My first post just went live:

There’s a special thrill to fetish phone calls snuck in when the wife or girlfriend is just out of earshot, knowing she could discover your kinky little submissive desires at any minute – knowing she could catch you, cock in hand, humiliated and deeply aroused all at once.

When my submissive males aren’t alone, I love to tease them and make them ache for me. Last night I did just that.

I’ve got this caller… he’s married and a workaholic, so he’s hit or miss, but very open and responsive. He’s vanilla – mostly.

Mostly.

He’s got a little weakness for tease and denial, which is my preferred tool of subtle feminine dominant manipulation. When a dominant woman slips a collar around your cock and wraps you up in a velvet leash you’ll follow her lead anywhere.

He followed my lead from his mobile phone. In the bathtub. At home. While his wife was home – and very close by. He couldn’t speak, just type and listen, which rendered him effectively helpless to control or resist my teasing.

It started when I received this tempting email…

(click to read Sensual Teasing When Wifey’s Home)

Oh, did you want to skip straight to the new email domination line? You’ll have to learn patience if you want to be any fun. Fortunately, I have ways of training you…

If you’re caller j, then the answer might be a few minutes ago. Twice over.

He called my Orgasm Ignore Line. It works like this: I put the phone down and do whatever I want. To myself. You listen in and count yourself lucky. It might take five minutes or it might take hours, depends on my mood and how revved up I am.

I was actually about to come when he called. I had a bad case of the morning hornies and was looking at some porn; the phone rang right as I was closing my eyes for the moment of truth. I grabbed the phone reflexively which is probably a good thing… it would have been tempting to let it go and finish but I was operating on instinct.

He let me know he knew the scoop (hooray for a stroker that reads the listing text) so I wasted no time in getting back to it. (No ulterior motives there. Really.) I’ll tease and deny everyone but myself. My denial was in waiting almost two whole weeks to be choked, spanked, and fucked by the man with the shiny black revolver. It was worth the wait (every minute of it!) but I’m an addict and all I crave is more more more.

This was the best I could do:

Phone beside me on my bed, about eight inches away from my face. The faint sound of his breathing. Nothing more. Face half-buried in my blankets, red hair everywhere. Rustling of clothing, of sheets… breathing back to ragged as my hand finds my slick wet lips, parts them, then slides up to my clit. I ride the waves and grind against my palm. The phone flickers in and out of my periphery of vision. It’s there, a blue glowing audience of one. A quiet presence that will not interfere – only witness. A moment later it’s not there to me. He’s not there to me, but somewhere there’s a man with his hand around his cock, listening for that change in my breathing. Soft low moans wriggle out of my body and break into screams.

I’ve been up for so long. And after last night… I’m floating, I honestly am. There’s mist outside and mist in my head. My whole body’s feeling like fog settling into the earth, just soaking in slow. Absorbing and being absorbed.

Now I’m with it and he just heard me come. I’m aware and smiling. If you know me, if you’ve called me, you know I smile when I’m feeling wicked so I don’t stop, oh no. I keep my hand cupped between my legs – and get more descriptive. He hears that I want more, that I’m going to come again. He hears my thumb brush my clit and hears me find it too sensitive. I’m going to try my ass instead.

There’s no way it’s going to take me long to come with my palm pressed against my clit and a finger in my ass still wet from my last orgasm. And he hears it. Every breath, every staccato moan, every word. Every choked-off scream and the bitten, imprinted knuckles it leaves.

“Do you ever come on calls?”

The tooth marks on the back of my hand say yes.

(Did he come? I have no idea. He hasn’t called back to beg permission to come yet.)

Unfortunately Niteflirt disconnected us before I could hit round three. Next time…

Orgasm Ignore Line

$1.99/min

He’s so addicted to my photo sets he orders a new one after almost every cam show. I wonder what’s going to happen when he figures out I also do custom tease video…

Last night I teased him with my sheer lace bra, upskirt peeks in my office chair, and ground my ass at him until he came – I moved like I was fucking the air, all while my sensual voice was whispering in his ear that he would never be lucky enough to bury his face in my ass and lick it, let alone fuck me… After he savored the privilege of orgasming while looking at my smooth round ass he asked if I’d be open to modeling some of the outfits in my closet.

I’ll be changing off-cam, of course. It’s fun to be wicked. He might get a peek of stockinged foot, or the glimpse of my hips wiggling into a little satin slip… ha!

