Sabrina in Stockings smartass switch sex worker

I was feeling particularly inspired (or wicked) one morning and decided to make an off-the-cuff humiliation and comparison video (see end of post). Yes, that is my tree in the background and yes it is decorated with blue balls…

When I first got into domination it was on a strictly personal level with a long-term submissive. I didn’t understand small penis humiliation and felt that men with small penises should be encouraged to consider their other strong points in bed, such as giving good oral. I firmly believed men’s obsession with penis size was ridiculous and in no way based on reality.

Three things happened to change this:

1. One of my submissives had a very small penis. I worked around this, I was patient, I was supportive, I was licked from dawn til sunset. But if I ever tried to ride I couldn’t move or it would fall out. Condoms slid off. They were baggy. And he was a premature ejaculator. After a while I just had to find other ways to amuse myself with it. Mmm… Did I mention he was a masochist?

2. I finally started to understand erotic humiliation, and how it could be erotic, for both the giver and the receiver. I could never experience it as erotic to give until I understood what it was like to enjoy it from the other end.* I had to experience it myself a few times - and find it intriguing.

* I say never but there were times when my sadism took hold and I played rough. That said there was always hesitation and remorse until I understood it from both ends.

3. I finally gave it, gave it and enjoyed every minute of it. Over and over. Until the fading shame of cutting another person’s ego down was replaced with the secret thrill of exposing his weaknesses and leaving him raw and vulnerable… of loving to make him squirm. The penis is the center of a man’s ego, after all. I saw it as an intersection of verbal sadism, male exhibitionism, submissive shame, and the kink of being inspected and judged. I’m into CFNM (oh, who wouldn’t be? Who wouldn’t want a harem of sexy naked men on display for their amusement?) and after understanding small penis honesty from that angle it all started to click.

And the good people at LoveHoney sent me this satin smooth Inch Perfect vibrator, and it’s got a ruler on the side, in both inches and millimeters (some of you really need every bit you can coax out of a ruler, it seems). And I took one look at it and knew it would be the perfect tool to break these men. A femdom vibrator - I never thought I’d see that dream come true. Imagine the CFNM party applications… Actually I’m going to write that story now.

After all the hassle of dealing with an actual micropenis (see #1) I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. My man has something even the Inch Perfect lacks - skill, stamina, flexibility and a breathtakingly perfect G-spot hitting curve. (Actually he’s thicker too but I don’t want to swell his ego too much here. He does read this sometimes.)

NEW! Small Penis Honesty video - Ready to hear the truth about your undersized equipment? See how your little q-tip dick measures up against my 8″ vibrator. 14 minutes of crystal clear visual and verbal humiliation. (.WMV format, will convert on request)

My domme-blogging hero Bitchy Jones brings up an excellent question:

“How submissive is it really to pay another person to throw up for your kinky indulgence?”

And see, that’s exactly why pros are around: often, it’s not. There are thousands of kinky men - masochists, fetishists, humiliation aficionados - who can pretend to be submissive in exactly the ways they want to be, to someone they’re paying to give them only the domination they can handle.

In a pro role our preferences conveniently match up with theirs and we’ll push their boundaries only up to the point they want them pushed. It’s the dominant equivalent of an American Eclectic chain restaurant; we’ll change up the menu in exactly the sort of safe ways you’ve come to expect, nothing too risqué, nothing that really requires much trust or taking chances.

We don’t ask for surrender, simply obedience. If our will conflicts with his it won’t be in any heavy way.

Outside the pro role - off duty - I have no patience for bottoms who just can’t admit they’re not submissive. I am one myself. Beat me, whip me, toy with me - oh yes - but try to order me around outside of a play situation and I don’t take to it well at all (sorry darling).

It’s the difference between surrendering to the senses and surrendering to another’s will. Not all bottoming is submission - and that’s okay. But damn, don’t tell me you’re a submissive and then not… actually… submit. It’s incredibly frustrating. Makes me grit my teeth.

I get along just fine with my boys who are upfront with me that they’re still coming to terms with their submission, still fighting it. I always enjoy the trip. It’s different every time. It’s the ones who tell me they’re service submissives, ‘oh I’ll fulfill Your every whim, Mistress,’ the ones into discipline, management, and control… the ones who ask for Real Submission™, and then get all pissy if you move in a direction that’s just not their favorite. (An aside: This doesn’t describe any of my repeat guys. I’m disgustingly fortunate.)

This was something I ran into a lot when I started getting into phone domination, because I was coming to it from a real-time dominant girlfriend style relationship. I didn’t understand why my boys over the phone didn’t react, didn’t bend in the same way my willing victim had until I realized that they fantasized about being submissive.

Before I ran into this directly, I never understood how pro dommes could consider themselves dominant in the “lifestyle” sense. They were paid to fulfill client fantasies. It didn’t compute.

