Sabrina in Stockings smartass switch sex worker

Oh, by the way, I’m on cam tonight.

Tease and denial, a little phone domme, a little webcam lingerie show… if you’re interested, you know where to find me.

I’ll have one night a week as a scheduled live TeaseCam night. Outside of that designated time, my cam is by appointment only - but appointments are always welcome.

For now I’m doing outfit requests and fetish shows by appointment; I expect to open that up after the TeaseCam’s been live on Niteflirt for a while.

Tonight I’ve got on a short black satin kimono-style robe and a coral lace bra and panty set. The panties are “booty short” style for all you ass men out there.

Care to take a peek?

(New callers to Niteflirt get 3 free minutes. Let me know you’re from the blog, and you’ll get something special from me directly as well.)

The lovely and wicked Princess Mindy has started a new small penis humiliation blog: RateMyPinDick.com.  Of course, I couldn’t resist getting in on all the fun and I’ve become one of the newest guest bloggers.

I’d just gotten off the phone with one of my orgasm permission line callers and - after making him pay for my permission to squirt - I just had to blog about it.

I’m feeling evil tonight boys… Who’s next?

Sure it’s bragging, but I just had to share this Niteflirt feedback:

In more than three dozen calls to a variety of women on Niteflirt, nothing at all has ever come remotely close to Sabrina Morgan’s teasing voice, superb acting skill, and searing sexual intelligence. I am literally breathless. It’s not terribly articulate, but all I can say is, wow.

What a sweetie. (Oh, and he was a lot of fun - I’m a sucker for the schoolgirl uniform thing.)

I’ve been eluding some of my favorite wankers lately. Aren’t I such a tease? But good news boys, relief is ‘at hand…’ I’m around weeknights again through the rest of October.

If you try to catch me, I’ll try to be good. And if I fail you’ll just have to settle for very, very wicked. 

(Congratulations to the esteemed Sugasm on their upcoming 100th edition! You’ve come a long way, baby.)

I’ve got my toes buried in the sand at Cape Cod. The pedicure’s fresh (a recent birthday present from a thoughtful submissive). I’m stretched out absorbing the sun and sky, and taking calls on Niteflirt…

My cell rings, and when the polite femmebot voice on the other line says just the words I want to hear, I smile:

“You’ve received a call for your listing in Women > Fantasy > Other. The rate for this call will be 2.99 per minute.”

It’s my orgasm control line - no, let’s be honest; my orgasm denial line. I’ll make this line available often even when I’m not taking calls because this isn’t work, this is fun. It cuts right to the chase: he needs to come, he’s on the edge, and what happens next is completely in my hands.

“Hel-lo, this is Sabrina…” I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. Sometimes I’ll laugh to myself, and they’ll ask me why I’m laughing.

This is where I get my kicks. Silly boy.

He’s already on edge. It’s in the tension behind his words, the breaths, the pauses. On edge, his voice slips into a different register. His throat’s tighter. His pacing is staccato –

That’s what I love to listen for; that shift when they need it badly. I like to hear the urgency. That’s why I’ll draw them out, wait until they have to come.

I like to hear them beg.

No - I insist it of them. The hesitant ones aren’t ready to come yet. They don’t need it badly enough. The desperate ones, if they beg pretty, sometimes I’ll let earn an orgasm.

If they want me to make them stroke, I let them stroke. Eventually. If they want me to make them earn each stroke I’ll make them stroke til they need me to let them stop. Denial within denial - why not? A pleasure prolonged is a pleasure enhanced. A pleasure forced and twisted is a deviant’s treat I’m serving up on the beach, in semipublic…

And he’s needing to stop soon, or come. And I remind him that he’d better not come without my permission. He won’t? Good… Even though he needs to so badly? That’s right. That’s exactly right.

“So how badly do you need to come? You’d better convince me, if you want me to let you come.” I like to hold out hope. I might let him come - if he earns it, if he’s good, if he’s lucky. Sometimes I do let them come, and they thank me. Sometimes I don’t and they thank me and curse me together, both equally heartfelt.

He’s begging for me, and it’s good - I’m riding that high - but not good enough.

I push my ridiculous glamourpuss sunglasses down over my eyes.

“No.” I’m laughing, and my friends are looking over at me; they’ll figure out what’s going on in a minute. “I just don’t think you want to come that badly.” (And I hear him moaning oh please Mistress I need it so badly, please, can’t I just come for you…)

“You know, I’m getting more out of it this way than if you actually came.” Brutal honesty. “Your begging amuses me… whereas if you come, it’s really just a sticky mess, over in a few seconds. And doesn’t it feel good to stroke? Why would you want to stop just so you can be allowed to come?”

I love the semi-logic. He’s still trying to convince me, he know it’s too late. He just wants to keep stroking a few more seconds. He’s waiting for my final word.

“No. ”

“Take your hands off my cock; you’re not allowed to come today.”

I’m laughing, and he’s saying thank you, Mistress, and fighting his way back from the edge so he doesn’t disobey and come without my permission. I tell him to try his luck again next time. I might be in a more generous mood.

