I’m starting to think that we self-identified “vixens” are terribly misogynistic.

We start out feeling different from the other gals. Maybe we have a hard time relating to them. Most of our friends are guys, often from an early age.

We tend to be very independent (some might say selfish). We don’t want to live our lives by anyone else’s rulebook, least of all the gender-pink lace trimmed one people have tried to hand us. We decide this at an early age. Simultaneously we find the power that comes from flirtation and are intoxicated with it.

We don’t want white dresses or babies or hearts and flowers. We don’t want anything that will weigh us down and try to come first.

We don’t need love. We’re not weak, emotional women.

We’re not afraid to get our hands dirty. To get dirty. We’re accepted into societies of men, but in our own place, as they are very aware of what we are. And we use this.

When we’re around other women, it’s not the same. The dynamic is not the same. We forget how to relate, or we never learn.

They don’t trust us because to us flirting is friendship.

Our boyfriends will have a hard time understanding. They’ll want more than we can give. They’ll want a heart.

We’ll have a hard time opening up, or be too open, or both.

We define ourselves as not being like the other girls – perhaps defensively – and because of this we mirror the gender stereotypes we were taught, hard.

Lately for every gal I hear or read who says she doesn’t enjoy the company of other women because they’re always so much cattier than men, I hear contempt for their gender and its perceived weakness. (And a woman who hasn’t been around her male friends when they gossip and fight. Of course, since they’re men, they would use the word argue – which is an angry word but a word of strength. It’s not often used strictly to demean. Gossip is a powerless word for ineffectual people and we only apply it to women. We castrate our own gender.)

It’s one thing to rebel against being spoonfed a stereotype as an ideal. It’s another thing to have obvious disgust for your gender (and most of these offending women are primarily gendered female, even if they do sometimes feel male inside; or at least, they express their gender as female).

I caught myself at it when I realized I was emotionally neutered. I fixed that. Mostly.

But even then, I thought the problem was a fear of vulnerability, not a fear of all the mockable quirks we define as female.

I’m not saying this was any less my actual personality. I was on this path because my own inclinations led me there; it wasn’t simple rebellion. But humans need both traditionally masculine and traditionally feminine qualities within themselves to be whole people. I thought wearing lace and high heels and being into emotional honesty was expressing my feminine side.

There’s more to being a woman than dressing the part (although that’s a reward I savor).

A fear of committment commitment – I can’t even spell the word – is unanticipated when a woman wears it but that doesn’t make it any less a weakness of character than it is in a man.

Not all traditionally masculine qualities are positive. We weave them into ourselves because they represent power and we love power any way we can get it. Taken from us (ooh!), wielded by us (mmm…), exchanged and rearranged in the kinkiest permutations… We use our bodies, our voices, our feminine wiles, just as we use our masculine traits. To disarm men and confuse them when they trail after us like lost puppies.

It’s one thing to be independent, and favor few attachments, and not be very interested in relationships but that is sometimes a stage, not a permanent trait, and even when it is a permanent trait, it’s neither a positive nor a negative. It’s just a way of being.

We don’t need to throw poison darts at women who didn’t spit on their gender-pink, lace trimmed role book.

Modern Western culture has gotten so crass that men fantasize about women who keep their clothes on and don’t go all the way. I advertise not that I’ll be naked when you call, but that you’ll be teased — you might not get to see me naked at all. I’ll take my time and make sure you see my lingerie — if I let you see my lingerie — from every angle, half-hidden beneath my clothes at first. Peeking out.

Lifting up my short satin slip...

(This country has completely forgotten slips. My little green satin one is ready to be retired after a good run and I’m thinking a claw-foot tub and the complete decadence of shiny satin, warm lighting, and a slippery female body drenched in a clinging little slip…)

Modern men are hungry for charm, for implication rather than brash and in a hurry. It’s the line of the bra under the dress, not this taking it off so fast he doesn’t have time to see it.

I say he because a femme who knows her arts will take her time and make her butch smolder.

Fishnets. High heels. Sexy looks, flirtatious words, seductive games. Novelty. Adventure. The rush of attraction. Seduction as part of the narrative arc sex describes, building tension (dramatic and otherwise) before the climax and afterglow. An opening — ah! — that draws the audience in, foreshadowing the lip-biting, hip-grinding nights to come…

We’ve traded sexy in for sex. Sex under spotlights, sex in full view, skip straight to the fucking. Forget the foreplay. Worse — forget the seduction. Some modern porn includes the foreplay, and it’s the hottest; it’s much more real when you can see them feeling each other up through the clothes, working around them, the immediacy of it… but who knows how to seduce anymore? I love forthrightness but sometimes I worry the price we paid for directness was suspense. Or enchantment.

