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…

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)

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.

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 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.

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.

There’s a sort of decadent helplessness to it – but you’re not helpless, you’re being lured. It’s silky lingerie over domination. It’s a dance, with steps forward and back, in a pattern… You might run, you can back away, but you are always, always drawn back. It’s a dance, definitely a tango. It’s about power and the art of the chase (as performed backwards and in high heels).

Everyone loves a tease.

Not everyone loves the uncertainty of the outcome, but oh, we all love the process, the suggestion and flirtation and even the slow eventual torture. Being drawn (or pushed) so close to the edge and then pulled back, hard – and again, and again, until we shiver and can’t form words – we all love that.

Control over another’s ability to lose control.

It’s intoxicating.

This is why the ends of my pens are frequently wet (as am I). They keep finding their way to my mouth, drawn over my lips, popped inside to wet the end and then rubbed against my parted lower lip in that way that might be vacant and might be very sexual, with a silk-thin strand of saliva that could easily be cum connecting my pen and my lip as I pull it away.

Teasing is about imagination, and being intimately aware of the filthy minds of others. It’s about activating them.

Sucking on the end of a pen is easy to do absentmindedly, and easy for the casual eye see as lewd. Tracing your lips with a pen is hard to do by accident, much more sensual, and much easier to brush off as innocent – unless you’re a dirty-minded pervert.

The way I’m stroking this railing pole? Rubbing it? Innocent. It’s just a touch. There’s nothing in my body language or facial expression to suggest I know how obscene this is, how easily my jacking and rubbing and stroking… and… and squeezing… could translate to the shaft of a cock. And rubbing my palm over the “head” of the railing? Just wiping some rust off my hand.

It’s only when my hand grips the bannister cleanly that I dare to look up at you, and smile, and put a hint of mischief and temptation into my eyes.

I know what you were thinking.

Pervert.

(Oh, and the pool cue? Do I even need to say it?)

___

If you’re into visual teasing and stockings or pantyhose, check out the sexy pic of the day from OnlyTease:

You’ll find their pic of the day thumbnails permanently featured at the bottom of my right sidebar. Every picture tells a story… Consider it inspiration. (I did.)

The double meaning is fully intended.

There are a few linked ideas swimming through my brain right now.

One is a couple of posts, and their attached comments, by the divine and transcendent Ms. Lena (namely Praise the Goddess and Pass the Lube and Sodomites in Room 101). One is my slight – but persistent – submissive streak. One is the song “Stinkfist” by Tool. It uses anal fisting as a metaphor for transformation, crossing into the otherworld, and trust.

It’s that last word that links these ideas and this experience.

I’m a pervert, not a slut. I’m short on experience but long on ideas. That said, I’ve done my share of experimenting, but haven’t had the opportunity to do so in much depth.

On Saturday my depths were plumbed.

That was… new.

It’s strange to realize you’ve been in situations, romantically involved with people you’d trust with your life but not with your ass or your thoughts. It’s even stranger to realize that sometimes to win you have to surrender, to protect yourself you have to expose yourself.

I’m not very good at expressing my emotions (I have emotions? Wait, what?); I’m primarily a thinker and a doer. When faced with things I don’t want to say I have to find out how to say or show them without coming out and actually doing it. Subtlety is a form of perversion, and we perverts have some pretty strange ways of saying things.

So bent over, on my hands and knees, wet thighs apart, virgin ass in the air, with my kiss-swollen mouth muffled in the pillow I was saying, to someone who’s just barely not a stranger, I trust you. I’m no good with English so I used the most basic language I knew, the only one I speak, for $1.99 per minute.

Spirituality is the experience of God; mysticism is the ache for, lust for, love of and submission to Hir.

Relax, turn around, and take my hand.

I wasn’t hearing those words – I liked the ones he used better – and they didn’t even come to mind, although that song’s stuck with me for a while. I’ve used it, every word, as an extended industrial mantra.