Two very blue balls in ten minutes and I keep telling myself I’m on vacation. From what exactly?

We head out for drinks and seafood. I keep the phone on.

(I’ve been traveling off and on throughout the summer. If you’d like to catch me, add my orgasm permission line to your favorites on your Niteflirt account, or dial 1-800-TO-FLIRT, extension 01781456. Or send me an email - don’t be a stranger. It’s sabrinamorgan at gmail dot com, of course.)

“Do you like to deny different people for different reasons?”

“Yes. I like denying you because you’re a Mac person.”

-from a conversation with a very special caller on my philosophy of tease and denial

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.

Most of you know one of my favorite kinks is tease and denial/orgasm control/directed masturbation. There’s nothing more fun than hearing a man - or woman - pleading to come.

I’ve got a new Niteflirt line set up now just for quickie tease and denial calls: it’s an orgasm permission line. You call up, I decide whether or not you get to come and maybe tell you how to finish off… Sound fun?

Write the extension down (1-800-TO-FLIRT, extension 01781456) and keep it with you. I’ve got extended availability on this line for all you guys that just can’t help but start without me.

Girls, you can play too if you wanna. It’s fun.

New Niteflirt callers get 3 free minutes. New callers to me get to find out why my previous callers said all these kind things.

For even more shameless self-promotion, visit my MySpace page (myspace.com/sabrinamorgan). There is no music, there are no glitter graphics, and I’ve shown excellent restraint in keeping my harem of younger men jailbait-free. (It’s harder than it looks. Give a gal some credit…)

My lingerie and stockings Niteflirt line got broken in last night by a charmingly horny Englishman who’d just arrived at work. He had three of my favorite kinks: a love of stockings, a fascination with tease and denial, and a desire to be ordered to masturbate. He wasn’t into directed stroking as much as the idea of being forced to masturbate and told where and when to come, having to beg for it…

Sound familiar?

Right.

We chatted for a few minutes about when we’d each gotten interested in stockings and in T&D… His was a lifelong obsession, and in turn I told him about my experimental teenage goth years and how fishnets and lacy black panties led to corsets and silky sheer hold-ups. (My thing about slit skirts dates back to the Black Eyeliner Days when I’d show flashes of fishnets or black pantyhose underneath an ankle-length skirt slit to mid-thigh.)

So he found me in the office, in a crisp white blouse and a knee-length black pencil skirt with a back slit (you might have seen it around here), with nude stockings held up by black garters underneath. My stockinged feet were tucked into black leather pumps. He was sitting in front of my desk and I knew he wanted me.

I ordered him not to touch his cock yet. First rule of phone domination: The one thing they need the most, the thing they crave to be forced to do, first deny them, then make them beg for it.

I just love hearing guys beg.

Instead, I told him to stroke the inside of his thigh, stopping right before he reached his balls. He was to keep stroking while I teased him with glimpses of my stocking tops stretched by my black satiny garter straps. I stroked the nylon, telling him how smooth it felt against my fingers. I ran my hands over the stockings stretched out over my soft bare legs… snapped my garter strap… asked him if he wanted to touch his cock yet.

“No, you don’t get to touch your cock yet. Keep stroking.” Yeah… keep stopping short.

I made him tell me how much he wished it was my stockinged thigh he was stroking. I could hear the need in his voice. (I fucking love that.) I lifted the hem of my skirt to tease him more. Oh, and then I made him beg. He begged to touch my garter strap. Not me - not my bare skin - not my nylon-encased leg. My garter strap, smooth and shiny, black satin stretched flat against my thigh.

I let him. He was practically trembling.

I kicked off my black leather high heeled shoes and wiggled my toes inside my stockings. He could just make out the color of my pedicure through the nylon. (Red, of course. Matches my hair.)

And did he want to lick them? I didn’t care; I wanted them licked, dammit. And sucked. Through the nylon.

I’m sure he knew they’d be salty with sweat. My feet had been inside my shoes all day.

He was so, so good.

Good enough to be rewarded.

I ran my foot along his thigh and held it poised right above his cock. He told me it was starting to leak.

I could hear it in his voice.

“Please, please, may I stroke my cock?”

I thought he wanted to be ordered? Hah!

I made him beg. I had to hear it, wanted him to make me believe how much he wanted to feel my stockinged foot on his cock. No footjob for this guy… why should I make an effort? He was perfectly capable of jacking himself. I rested my foot against his shaft and wiggled my nylon-covered toes against the head of his cock. I pressed the arch of my foot against the side of his cock and rubbed just enough for him to feel a hint of nylon-on-skin friction.

I ordered him to jerk his cock for me. It’s always fun to watch a guy wank - especially when he’s doing it not because he wants to, not because it amuses him, but because it amuses me, because he’s giving me a show. And oh, how he begged to be allowed to come all over my pretty stockinged feet.

(Aww… But he’d just cleaned them!)

I almost said no… almost. But the idea of my toes sticky with warm cum starting to soak through worn nylon appealed to me.

I gave the order for his release - for him to come all over my feet, then, then and no other time; right then, or be denied for the night.

Oh, he came all right.

I heard it.