Sex is supposed to take us out of the everyday. You must set a mood, set the stage. A magician has tools, they have ritual, they have craft and will. They create a sacred space in which to work. In the act, in practicing their art, they become something more than themselves; they touch immortality.

Sexuality has that power which is why it is sacred. That is why it is feared. Empowered crassness is not disgusting; it is sad. Sex can be rough and primal and free of pretense without losing that energy but it must never, ever be ordinary. As sex-positives we go too far when we remove sex from its mysterious brown wrapper and bring it into the mundane.

Let us wonder. Let us dream.

As a tease, I imply much and promise very little, but I will promise you this: you will never see me fully nude. Not in my photo sets, not on cam, not in videos. I fetishize clothing, after all. It’s much sexier to keep the wrapping on, half-torn with just enough exposed to peek at your gift. Eroticism is in the mystery.

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)

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.)

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?

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.

I love to show you just what you’re missing.

I straddle you in your chair, throw my bare legs over your thighs and around your hips. The satin slides against the fabric of your pants and I almost slip off – I press my hips down and forward, a quick thrust into your swelling cock, half-innocent and accidental.

My fingers brush the skin at the back of your neck and trace a lazy trail up and down before twisting to rub your scalp right there at the back of your skull. Your head tilts back reflexively; you can’t help yourself.

That’s when I lean forward and kiss along your jawline… slow hungry pressings of soft lips and hot breath with just the barest hint of tongue. Something about wearing satin makes me feel langorous and sensual and I take my time devouring you. One soft suck at your earlobe and I whisper:

“Touch my breasts… squeeze them through the satin. I want to feel your hands on me while I kiss you.”

My little black panties are thin and I’m making sure you feel it, rubbing my slit against the bulge in your pants, pressing your cockhead right into the wettest spot. I grind my hips in a circle, in a dance, and run my hands through my long red hair, and flash you a teasing smile.

“No hands, now. Keep them at your sides.”

I use my right hand to grip the back of the chair and hold myself steady… conveniently pressing my breasts right into your face. My left hand unbuttons the top button of my satin pajama top, then the second, then the third. I let it fall open and my hand slides on down.

So, I suppose the question should be asked: Because I take my clothing off for a living, am I worthy of being respected? Am I allowed that much? Or is it right for me to be disrespected because I show myself in provocative photos?

I suppose I’m a little stunned. I take off my clothing for a living, and because of that, I’m not worthy of respect. I knew that I had to pay for my profession with my privacy, but I didn’t know it would also cost me respect.

I mean, I’m not saying that you have to take me seriously 100% of the time. I’m not saying you can’t even view me as sexy – I’m flattered that anyone does. But I do think that I’m entitled to at least a trace amount of respect here. My opinions and views shouldn’t be any less valuable just because I have a website where I take my top off.

-In Theory: The Dissection of the Allowance of Respect and Whether Erotica Models are Deserving of Such, DamnJezebel.com

And I left a comment that turned into a post:

It’s just the old Madonna/Whore thing again. We’re told that anyone who’s publicly sexual or in any other way pushes sexual boundaries not only isn’t worthy of respect, and isn’t even a real person, but doesn’t respect theirself. Usually herself. I guess that comes from the “loose women sleep around due to low self esteem and aren’t picky about who they boink” theory but what that has to do with making smut, I don’t know…

I say, if you can’t respect me naked, you can’t respect me clothed and probably never respected me to begin with. My opinions and character don’t change depending on what I’m wearing and whether or not it shows too much cleavage.

I’m tempted to blow it off and say some people are just paleolithic backwards dicks, the kind of people who are so retro they’re also racist and homophobic… but plenty of guys and girls keep on perpetuating this idea, that a woman’s value is in the (perceived, in this case) scarcity of her crotch, not in her mind or as a whole person.

That’s probably one of the least feminist sentiments I can hear someone express, right up there with “Why are you wearing shoes and what are you doing out of the kitchen?” (And that one’s usually a joke.)

