Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

Enter 2012

Saturday, December 31st, 2011

Introspective and sentimental: haven’t spent a New Year’s Eve like this in a long while. Usually I’m either out or working, but I’m running with it for variety’s sake.

2011 was a year of new connections, adventures, and living the life I’d put off while I was in an increasingly ill-fitting relationship situation. I made incredible memories, got to know amazing people who have become very dear to me, and dove deeper into two – no, three – types of work.

The first: my companion work.

I approached it as a true calling and by the end of 2011 had felt it become a job. Part of this was because I’d switched up my marketing to test profitability, with some success; part of this was because I was falling in love, and I’m prone to randomly distancing emotionally when I’m in that stage, mostly to keep myself from succumbing to utter sappiness. (It’s too late, of course; I’m smitten.)

Part of this was because I was still unraveling the threads of the previously mentioned ill-fitting relationship situation; we’d been live-ins for a long while, and it wasn’t an instantaneous unbinding. That took more out of me than I’ve wanted to admit. Frankly it still does; it did tonight. And tonight was the last night, in a way, for a lot of things behind that door.

I joked that I broke off the engagement with SC to become a full-on polyamorous sex worker, and that he may have dodged a bullet. It went unspoken that I was the one who’d dodged the bullet: monogamy, obligations and ideals that would have stifled me and kept me from doing my work (with a capital W). When it became clear we weren’t suited I threw off the idea of trying to cram myself into someone else’s box and then proceeded to do exactly that, with much greater (and juicier) success, by following my strange and twisty path.

That strange and twisty path led me back around to the path I was on when I first dove into sexuality: energy work, magic, woo, what have you. I spent so long carefully leaving my religion out of my work that I completely forgot that my related practices, at times, might be an asset. I’ve had phone and cam clients catch me at it unconsciously from time to time. It’s just a part of me.

That was the second sort of work, and the third. Diving back into sacred sexuality, serving my community, and committing further to education and advocacy. This is just what I do, matter-of-factly, whether I’m being paid for it or not. Whether I’m being credited publicly for it or not. It’s important and I can’t seem to stop myself, so there you go.

I still don’t feel I do enough of it.

As for my calling-that-became-a-job, I’ve found my way back around again; open hearted, within the container of our meeting, and prioritizing the sessions that nourish and inspire me over the sessions that leave me feeling as though they weren’t quite there for what I do. Those will always exist; the clients who simply want to check off another pretty face, a list of acronyms, and don’t feel the comfort level or the desire to genuinely connect. They’ve been rare in my practice, but over time I’ve experienced more of them, of course. I simply happened to get a cluster at an unfortunate time.

I still have fun with even those clients more often than not – but it’s not my work, if you get me.

My sessions this week? I felt myself plug in, charge up, and be there; I felt those I was with do the same. There is such joy in that. D/s isn’t the only form of power exchange. A gift for a gift, they say…

…And I feel I’ve received such gifts this year. From my dear clients, who inspire me, make me smile and enable me to do what I do. From my friends, colleagues, lovers, and beloveds, who nourish me in the most unexpected ways and whom I adore wholeheartedly. From my family, who’ve come full-circle from the initial expected slut-shaming to supporting my work (and me doing it). And from those who I shared love with for a time and grew apart from, for teaching me lessons I would have learned no other way.

I feel that things are moving where they’re supposed to. I’m happy, and hopeful, and wish the same for every one of you reading for the year to come.

Kissing Janus: Looking Forward, Looking Back

Sunday, January 23rd, 2011

I’m sitting in a coffee shop this time, not a full-basement studio in the mountains. I’m excitedly seeing clients in person now, not excitedly and nervously posting up my first tease photos, then going to class wondering who might be about to out me. I’m still serving up five-star fetish phone sex, still showing up on Niteflirt from time to time, still thinking, writing, and living sex (though I admit most of my writing is being done on Twitter these days).

Five years.

I went to sleep in my lucky seafoam green bra and panties with a matching lace-hemmed satin slip on top. I still want to retire that slip in style, in a luxe bathtub, letting the wet satin cling to my ripe curves.

Tomorrow a certain something special goes live. I’ll be ready, in new sheer black stockings and a satin corset I bought in the company of no less than five other PSOs.

I’ve been quiet on this blog for a while. Recent posts will hint as to why.

In the past couple of years things have been a whirlwind; enjoyable but in constant flux. Structure was a dirty word to me, a form of self-bondage I just didn’t crave.

It didn’t suit me.

Now it does.

Now I crave it, a setting-off point, a harbor to return to and launch from on my next adventure.

I’m building that structure out of nylon and whispers and kisses, out of venom and twisting you around inside until sweetness is cruelty and you crave the bite behind my kiss.

I think you’ll like what I’m going to show you. I hope you’ll stay with me for the next leg of the journey. I’m so glad you’ve joined me so far.