I’m not stuck on romance. Romance wears out when two people realize they aren’t each other’s love cartoons, and the beloved might actually have expectations and moods of their own. Romance has never been my craving. But experience, intensity, adventure both mental and physical – those are what I need and those are (to me) what the lyrics suggest.

To get those you can’t close off, tighten up, close your ears and forget how to breathe; you have to relax and open up, and it hurts at first, and it feels strange, it always does. You have to breathe, and focus, and listen, and accept accept accept and concentrate on not squeezing yourself tightly like you always do, no matter how much you enjoy it, because there’s a process…

And there are always points in that process when you hit a wrong angle and wince but if you relax and accept when new things try to push their way into you… sometimes you’ll be surprised how deep you can take it, and how good it feels.

It’s strange to put yourself into a situation knowing: I have no choice. I must submit or this is going to hurt like hell. But I want this.

It’s even stranger how easy it was.

Cold lube circled the rim of my ass and dripped down, jolting me out of my trance. Relax, baby. Breathe, breathe, breathe… Focus. Relaxing took focus, just remembering not to tighten that ring in time with the shivers running through my pussy. Remembering to hold still and just let things happen. I listened to his voice and the weight of his body on my legs and back and his finger sinking in slow and it was like going under, honestly, except no one’s ever been able to hypnotize me. Good girl and I opened up all over and bent my head down, arms folded, and raised my ass, and just held that feeling…

One fist pressed tightly against my slippery, just-fucked pussy, one clutching the pillow, then (desperately) the rug, then his hand, and I think I was touching his legs with my feet, or something… My hair was in my mouth and it helped muffle the mewling noises I think were coming from my throat.

And it felt good. Different. Intense. When you’re having a dick pressed inch by inch into an ass so tight one finger inside feels like stretching, til it’s almost buried to the base, and he finally gives you a real thrust for that one last inch, you truly feel fucked.

(HNT coming shortly but this post is much more than half-nekkid.)

It’s been almost a year since I started phone sex as a part-time gig to get me through college. I needed a job, and it was tech support or phone sex. Easy decision, right? If I want people screaming in my ear, I want them screaming in pleasure.

I was at a weird point in my life, trying to figure out where to go, considering politics, tech, ordination, the Navy… Phone sex didn’t seem like much more than a strange detour at the time. I’m a very lusty girl, climbing-the-walls horny to the point of distraction. I’m always thinking about sex even when I have no intention of having any – it just endlessly fascinates me, always has. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I liked the job, even though I was phone sexing in secret around my roommates’ schedules. I liked servicing men around the world on demand, I loved playing along with them on the phone, and I needed the orgasms three times a day, the constant marination in sexual energy that sex work provided. I’d come home from classes, go up to my room, turn on my phone and spend an hour with my fingers jammed up my cunt, flexing and curling in deep, a pervert the match of me breathing in my ear in tandem with my moans, and I’d end the evening sweaty and dripping and utterly worn out. I felt fucking great.

I’ve always been the world’s flakiest, most indecisive person. I can’t commit to anything – a deity (I’m Pagan), a gender (bi), a D/s role (switch), a major… it’s ridiculous. I’m greedy and I want a taste of everything.

I was in a 7-year long monogamous relationship when I started my phone sex gig.

I’m poly, always have been.

And I wasn’t getting any.

…

That is the sound of my head hitting a wall for 7 years straight.

I found work that suited me, work I was good at. He’d come home and I’d be on my knees whipping my back uttering sacreligious prayers to a religion I haven’t followed in 10 years, and crying, and smiling, and laughing while my thumb stroked over my clit. He’d get freaked out and leave the room.

It was everything that clashed about us amplified. I ended it, but that’s not important.

I have this drive inside me to seek out intensity, to find the weirdest fucking experiences and crawl right up inside them and experience joy in them. I don’t play around with cynicism. I’m sarcastic, I’m pessimistic, but I want passion in my life more than I want comfort or stagnation. Being overwhelmed with feelings, with rich electric energy… that’s what I need out of life.