This is some of the especially fun stuff sex workers get to deal with when we date. We have to wonder if we’re still good enough to take home to Mom. We have to lie about what we do – or tell a very slanted version of the truth. We have to deal with not only his or her conflicting feelings about whether or not it’s okay for a girlfriend to do this, but our own conflicting feelings about the same. On top of all that whenever you start having sex with somebody or get into any kind of romantic relationship, your mental and emotional boundaries get nudged, and this can affect your sex work boundaries or even interests. (This was true for me: I started off as a sub, got into fetish stuff when I was single, and now that I’m in a relationship again, I’m craving mostly fetish and domme sessions to balance out the bottoming I do “at home.”)

Dating’s easier because you’re coming in as you are, expecting to a degree to be taken as you are. When things get more serious you start to wonder how what you do is going to affect his work, his life, your sex, whether or not you’ve got a future…

If he has some of those old attitutes regarding respect and publicly sexual women you worry he thinks of you as lesser because of what you do – or because you love to do it. I don’t want to change my job. I love my job, even when it’s slow and I’m having to ponder hawking stuff on eBay. I wouldn’t change it for anything.

Not even a professional sales job with millionaire potential. Not even something respectable that I could brag to somebody’s mom about.

I couldn’t brag to myself about it. I’d know it was a compromise. Not a compromise between two people; a compromise of myself. And that, to me, would show a lack of self-respect.

It’s impractical but I know no way in hell am I going to go in there and work my ass off doing something I hate just for money. If I’m going to work my ass off it’s going to be figuring out how to be comfortable doing what I love. If that means working part time temporarily at something I’m not crazy about, so be it. But I believe in following your passions.

I might not be the girl you take home to Mom because you’re afraid that I might get excited and talk about whatever X-rated business venture I’ve got up my sleeve. I’ll be the girl sitting there in my pretty lacy panties counting the money I earned with my creativity, my perseverance, and my dirty mind knowing that the little girl who used to dream of owning her own business and living with passion and integrity, even if that meant living alone, would be proud of me.

And yeah – anyone worth having me would be proud of me too.

(They’d get bonus points for helping me brainstorm on marketing.)

That’s the kind of self-respect sex workers supposedly don’t have, isn’t it? The kind that means not compromising who you are and your values for every Tom, Dick, and Mary that come around.

Real friends don’t care if you show your tits on the internet.

I think it would be fun to pick a guy up, toy with him, tie him up, and leave him wanting. It’s a little crazy, a little risky, but it would be so decadently wicked…

I’d pick him up someplace where he’d be expecting a quick and easy lay; a bar or a club maybe, maybe a pool hall. Sure it’s a cliche, but that’s the whole point. He’s got to want it, he’s got to be looking for it and he’s got to know he’s going to get it.

I’ll let him buy me a drink – or maybe I’ll buy him one. Maybe more than one. We’ll be taking a cab to my place. If he tries anything funny, there’s a witness. After that we’re on my turf.

Before we leave the club I’m going to grind and dance him into submission. Twist my fingers in his hair, push my ass against his cock and look back over my shoulder to see his face: sweat and lowered eyelids and openmouthed lust under blue strobe lighting. Perfect. I’ll drop down low, slide down his tense body like it’s a pole. He’ll feel the back of my head brush his prick – I’ll make him think about what would happen if I turned around.

And then I will… hot pink lipstick outlining my lips as they make an O right in front of his cockhead. My tongue will flick out, wet my bottom lip, and I’ll slink up his body and do that thing where you quietly shout in his ear, “Let’s get another drink…”

Sure I look Irish, but he’s going to be looking at my height, and the unsteady way I’m walking in these knee-high black vinyl high heel boots, and think I started before I arrived. He’s going to think I’m a little bitty two-drink drunk. And when I play up the buzz, he’s going to believe it.

I’m going to take him home and have my way with him.

My way is vinyl locking cuffs and my lace thong panties for a gag. My way is letting him taste me in the only way I’ll allow him. Teasing him with my hands and legs and lips. My way is yanking out the gag, pushing his head down to my crotch and making him lick my pussy til I’ve had enough, then forcing the whiskey down his throat to kill the aftertaste. My way is fucking him up the ass when he’s drunk, making him suck my clit purple, and calling the cab to pick him up again… No, no head for you, darling; sorry, what did you think this was?

I just wanted to pick you up, get you drunk, and fuck your pretty little mouth.

Sorry.

He’s going to slump into the back of that cab with a hickey to explain, a stiff dick, and nothing to show for it – and he’s going to sit very carefully on Monday. What’s he going to do, say I slipped him a Mickey?