Thank you, for the comments and emails and in-person hugs, for the unexpected kindnesses and the scorching-hot calls. Thank you – always – for reading.

xx
Sabrina

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Insomniac’s Block

Saturday, December 11th, 2010

Sometimes I can’t sleep because I know I’m supposed to be writing. Not that I’m caught up in a flash of inspiration that burns so brightly I can’t close my eyes long enough to rest – more that there’s a mental restlessness and beneath, a dull hunger. Ever know you should eat, your body’s hungry, but you just don’t have the desire or drive?

It’s that, with self-examination and self-expression. The need is there, I just don’t have much appetite… I can’t be bothered to actually do it. I don’t find my own ideas interesting enough to even think them. It feels like running in circles, or revisiting the same vacation spot. I don’t feel like I have new ground to tread, or if I do I can’t figure out how to do it under this name.

I’ve been doing a lot of external travel lately (and some internal dialogue, though not much internal journeying yet). It’s nice, it feels good, but somehow compulsive; not satisfying. I’m not writing it out or thinking it through. I’m mostly running around eating at different restaurants, and I feel like I’m missing the point.

I need to have a self-indulgent, introspective personal blog again. I’ve been putting it off feeling that any writing I do elsewhere would be taking away from my poor neglected sex blogs. It’s not true. Or, at least, not keeping one isn’t helping me neglect them any less.

I’d forgotten how much of my thought process – hell, even my self-awareness – is dependent on writing sessions with my brain. Lately it feels self-indulgent and lazy. Spoiled. Pointless, a masturbatory form of leisure time. And it is.

But sometimes I really need to masturbate.

I can’t keep forgetting that.

And like any other form of masturbation, doing it for yourself in private doesn’t make you stop wanting more. Quite the opposite in fact.

I’m meeting with a friend tomorrow I hadn’t seen in years, a random encounter who became a night owl chat companion, then a writing buddy, then a very dear friend. He – along with his lovely wife – is stealing me away for the weekend, and it’s got me thinking about words and sensuality, memory and salt on skin…

I just realized that one of the first bits of erotica I ever wrote was inspired by him. I wonder if I still have it.

Not a Burnout – a Burn On.

Saturday, November 6th, 2010

(I wrote the draft for this entry in July, two weeks before the Desiree Alliance conference in Las Vegas. I reworked it to reflect the changes  I made afterward.)

Have you ever gotten bored with something you loved?

Not because you stopped loving it, no – but because it stopped being new, stopped having something new to tell you for a while. Something to figure out. You stopped even having interesting thoughts about it, or feeling interested. You missed its touch, but just like trying to fuck an old lover you’re going through a rough patch with, you couldn’t make yourself feel that fire.

I’m the kind of person that needs fire.

So after a while of being shiftless and aimless, starting a hundred somethings and not having the oomph to push them through (or perhaps being distracted by that other, more immediate sputtering fire… which one do I see every day, after all?), I realized a few things.

One: I hate the city I’m in, truthfully. I’ll be out in a year.

Two: I really don’t have any desire to be a hack, mostly because I don’t have the heart for it. I admire the balls on marketers and hustlers – but I’m not one. That’s not my gift. I can do one thing, and that’s tell the truth, as hard as I can. I can use lies to tell that truth, sure. I’ve never flinched at that.

But I can’t spin lipstick and promises, and I’m not really into making anything I can’t look back on and be proud of. There are thousands of people in this world who can make pure straight-up smut better than I can. I say this as someone who happens to like straight-up smut.

I’m not someone to come to if you want it – which is strange given that it’s something I enjoy and participate in – I’m someone to come to if you want that strangely uncomfortable feeling that “she knows.”

I think I’d like my multimedia to be rare and excellent, and I think I’ll spend some time this year improving my visual and audio skills accordingly. But it’s the exchanges that fuel me the most.

I lust after the interaction and the dynamic of live, full-on phone sex and cam. I savor the tango of face to face, instinct to instinct… sadist to masochist, dominant to submissive. And that’s why I’ve made the move to traveling more, living more, continuing to spend time with my cherished phone and email pets, and now: real-time sessions.

Take a peek at my new fetish escort website, and keep watch for tweaks to my phone site (including new photos and an availability indicator for my direct dial line) as well as more here on this blog.

I’ve missed you. Thank you for reading.

(Many thanks to the wonderful Sarah Sloane for pointing out that stagnation and boredom can lead to burnout, and that depression hates change. Words to live by… And thanks to my wonderful clients and to all those at Desiree Alliance this year who both reminded me that it’s the connections we form with clients and fellow sex workers, the energy we exchange and the ways that we give back to each other that make this work worth doing, always.)

