working the sexy girlfriend angle. (reduced from $25)

Nylon and high heels shoe tease show - I tease you in my black nylons and grey stiletto pumps - arching my feet, sliding my stockinged heel out of my shoe, and running my hand down my smooth legs. 6 nylon and shoe fetish photos, by caller request. (reduced from $18)

Happy New Year.

A flashback to spring 2006:

him: “So can I have your number?”

me: “Yes, it’s 1-800-FUCK-OFF, 1.99 a minute.”

him: “I bet it’s 2.99 a minute.”

me: (at this point, I had a little cartoon heart floating around my head)

…And that, guys, is how you win the heart of a phone sex operator.

attn: Mr. M. Legend, CEO, SLM Holdings

The hair, up. The glasses, on. The secretary? Is in. And I’m wearing her.

The crisp white collar on my button-down shirt… every button the promise of a teasing glimpse of skin. The bra that shows through (in a tribute to the backseat). The pinstripe pencil skirt that sits low on my hips and clings to the curves of my ass. The sheer nude pantyhose that hug my legs and smooth my lines. The grey tweed stilettos that make that sharp, rhythmic “click, click” when I walk - all business, if your business is pleasure.

When I get dressed I’m already planning how I’m going to fuck him.

The other night. The lack of privacy. The garter belt, I’m not sure he knew about. The black silk stockings I ripped on the dance floor, he barely saw… The fully intentional lack of panties I remedied before I even got my hands on his cock.

It wasn’t the night. Let’s just say plans don’t always pan out.

But. But but but. These pantyhose are going on over a freshly shaven cunt. He’s making me crazy this week with all the ways I have to have him.

I’d much rather be under his desk than in front of mine.

Ladies, never over-suck. It only takes one misplaced hickey to cockblock your whole weekend.

I love the way his cock actually swells and thickens when he’s ready to go; I go nuts for the feeling of the muscles in his cock tightening, then releasing, like they’re tensing before pumping the come up through his cock. And they are.

And they do.

Those pantyhose would look so much better around my wrists. Or his. Tough decision - I’ll go with the whim of the moment. Or rip through.

I have work in how many hours? And here I am thinking about catching a ride with my boyfriend. And by with I meant on, and by ride I meant I want, no, need, to wring every drop of come out of his body with my hands, mouth, pussy, and ass.

Darling, if you’re reading this, I’d love to Lewinsky you something fierce.

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?

My man and I have a mutual fixation: his cock. And instant gratification is a high priority. When I simply must have it in my mouth, I’m not one to wait for silly things like privacy or propriety. Fortunately for my (so far) pristine arrest record, he’s got a little more self-control.

I did say a little.

He is all. About. The road head.

He sings when he drives, so I like it when he drives. And if we’re in my car… my car has bench seats in front. Yes, I did this on purpose. You know me.

It’s the last red light before we’re out of cop central. He looks at me and he’s got that evil perverted twinkle in his eye. I lick my lips. He’s already loosening his buckle. I. Can’t. Wait. He’s pushing his pants down, pulling aside his underwear and it’s too long for this red light, I swear. No lips around his cock until we’re safely out of view.

(Mostly.)

Precious seconds to move the armrest. Cups go flying. Styrofoam’s mashed under my boot, but I won’t find it til after. I glance up. Red turns to green and I bend down - halfway to contact and his hand’s already in my hair. I like to lavish his cock with my tongue but right now I just want to sink every thick inch into my mouth.

And he’s talking to me. I love it when he talks dirty. Especially when it’s so complimentary.

“Just like that… slow and sensual. Mmmm. That feels so luxurious. Your mouth is like velvet, I love what you’re doing with your tongue…”

…talking the entire time and I can’t help but mmmmmm. His hand is reaching back and grabbing my ass, rough like he knows I like it, giving it a good hard squeeze. My lips are stretched just right around the base of his cock and wetly sliding up and down. My tongue’s working over the mushroom head and flexing against his shaft. I’m hearing his voice and it’s just what I need to get me squirming and turned on enough to come just from sucking him off. And he knows it.

I’ve got a slow, pulling suction going and he’s egging me on, telling me to come, ordering me to come on his cock. I sink his cock into my throat as far as it’ll go, then pull back - I need that last inch to breathe enough to come.

And I do.

We’re on a curving country road now. I look up just enough to sort of see the dashboard, and I know where we are. I glance around for deer, push my hair out of my mouth and get back to the business at - or rather in - hand. He’s closer now, I can feel it. His cock always tightens and flexes, then expands… like the come is pumping through his cock, ready to shoot out. It’s a hot image and I know I’m going to come again and oh damn his hand is down my jeans and his finger just pushed into my ass and I’m moaning and I pick up my pace. There’s saliva dripping down from the corner of my mouth. His hips are bucking, fucking my mouth while I hold my head in place, fierce motion with just a few inches of room to maneuver and all that pent-up energy is going to be down my throat in a moment. The seat is squeaking and I find that the hottest thing in the world just then, that he’s completely uninhibited and thrusting up into my lips and holding steady on the road just the same.