One poor stroker spent the night on the phone telling me about how his ex-girlfriend expected him to go down on her but never returned the favor, never had sex with him, only teased him in public, got him hard and taunted him into masturbating later with her worn panties.

This went on for a year.

Sometimes when he was lucky she’d stroke him – lightly, just to tease – or use some Astroglide and let him hump her still fist.

She was fucking her previous ex, of course. He knew about it… knew he was pussy whipped, but the frustration, the humiliation, and the sexuality kept just out of reach, only close enough to brush up against him and tease his cock, had him hooked.

Men are so simple.

He humped his fist for me on cam, came in a glass, and drank his cum. The look on his face was priceless.

I should send him a photo of my worn panties… taunt him further with all he could have had, if he wasn’t a cuckold stroker.

…

I’ve got nylons on my mind – it’s time to restock my lingerie drawer, especially after sacrificing so many stockings and panties to a good cause. Maybe you’ve got some suggestions for me? I could tell you about the different lingerie sets and stockings I’m planning on buying, and if you’re very lucky, what I’ll be doing with them.

Lingerie and Stocking Fetish Phone Sex

$1.99/min

Speaking of good causes I just sent the lovely Blue Eyed Vixen my submission for next week’s Tits for Troops. You’ll see my cheesecake contribution this Tuesday.

I’ve been craving an excuse to gag some poor stroker with my worn backseam stockings. Maybe I’ll make some nylon fetish recordings over the weekend. Or write a story to post here.

Think you can handle both?

Flirty Cocktease – Sensual Phone Domination

$1.99/min

Some of you have written to ask just what goes on in a TeaseCam session.

We’ll start by throwing your expectations out the window.

This is not about me stripping down as quickly as possible, shoving the largest available toy into my twat, and oohing and aahing as you masturbate furiously to a grainy, discolored cam feed.

This is not about me fake-baking, squeezing into an itty bitty rhinestone thong and a pair of designer jeans, giggling and calling you the “loser loser loser” to my princess.

Kudos to the camgirls who can pull that off. I’m pale and I can’t stand wearing jeans – but I do love clothes, and taking my time getting into – and out of – them.

Also I am neither an 18 year old coed nor a MILF. I know I look ambiguous, and I have fun roleplaying either older or younger, but I’m 24. That out of the way – of course we can pretend otherwise. Because this is all about leaving something to the imagination.

In my world your orgasm is never guaranteed. My fun at your expense always is.

I love fetishes. I have them. A lot of them. This makes it very easy to understand how simple it is to use your fetish against you.

I understand how weak you feel when you see a perfectly wrinkled sole… a thick black satin garter strap snapped tight against a bare thigh… when you feel the faint silken rasp of nylon drawn over your skin. The textures. The smells. The ache of frustration… the sensuality of satin…

I look inward, into what my fetishes do to me, and outward, observing what they do to you. Only in this instance it’s very like a cat watching a mouse. Sometimes you can even imagine the tail twitching.

Fetishes are beautiful irrational turn-ons and that makes them such gratifying buttons to push.

You’d love for me to push your button, wouldn’t you? Over and over…

In a cam session, I tease and frustrate and manipulate you with the tools at my disposal: my face, my voice, my body, my wardrobe, and your weakness for my sweet sensual sadism.

That can mean verbal humiliation. That can mean CFNM, directed masturbation, roleplays. That can mean driving you crazy with my stocking covered legs and feet while I sweet-talk you out of your money (nylon fetish and financial domination). Or we can get into a good old-fashioned slow striptease. Emphasis on the tease. And the begging. (Yours.)

It’s not important how it happens. In the end I am going to make you squirm.

I enjoy hearing your session ideas or working something out on the fly. Don’t expect to see me totally naked. Do expect to see me smiling – and maybe hear me laughing a little at your expense.

If you’re imagining wicked laughter here you’re dead on.

Tease and Denial/Lingerie Fetish Phone Sex with Cam

To a certain faithful blog reader who begged so sweetly for permission to come last night on the phone: I’ll send you a cam cap from tonight’s session to tide you over. Or possibly just tempt you into giving up control, inch by inch. I can be patient.

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 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.

Sound familiar?

Right.

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

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

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

I just love hearing guys beg.

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

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

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

I let him. He was practically trembling.

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

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

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

He was so, so good.

Good enough to be rewarded.

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

I could hear it in his voice.

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

I thought he wanted to be ordered? Hah!

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

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

(Aww… But he’d just cleaned them!)

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

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

Oh, he came all right.

I heard it.