I think too much, all day long, all night long. I can’t sleep because my brain keeps going all the time. Overanalysis, ranting, symbolism, sheer useless crap. When I work I want to shut the chatter off and use instinct.

I was looking for work that meant something, that filled an actual need. I needed to know I wasn’t doing something imaginary that would vanish without the internet. I love history and traditions (even when I break them with glee) and wanted a connection to something older than myself.

Like the oldest profession! Yeah. There ya go.

All right. So I’m doing phone sex, I’m loving it, I’m… not getting any sex outside of work and my own hands for months on end. Very sane way to live, when the thing that makes sex and talking both more interesting with someone else is the fact that it’s just not an interesting conversation with yourself. There are no surprises, there’s nothing new. I’m a pervert, I’m a kinky freaky bastard who has some bizarre sick fantasies, so I take those calls from other people. It doesn’t bother me.

I take those calls almost exclusively.

It only bothers me a little.

I go out and the shy professor types who gravitate towards me when they think I look 16, the ones who have that hidden dominant streak, start to creep me out. I was never a fearful gal before. Frankly I’m crazy and a good shot… nobody bothers me.

But this is after almost a year of hardcore humiliation almost uninterrupted by vanilla sex calls. I think of them cornering me and telling me things involving pee that I’m not allowed to talk about on the phone and really don’t want to think about before dinner, of them looking at me or at other girls and thinking of assrape with little lube and no mercy, of beatings and men with no concept of how to hit a masochist and make them beg for more. I’m scared and sickened and reluctantly turned on by things that never did it for me before.

The fear and the queasiness are new, very new. My sadistic streak has taken a darker turn and I’ve found the submissive streak this painslut masochist never had before.

I think some non-work sex would clear my head, but I’m afraid of scaring somebody off.

Vanilla sexuality took some twists. Power dynamics are sexier and they’re in everything. Feet and legs and clothes and nylon and saying yes and no are so much more interesting than they ever were before. My love for sexual torture with no implements other than some bondage and my own body (or someone else’s) is sharpened, refined. I love being the victim and the initiator.

I want to make them think “Yes” and then say “No,” I want to make them beg, because I hate it love it when it’s done to me. I want to give and to receive and take this into my sex work.

I’m out there now, physically, my image and my face, and it doesn’t freak me out now. I’m comfortable with it and the explicit compliments make me smile. Strangers orgasm looking at my panty-clad ass and thinking about giving me a spanking and I enjoy this and I give compliments by coming hard to pictures and words I think are worth it, my little orgiastic tribute, or blessing, or anointing with holy cum-nectar.

Heh. Holy cum-nectar. I said cum!

I still laugh when I say cum. (Heehee. Cum!) Now instead of having sex with myself and a lover or strangers online I have sex with everyone, and with you specifically, one at a time, with the door locked and your wrists or mine bound together and tied to the headboard.

The people are amazing. Work still makes me smile. I thought if I got on this path I’d wind up getting more into the sexual spiritual side of things but I’ve tried to use porn and sex work to distance myself from the otherworld and that was, well, pretty retarded of me. It’s not going away anymore than I can ignore the cars on the highway by sticking my fingers in my ears and singing, “Lalalala, I can’t HEAR YOU!” while I’m driving. I might wind up going off the road and into a field where I don’t see any cars any more but that doesn’t mean I succeeded, it just means I’m a freaking moron.

So, sex is a magical experience. It’s all kinds of goodness. It relaxes us, turns us on and makes us smile and connect or disconnect and I do this for a living? That is still pretty cool.

This is the most personal entry I’ll ever write on this blog. I probably won’t do this here ever again, but it needed to be done after the semi-absence, and I’m not going to regret doing it. I’m totally in the mood to write a ton of erotic flashfic tonight so I’ll flip a coin and decide if I’m giving or receiving the erotic torture in tonight’s scene, but there will be a tonight’s scene, and I’m not changing the focus of this blog: I’m launching back into it with a fucking stiletto-heeled, topless vengeance.