His cockhead is popping in and out of my mouth and it’s making that wet suction sound that he just goes crazy for and I love the way it feels. Wet and sloppy and satisfying.

Oh, and I’m coming around his cock, moaning and pressing my ass back into his hand. I move my hand to my clit, then back to his cock because I don’t need it. Just the action right in front of me and his voice saying those words. I want to taste him, I want to feel him come in my mouth.

“Tighten up those lips, tighten up on that cock, sink down on it, I’m going to come…”

Thick and sticky and pumping over my tongue. I dart it out so I don’t miss a single drop. He’s got a big toothy shit-eating grin and I’m taking my sweet time cleaning up as always. I’m addicted to this whole scenario.

“That’s what I was craving tonight… your cock in my throat, your finger in my ass, and that smile on your face.”

Ever the gentleman, he even said thank you.

Yeah, I could get used to this. Happy anniversary babe.

Shon Richards got it right:

Erotica can be so much more than just a rehashing of the themes already inside us. It can be a cure for those suffering through the sexual apathy that occurs during times of stress and depression. It can inspire those who have given up on being sexually happy to demand more from their own lives. It can entertain, which is something I find terribly underrated in erotica. Good erotica should be a mental escape from the repressed and work-obsessed world we live in. Erotica should stimulate not only body parts but also our moods and the way we perceive the world.

The rest of his 2007 Manifesto is spot on too. With erotica it’s easy to get lazy, to forget about all the circumstances that surround sex and make it what it is. It’s even easier to let the smut carry your story. A hot fantasy, written well, is divine. A scorcher written poorly is a turn-off. Readers aren’t supposed to get caught up in the words unless the writing itself is sensual enough to add that something perfect.

The rules of good writing are the same across genres. We as writers don’t take advantage of that as much as we should. Erotica’s goal is to get you hot, maybe get you off, make you think, make you feel, and maybe change your mind a little. It doesn’t have to make you feel good and it doesn’t have to ignore your psyche.

Erotica is writing about sex, and writing about sex is writing about life. That’s an obvious statement, but, fact is - life is messy. Sex is transformative. That’s why it’s so dangerous and so important. We focus on the obvious transitions, the firsts - first boy, first girl, first time, first time there, first kinky experience, first threesome - and the boundaries: age, gender, race, numbers, power dynamics, procreation, consent, adultery. It’s too rare to see erotica that focuses on the smaller everyday moments of transformation.

How about sex as comfort food? Ever had a friend or a lover use that instinctual way of reaching out to you to bring you out of your head and back into the pleasure of the here and now?

Then why not write about it?

And there’s that sex where your head just isn’t right, and you know things are kind of strange. There’s that disconnect and it changes your perspective. The kind where you can’t get off but you might get depressed. The kind where someone stops in the middle, rolls over onto their side, and shakes and cries. It’s not exactly hot but it can be very interesting, especially if you like your fantasies twisted. Cold, disconnected, upset sex between a sadist and a masochist could be volatile and frightening.

There’s that drunken sex where you’re kind of having fun, kind of not sure what you’re doing, but just going with it to go with it.

The highs and lows are intense and the middle ground is confused but erotica is about a delicate blend of lies and honesty. Some of that honesty applies to why we’re doing it and what we’re thinking while we do it. We’re chronicling a basic human urge, here. We’re covering fantasy and reality. Erotica’s about life, only smuttier.
It’s funny. I found out that a little twist on a classic fantasy will turn readers on, but a story they can connect to - even one with less sex - is going to do something just as important: make readers feel they’re not alone.

Sex is a powerful agent of change and connection. Combine sex with thought, action, and emotion and you have a story. The existence of fan fiction proves readers will add more sex in themselves if that’s all that’s missing from the story…

(I’ve been seeing more and more erotica bloggers doing this and it pleases me so much. It makes the stories personal, not just interchangeable Tab A/Slot B caricatures of people. This goes for fiction as well as real-life encounters.)

An erotic scene without a story can be forgettable. Make us think, make us feel, get us hot and we will remember. It’s a challenge but I know the sex blogosphere is up to it.

We can write about emotions and change without writing romance. (Read my archives. It’s just as easy to take that route and write something darker.) We’re writing erotic stories. It’s still about the sex but sex in a vacuum is not good sex. In any story, there’s supposed to be a change somewhere between the beginning and the end. In erotica we’ve been too often relying on the orgasm as that change, and that’s the lazy way out.

People have sex for a reason. Show that reason and you show a story, not just a scene no matter what your word count.

That’s my new year’s resolution. Happy new year. I hope 2007 brings you all every pleasure and a wealth of good experiences. Thanks for reading.

I went and got a full time - well, it was supposed to be part time - mainstream job so that I’d have something legit to answer when people asked me “So what do you do?”

It’s funny, because I was trying to avoid having the “Yes, I tell strange men how to stroke it over the phone” conversation with some new friends. Instead I’m finding I get very strange looks from my peers when I introduce myself as… a salesperson.

Go figure.