Once I tried it for myself it became clear to me that phone domme was a completely different mindset: service domination. These men have fantasies they may have no interest in living out long-term face to face. They may be afraid to try them; they may simply be between partners, or with partners who don’t share their kinks. They might crave a safe outlet that won’t actively threaten the relationship. Or - like many of my guys - they might have had real-time dominant girlfriends or wives in the past and realized that can get intense, fucked up, and scary, but that they still crave intense, fucked up, and scary things.

These things get them off hard but they aren’t what these men want or need in their daily lives. I scratch their itch (and, also, conveniently, mine). I accept those limitations I wouldn’t accept in my personal life, as an off-the-clock dominant woman. Within their range of interests I have a lot of room to work some magic.

I don’t take calls outside my personal kinky interests; although I love to try new things, I won’t mess with kinks I’m just not interested in. It’s just a personal preference. I switch - always have; when I’m in a mostly dominant role real-time, I tend to sub on the phones, and vice versa. It’s a funny way to balance my urges but it works for me. My lover isn’t submissive or masochistic, but I still kink hard for men in pain, men begging, whimpering, pleading. Oh, and crying. It turns me on to hear a man cry. I’m almost ashamed to say that but it’s true… as long as I caused the tears.

Whatever submissive streak I may have is satisfied with serving a sexual need, and my switchy sadistic dominant side loves having all sorts of interesting submissive, masochistic, and/or kinky men to talk to, explore with, play with… toy with? Yes.

That was completely Sabrina going off on a tangent. The rest of her entry is dead-on hilarious and you must read it - that’s an order.

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.

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 just got my iBuzz Two in the mail (thanks Rich!), and we’re going to have some fun together this weekend. I hate having to wait but I just had my first orgy and my ass is still incredibly sore.

This is the life - “Oh, I have to postpone my delicious new techie sex toy review because I’m all worn out from that orgy!”

My devilishly handsome assistant has agreed to help me handle the male perspective of the review. He’s camera shy, but I think an audio review could be fun (and oh so fitting).

Til then, I leave you in the talented hands of Vixen and Tara.

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.

Remember how I kept mentioning that relaunch of Full Frontal Politics?

Well, it’s starting off slow, but it’s happening. My first full-length sexual commentary over there in too many months is now up, and it’s on tease and denial:

Chicks don’t get a monopoly on the either foreplay or the oh-so-willing victim role. Sensual touch just plain feels good and there’s something incredible in giving another person complete control over your orgasm. It makes the eventual - okay, possible - release that much more potent.

To a smartass tease, the game of stroke-and-release has a lot of potential for mindfucking. Modern culture assumes the male orgasm. It’s almost a right in any given sexual encounter: the man will come.

In tease and denial that assumption is blown out the window. He gets what she chooses to dish out…

“The Politics of Tease and Denial,” Full Frontal Politics

That’s also where my pro-erotic activism and sex news will be going. Subscribe to the feed now and stay posted on the next updates.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

It’s not supposed to be this easy. And when it’s hard, when it’s uncomfortable, we’re not supposed to be so rational. The give and take is not perfect. It’s never perfect. But it’s not utterly unfair and there’s this tendency towards seeking a compromise, towards looking out for the other’s comfort without ignoring our own needs.

It’s not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to understand him this well.

I’m not supposed to figure out how to give him what he needs like this, or derive so much joy in doing so. I’m not supposed to be so happy changing who I am and what I want because seeing that smile changes who I am and what I want. I note its causes and its rare surprise appearances, and I want to reproduce its causes. And I myself change as I change what I aim for.

And he smiles.

And it’s not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to wake up knowing he’s just walked into the room. He’s not supposed to know just where and how much to tease me. Or how much I like taking sexual orders when I’m sleepy. Or how much I’m addicted to feeling him come inside me. He’s not supposed to make me ask for it. I’m not supposed to like it. We’re not supposed to keep our clothes on. Or off. Or feel this peaceful and relaxed and turned on. He’s not supposed to… set me off just thinking about my thighs tight around his hips, my legs locked around his ass, knees high and pulling him in. The way he’d tease my clit with the head of his cock. How he breathed into my hair and slid his cock in slow and held my hand with our fingers entwined while he pumped his come into my pussy. Looking into his eyes, just catching our breath, our legs still shaking.

I wasn’t supposed to say that.

We were supposed to just be experimenting. Don’t ask me what the hell happened. It’s not supposed to be like this. I mean, not only do we fuck like porno overachievers, we even make love.

Yep - I said it.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

He’s not supposed to be able to guess what I want or need before it occurs to me to mention it. He’s not supposed to be on the same page I am before I even told him what book we were reading. He’s not supposed to be so stubborn…

(…then again, neither am I.)

He’s not supposed to have earned my admiration and respect to such a degree that I would be willing to give up my life to ensure his survival, knowing it would be a sacrifice well worth making, within a few weeks of knowing him.

I’m not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to be screaming things I don’t mean at the top of my lungs in an SUV while staring at signs of my future and realizing I might be on a steady path to somewhere…

…wherever the hell that is…

that I had no intention of even visiting.