Before you embark on any path ask the question: Does this path have a heart? If the answer is no, you will know it, and then you must choose another path. The trouble is nobody asks the question; and when a man finally realizes that he has taken a path without a heart, the path is ready to kill him. At that point very few men can stop to deliberate, and leave the path. A path without a heart is never enjoyable. You have to work hard even to take it. On the other hand, a path with heart is easy; it does not make you work at liking it.

I have told you that to choose a path you must be free from fear and ambition. The desire to learn is not ambition. It is our lot as men to want to know.

The path without a heart will turn against men and destroy them. It does not take much to die, and to seek death is to seek nothing.

-The Teachings of Don Juan, Carlos Castaneda

I’m pressing down against my office chair right now and bouncing up and down a little, just rocking back on my hips and thighs. It feels like all I am is warm, wet, and hungry and all of that is just melting out of my body through my throbbing pink cunt. Another hour like this and I’ll be in that state where I’m ready to bend over my desk, spread my legs apart, thrust my ass out like a bitch in heat and grind my aching clit against the edge of the desktop. I’ll growl, I’ll whimper, I’ll beg to get fucked.

I have class in two hours. I have to go sit in a room filled with people, potential warm slippery bodies against mine, all night long. The work is boring and repetitive – exactly the kind of stuff that makes my mind wander to more interesting topics, like which of the objects in the room would be best to impale that pretty little blonde with…

I can’t think when I’m like this.

I wonder if any of them read this. I wonder if the guys and girls behind me will be able to smell how wet my panties are.

They probably will.

The thought humiliates me and makes me wetter at the same time.

I’m tugging the crotch of my satin thong up between the lips of my pussy. It slides easily and I just know the slippery evidence will be visible on the black satin hours later.

I have an old pair of pantyhose. Black. Matte, sheer-to-waist and ripe for ripping. I can’t decide if I want to put them on, feel how smooth the nylon is against my legs, run my short nails over the seam (pressing it right against my clit) and then rip out the crotch and fingerfuck myself through the hole, or if I want to wad up one of the legs and force it inch by inch balled up into my pussy. It would be lumpy, unless I twisted it just right. It would push out my walls at angles I couldn’t predict until the nylon was there, compressing just enough not to hurt me but rough-edged enough to feel very interesting indeed.

Right now I’m not just wet but slick. The nylon wouldn’t absorb so much as get coated in my juices. Gods, I want to come. I’m riding the edge of my panties that got pushed up against the inner lips of my pussy, just enough to tease me but not give me enough of what I need to send me over. I lean back… the silky smooth satin shifts back and forth across my ass, right there, and it’s driving me crazy. I need more… Two fingers go to my lips, then three, and it’s your cock muffling my moans, my lips wrapped tight around my knuckles… tight around the base of your cock. My tongue flicks out to tease the head of your cock, running around the ridge, teasing that sensitive spot right and the underside, and I suck right there. My panties are starting to leak. I’m shaking, but not enough… not yet.

My cunt actually hurts, I need to come so badly. I need to make this hard and fast. Hands off the keyboard now – I need something more inside me than just the edge of my panties. Two fingers go to my lips, circling, before pushing in and kicking back and forth, teasing right at the back… harder, then nothing, then more, more, more.

I don’t think I screamed but I damn well made noise.

It’s a blur, my panties are askew, my hair is mussed and I’m realizing I actually do need a job where it’s okay to go lie down for a minute and have five mini-orgasms one after the other until I can stop feeling like a hole that needs to be fucked and start feeling like a person again. I’m wondering if there’s someone out there this is enough for, instead of too much. I’m wondering why the hell my fingers always smell and taste like vanilla musk, afterward. I mean really… vanilla?