Living Straight

Friday, January 23rd, 2009

(For my 3rd blogaversary I’m publishing select previously private blog entries. Originally drafted in Fall 2007. I left the below mentioned straight job in Spring 2008 and never looked back, until this moment.)

Or, how to pick the easy way out.

I got a straight job. I got a monogamous relationship with a straight boy – not necessarily a problem, but this is not how I thought my life would look. This isn’t what I signed up for.

I get up at seven to leave by eight to be there at nine. I go to a real office, I wear real clothes, I use my legal name. I’m still freelance – so, no benefits of the straight life come attached, except one: acceptance.

When I started caring about that little thing, I’m not sure.

If I’d been terribly big on acceptance I wouldn’t have been topless on the internet. Or an ordained Pagan minister. Or any of the other hundred and one things I’ve been, and am, openly.

I’ve wasted so much time pretending to be someone else’s normal.

It’s just that I got tired of dodging when asked what I do for a living. (Now people dodge me, in fear of my at-the-ready business cards.) When my friends griped about work I said nothing, because I was afraid of revealing what I did – of how that would reflect on my lover.

I thought of all the public advocacy work I wanted to do and decided I didn’t want to attract that kind of attention, because then his parents would realize, and what would that mean?

I was a coward.

He’s a good one – he never had a problem with my chosen work. I was working off my own decisions, my own assumptions. The pressure was internal – or where external, not from him. But I had a problem with self-censoring. I had a problem with living a lie. And I was too much of a coward – I called it being discreet – to be out with it where reasonable, for fear of who it’d get back to.

Only, someday I’ll be older, and I’ll wish I’d done it all fearlessly like I started out, when I was young enough to get away with it.

There’ll be time enough for pretending…

Only I don’t want to pretend.

I’ve always gotten bored with discretion. I’ve got a restless instinct to shake off all the bullshit.

But here I am, sunk cost fallacy at the ready: “I’ve already invested all this time and money.”

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and frankly I’m buried in debt and I want to die.

Not for any reason but that I just don’t see any point in doing this another day. Things don’t seem to ever get better.

I wish it wasn’t important to me, what I did; or, no, I wish it was more important to me, so that I would have pushed myself more, been more successful, compromised less on the things that drove me.

Instead I have to go off tomorrow to a job I’m unfortunately very good at and smile and pretend I didn’t wish I was in my home office, in my lingerie, taking calls from my favorites.

It’s silly and it’s whining – everyone wishes they were at home in their underwear getting paid to be sexual; nobody likes going off to their boring job. And of course there were times I didn’t want to log in…

…but I didn’t hate it. I just hated not being able to tell. Or, no, I hated not feeling honest.

Sex Work Integrity Fetish

Thursday, January 22nd, 2009

(For my 3rd blogaversary I’m publishing select previously private blog entries. Originally drafted in Summer 2007.)

When you’re a sex worker of any stripe, one of the first things people want to know is whether or not you’re “real.” Real pictures, real name, real encounters, real breasts. After a while for a lot of clients that fades away and what takes central importance is a different kind of reality.

They don’t care so much whether or not my stories are real* as whether or not those are my actual fantasies. They want to know if the kind of sex I have or portray at “work” is the kind of sex I have at home.

To that I say: not always.

Anyone with a fetish can relate to how hard it is to find a fellow fetishist, someone who understands and shares your seemingly irrational turn-ons. Any polymorphously perverse kinkster can understand how unlikely it is to find someone who you not only have physical, mental, and emotional chemistry with but who shares every last one of your various kinks and doesn’t want anything on your hard limits list.

Any sex worker, present or prior, will know that sometimes having a tangible difference between the kind of sex you have with your partner or partners and the sexual persona you take on at “work” helps you become and revel in that fantasy without taking any lingering unpleasantness from one side to the other in either direction. Sexuality is a messy business and it helps to have boundaries between public and private life. There is such a thing as being too naked.

I love living authentically, with all my warts and tender underbelly out in the open, but that kind of brutal honesty can be very uncomfortable especially when other people are involved. I respect the others in my life by keeping enough privacy for myself to cover them as well.

There’s a beauty and a glamour in playing pretend and why are any of us in this business if not for the dirty glamour? I write stories because I like to make things up. I fantasize because reality is limiting. I can’t really kidnap my objects of lust. (Legally.) I’m not (always) a stockinged siren of a gun moll out to ensnare the hearts and cocks of men.

But I could be.

And so I fantasize, and I create a persona where my fantasies and those of my fellow fetishists intersect. There, I go and put on a tarted-up version of my own sexual dark side; I slip her on and flash her under my skirt.

This is my private sexuality, the sexuality I had back when I was a virgin, back before I knew what sex was aside from kissing and making babies. I liked power play, pulp adventure, and wearing pretty things.