It’s a sense of last-minute panic and impending doom. It’s smiling to yourself and feeling guilty like you sold yourself out but you liked the price. It’s frantically looking for excuses and exits, knowing all along that you’ve already made your decision.

It’s not supposed to be this easy.

This moment of clarity brought to you by Leos, vodka, and amateur strippers.

Lesson One: How to take dirty pictures like you mean it.

First, read Sam Sugar’s latest blog post: An Illustrated Guide to Nude Modeling

Most model learn to pose by trial-and-error but I don’t advise it, I tried it myself with advanced rocketry and killed a lot of people. As someone who last week looked at over 8,000 pornographic images (I wish I was joking), and who’s been on hundreds of photo sets, allow me to provide a guide to a few of the classic softcore poses…

Take 30-70 pictures. You’ll be keeping 8-15.

Email them to your favorite flirtation objects, and send me as many copies as you wish. I promise to treasure them all (and the best of them more than once).

Lesson Two: Why Mother always said every lady should own a strand of pearls.

From Allegory of an Underage Femme Fatale:

…Babe, I’m into cock-bondage. Don’t worry, its not the crazy kind, just the fun kind and I promise you’ll like it.

Without waiting for a response, I reach behind his head to my jewelry rack that hangs on the wall of my currently being-re-decorated room and take my 35 inch strand of antique natural pearls. His waiting cock is standing forth like a monument to the night and to all his little sex driven mind can conceive. Delicately and with small, soft hands, I wrap the pearls around his cock, starting at the bottom of his thick shaft and twining up, completely encasing his hard flesh in pearls. When at last the pearls were in place, I took both ends and pulled gently, flicking the head of his cock with my tongue…

-”The Hymn of the Pearls“

Now that’s what I call inspirational reading. Feminine dominance at its finest.

Ladies, go ye forth and strike fear into the loins of men. And women.

I’m hungry. Hungry for passion, for fire, for life and love. And heartbreakingly kinky sex.

Guys always say they want an insatiable woman, one they can’t keep up with. A nympho. Someone as addicted to touching their cocks as they are. A woman who’s wet and ready just about any time, day or night. A vixen who prefers belting out a hoarse “YES!” to just saying no.

Go ahead - admit it.

This chick will invariably get on your nerves. I don’t care how high your sex drive is: She’s going to drive you crazy. You’re going to find yourself saying, “I’m too tired!” and even the dreaded “Could you please just stop grabbing my cock?”

She’ll try to warn you most guys have a hard time keeping up with her. You’ll tell her you have the same problem. After all, you have a pretty high sex drive. Most of your previous lovers haven’t wanted it three, four times a week like you do.

She will wear you out. She will want it, crave it, no - need it - more like three times a day.

There is one trick to handling the near-nymphomaniac: exhausting them with orgasms.

It worked on me; I’m a recent victim.

Yeah, some days when I’m not blogging it’s because I can’t walk straight or stop shaking long enough to type. Damn, life is good.

(Next post: the heartbreakingly kinky sex.)

Lots of us sassy sexual intellectual types (okay, perverted nerdy girls) have a leetle problem. We’re independent. Very independent. To the point of being dependent on independency.

We’ve got a near-phobia of the idea of becoming The Girlfriend - the needy, clingy, stereotypically feminine, weak woman who mistakes sex for love and starts picking out china patterns on the second date. That kind of woman makes too many demands and we’re not all about that.

We’re cool. We don’t need you, your love, your care, your time, your emotional support, your money. You’re not going to make fun of us to your guy friends. We’re the kind of chicks who think porn and pizza make a great date. We’ll spring for the pizza (and probably the porn). We won’t expect dinner and roses before we put out. Hell, we won’t expect anything. At all.

And if we find ourselves wanting something, we’re going to have an awfully hard time asking for it without feeling like horrendous needy, clingy bitches. If we start falling in love it’s even worse. Girls like us weren’t built for traditional love. We were expecting a lifetime of casual dating and dear, treasured… fuckbuddies. We want to cum and go as we please and are happy to extend you the same courtesy. If you don’t want it you’ll only confuse us.

(I am, thusly, very confused right now.)

There are a lot of girls like that out there now who don’t feel right asking to be treated like some kind of chaste princess, because we’re not chaste and we’re not princesses. We’re Just One of the Guys, only with great boobs. We’ll be happy if you remember our birthdays and we’ll notice when you do favors for us. We’ll bend over backwards to make you happy (while giving you head, of course. And girls like us always swallow.). We’ll think it’s thoughtful to send you obscene text messages. We’ll worry you’ll think we’re falling too fast when we plan special stripteases for your birthday.

We go in looking for sex, not love. Maybe friendship. Not love. We want someone who’s interesting in and out of bed. Mostly in bed. And frequently. We need adventure, we need to be an adventure - we’re terrified of being domesticated.

We don’t need too many attachments, we don’t like to get too close - but when we fall, we fall hard, and it confuses the ever living fuck out of us.