So this girl on Salon.com was asking whether or not she should do fetish videos. And the other vagaries of her letter aside, I found myself thinking (again - you do this constantly as a sex workaholic) about the social ramifications of my sex work. (My bank account is telling me I need to spend less time thinking and more time phone boning. My logic is telling me if I’d written this 24 hours ago I could’ve made the deadline for the next Black Heart Magazine.)

I wrote her a response, and it got me thinking:

This is high-intensity work; don’t be mistaken. If you’d shy away from nursing, counseling, or police work then you might want to think again. Sex work is rewarding, and not only financially, but it is demanding. It’s emotionally draining, financially uncertain, socially unacceptable, and very hard to explain to your friends, family, and significant others. Don’t fall into it if your heart’s not in it. It won’t be worth it for you.

If the money’s the only reward for you then it won’t be enough to compensate. If money’s not the only reward for you then all those hurdles might not be enough to hold you back.

(Read the rest of my response here.)

For me, the rewards outweigh the issues. There are issues; I can’t deny that. It’s hard to deny that if I asked 20 strangers about my job, 15 of them would assume I’d been abused.

My mother was abused. That’s why she’s a consultant.

My sister was abused. That’s why she’s a college student.

My best friend from high school was abused. That’s why she’s an editor.

I’d say a third of the women in my straight workplace have been abused - that I know of. I don’t know what the numbers are for sex work, but the numbers for mainstream are pretty staggering.

Of those 20, two would assume I’m a nympho.

Sex work, for me, is a sexual outlet. I’ll admit it. I’ve had to come to terms with the idea that I can either have my every last little sexual whim sated, or I can date someone I find fascinating in and out of bed rather than merely keep a stable of exhausted human dildos. I’ll take quality over quantity any day.

(Not that my current human dildo doesn’t blow my mind make me come like a fiend sate my sexual whims. I think my archives will attest to that. But he does require food, sunlight, and sleep from time to time. Which works out - if I had free access to his cock I’d never get anything done.)

I have to do something with this excess energy, so I use it against the perverts of this world. This keeps me out of trouble, keeps my sweetie in nice dinners, and keeps the perverts happy. It’s a win-win.

Of the remaining three individuals, two would think I’m going to Hell and one would think I’m awesome.

Three of these 20 would, after knowing me for a while, decide it’s just a job, albeit a weird one, and they don’t really care so long as I’m fine.

Good for them.

Right now in light of Sera’s post on sex work and relationships I’m thankful that I’m alive in such an interesting time… we’re breaking down boundaries, the lines regarding sex and public life are shifting, and morality is changing in all kinds of interesting ways.

I’m glad that I can - for now - write and read beautiful, horrible fiction about base urges and bad things, that the thought-crime of obscenity isn’t yet aggressively enforced. I’d much rather read a lurid fictional torture account and take my mind off the evergreen sexualized shock value of the real ones. I’m relieved I can still legally (and gleefully) fornicate but not necessarily procreate. I’m happy and honored to have such smart, warm, interesting, sexy, funny clients, fellow sex bloggers, adult industry friends, and readers. I’m glad I can make a living doing what I enjoy.

Most of all I’m grateful that I’m about to sit down to Thanksigiving dinner with family and friends who know I’m a phone sex operator (et cetera) and either don’t care or like me anyway.

I’ll be toasting acceptance in Thanksgiving 2006.

I hope you all have a very happy Thanksgiving (or Thursday for those of you not in the U.S.). Cheers.

I’m fuzzy-headed from congestion and too much cold medicine and I’m sitting cross-legged in a big leather office chair in front of electric firelight. I stare at the screen in this too-hot room until my eyes do a slow dry burn behind my lids. I only feel the heat in waves. My hands are so cold.

I’m reading erotic post after erotic post and the naked pictures turn me on in a way they haven’t in months. Stray sexual phrases catch my attention where I would’ve ignored them before and I know it’s because I’m too sick to fuck.

I fall down walking up the stairs. I won’t get to see him this weekend, and if I will it’ll be briefly, and we won’t have time. I don’t want him to catch this.

I know if I filled my mouth and throat with the thickness of his cock right now I couldn’t breathe. Not sexy struggling couldn’t-breathe, serious couldn’t-breathe. A part of me doesn’t care.

There is nothing at all sexy about me right now. That’s the worst of it. My lips are chapped and I look like a girl with a cold, which is what I am.

What I want is to get underneath my fluffiest blankets, warm my hands on his skin, and once they’ve lost their chill wrap them both around his shaft and stroke, and lick, and tease until his head falls back on the pillow and his eyes roll back and close and his lips part just enough to let that last breath of release out.

I don’t want him to get sick so I’d have to kiss only below his neck.

The medicine has me fading in and out of consciousness. I know soon after I rest my head on his chest I’ll pass out. Maybe I’ll have a chance to lick his come off my hand or maybe I’ll fall asleep with one hand still curled around his cock. The drugs will wear off in six hours and I’ll be ready for more. I’ll roll over onto my belly; my ass looks good, sick or not. It’s a head cold. There’s nothing wrong with my pussy.

This post is for all of you who criticize sex bloggers for only showing the “perfect” side of sex. To the rest of you, I apologize.