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… and I’m just getting warmed up.

I like to remember.

Right now it’s like this:

Tonight I just went back to the first place he gave me an orgasm.

…Kissing in the kitchen – all over the kitchen, up on the counter, bent against the stove. I was bent over against the table and I don’t know if his hand was down the front of my pink capris or over them but I remember thinking they could all hear me from the next room, even though I bit my lip…

…And he just lay on top of me, and kissed and kissed me until I came…

…That was the first time anyone had ever facefucked me. I mean, grabbed my hair and just used my mouth. And I liked it. The next time he stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I looked like that (on my knees, licking the underside of his shaft) and I believed him.

…When I saw the lightning, I looked over, sure it was a camera flash and we were caught with our pants around our ankles, in the woods, with me bent over presenting my ass to him. Oh my God, I twined my fingers in the grass and clutched at the earth and the thunder sounded, and the lightning crackled overhead, and I know the earth didn’t move but we were shaking and sweating and I fell forward and all I could think was I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, I’m holding onto a blade of grass and I haven’t fallen off the earth. The rain didn’t start until we were clothed and out of the woods…

…He holds me down and spanks with his whole arm. Mmh. And waits for me to safeword, no matter how I squirm.

I told him I liked leather. I like to smell it, touch it – I just love the way it looks. He put on a leather jacket, leather pants, leather boots, a leather belt, and a skintight spandex shirt. All black. I creamed my panties right there and I was so obviously in his thrall… He looked over his shoulder at me and said, “You can call me Master now, if you want.” So I did.

I wore a little red plaid skirt and fuck-me boots up to there. And he did. Up to there. In the backseat. Pray for us sinners now, indeed.

…”Have you ever done it on your computer before?” Clearly cybersex doesn’t count. Neither does masturbating to internet porn. Neither do naked pictures, or recording orgasms… So, no. And damn.

“We’re running out of places to have sex in this town. Soon, it’ll be like, ‘Oh, look, it’s yet another place we’ve done it in _______.’”

…Can’t keep his hands off me long enough for me to install this damn case fan. Curses! Another screw lost. Can’t… fumble for screw… Hands on clit… clit on fire… Oh holy gods what is he DOING?…

…He bound my wrists together above my head with the pantyhose. Brand new pair. Silky, tan, reinforced toe. The nylon tightened around my wrists, and he gagged me with my own lace panties… He took the gag out of my mouth once. “How many times did you come?” “I… I don’t know?” “Wrong answer.” Then his fingers slammed into me and oh. my. GOD. My panties were filling my mouth and the lace scratching on my tongue kept me here holding on for half a second before I was just gone.

…Exhilirating, that’s what this has been. A fucking mental rollercoaster ride, but not in the moody sense. I love it.

This time he let me, or rather I did, well…

He was in the chair and I was tugging at his hair and kissing him slow and I decided to have some fun, so I did, and he got sort of still and passive and receptive and I think this boy could really dig on a little T&D.

Also being bitten and manhandled makes him twitch down low and YUM.

That’s promising.

Goosebumps on his neck when I kissed it, and held his hair back, tugging his head back, running my teeth along his neck, and he liked the vulnerability, he didn’t have to say a word. My tongue licking right where his pulse was, the goosebumps when I ran a nail down the side of his neck slowly, the little moans when I just straddled his thighs, fully clothed the both of us, and didn’t touch anything below his collarbone except his arms and back, but touched everything above his collarbone with fingers and lips and teeth and tongue.

I swear we went into a trance when we kissed. It was very sensual and still and sacramental…

…Bent over doggystyle on his bed and I can’t walk right for a week after, he’s pounding me so hard, and it’s worth every limping step…

And there are so many times he’s just gone to town on me, and I’ve become nothing more than a bundle of oversensitized nerve endings and jumbled rushing feelings, and I’ll just lie there with my arms bound above my head and twitch, and rise up toward his touch, and whimper, and moan, and scream into the gag because it’s all I can do, just respond, as he overwhelms my body with sensations of warm breath and wet lips and strong hands and thick cock…

There you have it, chronological order be damned. The juiciest parts, of course, I’ll keep to myself. I’m not going to regale you with every saucy detail – he likes his privacy and my face is attached to these posts. I’m just going to start keeping a private journal, so that my private life can inspire my public fiction. And vice versa.