I love wearing femme-y lingerie and stockings with real garters that snap against my thigh and silky, satiny slips (why don’t they sell more slips? it’s ridiculous special ordering something that used to be so basic). I wish you could all understand how intriguing it was for me when I found out that some men not only got lingerie and nylon like I did, they were more turned on by underwear than nudity and some even wore it themselves.

(And women that wear? Ooh. Yes, please. I’ll take my bisexuality with a side order of high femme.)

I can dress up for myself in private a la Buffalo Bill or I can put on a show and share a little thrill with someone else. This satisfies my fetish for mass sexuality while respecting my actuality of a kinky man who gets me in every last regard except for the way I get turned on when I sneak a little nylon under my dress.

Real? Yeah. I’m real.

…And this is what I want. Come and get it.

Lingerie and Stocking Fetish Phone Sex


(18+, $2.19/min)

*Strangely enough most of mine are. What can I say, it’s good to be a sexual deviant…

Janus

Saturday, January 10th, 2009

We’ve ended the first full week of January, and I finally feel ready to look back at 2008 and ahead into 2009.

wintercorset_sm

2008: Retrospective

I’ll be frank: 2008 was a terrible year for me. I ended 2007 feeling very torn about my career situation (more on that in a moment) and with this frustrating sensation of being stuck: frozen in time, unable to change anything.

When the gods wish to punish us – or push us – they answer our prayers.

Almost nothing in my life looked the same on December 31st, 2008, as it did on December 31st, 2007. Most of that was for the better. Some of it was just for the stranger.

And the whirlwind begins:

  • Started camming in late 2007; hit my stride in 2008
  • Spent most of early winter 2008 in one of my legendary “black moods”
  • Made my still-popular small penis humiliation video
  • Left my vanilla career path in spring of 2008 for the second, and final, time. Black mood summarily lifted.
  • Traveled cross-country with two very dear friends during the height of 2008′s gas spike. We nearly killed each other. It was absolutely worth it.
  • Moved into a new home in the country the day after we returned
  • The legendary Stunt Cock, aka Mr. Morgan, followed in short order
  • I celebrated my quarter-centennial in June (sssh!)
  • Adopted a new puppy
  • Moved back to the city three months later. No; scratch that. Moved out of the new house three months later. Moved back to the city about three weeks after that. Spent nearly a month in limbo… what fun! This is about the time my cam hiatus started.
  • Found my first Craigslist fetish modeling gig. What a trip. (Which reminds me: I need to email my photographer about those pantyhose sets we’d discussed.)
  • (Side note: I love my new apartment. Love it. Yard maintenance is overrated.)
  • Lost my voice in November and was knocked off the phones for a month. Judging from some of the emails I received, you boys missed me…
  • Spent November and December catching up with my regulars (who always make me smile. Or laugh. Or both…)
  • Ended 2008 a happily full-time unrepentant phone domme, back in the city, surrounded by good friends, good food, and better tequila

I ended 2008 with a toast to much-needed chaos. Hail Eris indeed.

2009:

In ten days, this blog will hit its three year blogaversary. Honestly I thought I’d write more.

That’s three years of phone domme-ing (part time and now full), three years of sex blogging, three years of having strangers jerk off looking at my gorgeous round ass. I was 22 and in college when I started this blog. Now I finally feel like I’m hitting my stride. Life is good.

What I’ve got in the works:

  • Weekly scheduled cam nights on Niteflirt (it’s looking like Thursday and probably also Friday)
  • More audio recordings, including custom orders for both individuals and adult webmasters (site beta-launched in 2008; the public reveal will come in February 2009)
  • Video clips rolled out on a semi-regular basis – I’ve finally got an in-house video editor to split the workload!
  • A new fetish community site (or two) launching very soon – as in, this month. Those of you subscribed to my Twitter feed already saw this coming…
  • A final decision on what do do with Full Frontal Politics. I love political blogging, but it distracts me from the phones if I’m keeping up with it – and if I’m not, what’s the point? Still considering going podcast/videoblog with that domain. It has been renewed so I’ve got to do something with it by June. Suggestions welcome…
  • More modeling and adult work. I’m able to travel again, and my schedule is fairly flexible, so now is a great time to get out there and pick up more fetish modeling/adult video projects.

To celebrate my upcoming three-year blog anniversary, I’m going to release some of my unpublished, very personal draft entries from 2007 and 2008. I’ve got five slated for publication so far. Is this a lazy way to boost my posting schedule? Absolutely. Is this also forcing me to reveal personal posts I’d had every intention of keeping under wraps? Yes.

Happy New Year.

How to perfectly ruin your panties

Saturday, March 1st, 2008

(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…

Absinthe Kiss; Nylon & Satin Photos On Sale

Thursday, January 3rd, 2008

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.

How to Make Phone Sex Operators Fall For You

Friday, November 30th, 2007

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.