More on that later. Tonight I’m wearing a set of the luxe new lingerie I’ve been bragging about: red satin bra, skimpy, slinky red satin skirt, black lace garter belt with red satin accents, incredibly tiny (and perfect) red satin thong with a fetching satin bow that rests right above the cleft of my ass cheeks. Oh, and silky black 100% nylon stockings.

They’re so very sheer and delicate (can’t be more than 10 denier) that I’m afraid they might not be worn again after tonight. Enjoy them while they’re here – I know I am.

Get on Niteflirt with me tonight. Let’s get decadent. I’ve got weeks of pent-up webcam teasing to do and I’m sure you’d make the cutest willing victim…

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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?

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.

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.

Turn.

One quarter turn to the right, lengthen the spine, flex the leg. I stretch out my curves – arms at my sides – and your eyes trace them. Appraise them.

I know why I’m here. You’re just here to look. If I’m not good enough – if I don’t measure up – I won’t get touched, no, not right where it throbs.

I won’t get to touch you.

My hands curve reflexively and I want to feel your skin stretch and firm against my palm. I want to put on a show, but I can’t. You said no. I’m on display.

The skirt. Off.

Your commands are bitten off, but the edge in your voice is husky, not sharp. I reach back, pull down my zipper. I tug the black pleated skirt below my hips and feel it slide down over my stockings.

I step out. I keep my heels on.

Now the bra. Turn around, I want to see you.

Oh gods I’m wet and you’re right there and I hadn’t seen you before not like this and my nipples are hard and pink and there are goosebumps on my skin and I kept my garter belt on and I’m not wearing any panties and I’m wet and you’re right here…

One quarter turn to the right. I hesitate. You touch my cheek.

Then my face.

The landing strip follows the line of my garters and your eyes follow the line of the landing strip. You’re tracing my verticals and I want to taste you, horizontal. I wet my lips.

Spread your legs for me. Just enough.

You’re such a tease. Breath on the back of my neck, your lips not touching me. The whispering of your rough fingerpads along my satin garter straps but not my skin. My thighs apart just enough for you to slide your hand between, draw a finger from my plump ass to my eager clit. (You tell me you will, if I…) Enough to feel the heat of your cock brush against my ass right at that downcurving detour line, then bob away.

‘Enough.’

‘Please.’

I can’t tell if I whisper the words or yell them, if I said them out loud or mouthed them as I arched my hips back and raised my ass in a primal wordless invitation.

Your smooth rounded head slides along my slit so easily, pushes apart my pouty lips so that they straddle your shaft. You grip my hips. Fingers. Digging into skin. Sliding agains skin. Stop. Teasing. Me.

You work my pussy over with the length of your cock, making me whimper, quiver, beg. I’m feeling every inch of you but not where I need to and I’m grinding that aching pink emptiness – I’m grinding my cunt down against your cock so tightly you can feel me clenching and unclenching, shivering and waiting. Slide back. Slide up. Slide in.

One slow push and I half-scream.