wide open territory

Just got back from a spa near Union Square in Manhattan courtesy of Mr. B.

Friday, every hour on the hour, Mr. B. would call me, and I would talk to him. He was at work. He would call me from his office, surrounded by people, and I would tell him what I was doing to myself. He would respond with things like, "Yeah, I know we need to get out of this deal." Or, "Have you talked to John about the interest on that - I think he can pull some strings."

Apparently, he never has to stand up.

At one point, at about two o'clock in the afternoon, he called me from a bathroom stall in his office building. He was on a cell phone. I had taken a picture of my fingers sliding out of my pussy, which, after five hours of this kind of teasing, were, well, wet. Then I sent it to him as an attachment. This, apparently, was just too much.

He was whispering. He told me to strip, which I did quickly, and spread my legs. He wanted to hear me fuck myself with my hand, which I did. He told me to bring myself just to the point of cumming, and that he wanted to listen. So I did. Then I told him to do a few things - like unzip his cock, spit on his hand and rub the head a bit, slowly. He was groaning - calling me a little bitch, telling me that he was going to shoot his load right in my face and I was going to like it.

And of course, I was going to like it.

I had him jerking off in counts - I told him to stroke his cock ten times, up and down, hard and fast, and then stop. Then I would talk to him some more. About how I was pinching my nipples, rubbing my clit on the edge of the desk I was standing in front of, and how I had to pee a little bit, so if I pushed down on my bladder, it made the pleasure of my swollen clit just that much deeper.

Then, I think, someone came in the bathroom, so he had to go back to his office. He called me three more times, all on the hour, and the fourth time, finally, everyone had gone home except for him. He turned his webcam on and pointed it right below the waist. Then he called me on Skype.

I told him exactly what I wanted him to do. He held out for almost fifteen minutes. When I turned the cam on my end on and he saw the state of my cunt, he had to stop for a minute because he almost lost it. Then I made him squeeze his balls with one hand, and jerk himself all the way off. He was making a lot of noise, and he came and came and came, multiple hot spurts running down his hand, making pools on his desk and on the floor.


I know I have been scarce around here - but I have been keeping busy. In a few weeks, I will have almost ten days off. I have enjoyed the fabulous trades, but I am trying to decide what comes next. I feel like I have only just started to explore.

I have had several people tell me to start a chat line or some other, similar kind of thing. But I am reluctant to do that. What I love about things as they are now is that I don't get bored. Unlike many of the women who, um, work on the phone or online, I get into it too, rather than just faking it - and this creates a completely different kind of experience. I don't see how you can do that when you are talking to more than a certain amount of people in a day.

For me, the conversations are like wide open territory - so many possible avenues to explore. I am just there to go wherever people want to go. I love this.

Anyway, as always, I am open to ideas. Maybe I can figure out a way to be able to spend some more time in this otherworld...



Theoretically a man may be just as much the object of a woman's desire as a woman is a man's desire. The first step towards sexual intercourse, however, is usually the pursuit of a woman by a man. Men have the initiative, and women have the power of exciting desire in men. It would be quite wrong to say that women are more beautiful or even more desirable than men. But with their passive attitude... [t]hey put themselves forward as objects for the aggressive desire of men.

Not every woman is a potential prostitute, but prostitution is the logical consequence of the feminine attitude. In so far as she is attractive, a woman is a prey to men's desire. Unless she refuses completely because she is determined to remain chaste, the question is at what price and under what circumstances will she yield. But if the conditions are fulfilled she always offers herself as an object. [...]

[But] more often than not the object inciting male pursuit eludes it. This means not that the suggestion has not been made, but that the necessary conditions are not fulfilled. Even if they are, that first refusal which seems to deny the offer already made only enhances its value. [...]

Putting oneself forward is the fundamental feminine attitude, but that first movement is followed by a feigned denial. Only prostitution has make it possible for adornment to stress the erotic value of the object. [...] What happens is that the use of adornment implies that the wearer is a prostitute; so that the pretence of evasion then sharpens desire. [...]

When the commercial aspect of modern prostitution gained the upper hand, this aspect was overshadowed. But [in the past], if the prostitute received sums of money or precious articles, these were originally gifts, gifts which she would use for extravagant expenditure and ornaments that made her more desirable. Thus she increased the power that she had from the first to attract gifts from the richest men. This exchange of gifts was not a commercial transaction. What a woman can give outside of marriage cannot be put to any productive use, and similarly with the gifts that dedicate her to the luxurious life of eroticism. This sort of exchange led to all sorts of extravagance rather than to the regularity of commerce. Desire was a fiery thing; it could burn up a man's wealth to the last penny, it could burn out the life of a man in whom it was aroused.

The courtesan had a certain reserve; she was not an object of scorn and was not so different from other women. Her personal modesty must have had some of the shine rubbed off it, but she maintained the principle of the first contact which requires that a woman shall be afraid of surrendering and a man shall expect the woman to try to escape. [...] In sacred prostitution it became a ritual matter and came to imply transgression [and thus, eroticism - ed]. A man cannot usually feel that a law is violated in his own person and that is why he expects a woman to feel confused, even if she only pretends to do so; otherwise he would be unaware of any violation. Shame, real or pretended, is a woman's way of accepting the taboo that makes a human being out of her. [...]

[So] it is not really payment that disgraces the prostitute. Payment could well be involved in the round of ceremonial exchanges without the degradation of a commercial exchange. But the low prostitute, because she has become a stranger to the taboo without which we should not be human beings, falls to the level of the beasts...

From Erotism: Death and Sensuality, by Georges Bataille.



Well, this is just how it is going to go - in waves. Which is somehow an appropriate metaphor ;)

Now you see me, now you don't. Don't worry, it's not you.

It's just the nature of the thing.

Don't forget me.


twenty minutes

Hey from the west coast... from a hotel room. My roommate just left today so I am all alone. Let me repeat that: I am all alone in a hotel room.

Last night, I spent four hours in a kind of spa-like place. Started with a steam room, on to the best massage of my life. Yes, even better than THAT massage. And then, steamed up and slicked down, I was submerged in a hot tub under the stars.

I am sorry to say that I did nothing even remotely sexual.

But while I was in the steam room - and I love it REALLY hot, so I was pouring sweat - I did some slow yoga stretches and then I just lie there for a minute, staring down the length of my body.

I have a sort of little girl body - very petite and very... efficient. Nothing really jiggles or floats in water. My stomach is completely flat, my ass is smooth and muscular, my legs are strong, and my hands are not the delicate kind. They are feminine, but they look like they get things done. My body still looks almost exactly the way it did when I was eighteen. I even weigh the same. It is, some days, like an odd time warp. I know that it will change. Especially if I ever have children. And I think it will be sad, somehow - I will miss the body I have had.

I keep my pubic hair trimmed and partially shaven. I ran my fingers over it, and then I sat up and spread my legs and took a closer look.

My clit is not the tiny, buried variety, though it is not enormous. But it is prominent, and I pulled the skin up a little so that it was exposed. The lips of my pussy are very full and a rich, pink color. I spread them open a bit so that I could see the smooth passageway leading deep inside me.

There are moments when I can really see the parallels between men and women's genitalia. I can see how the lips are the vestigial balls, and I can almost feel the length of what might have been a cock buried in my pelvis, with just the most sensitive tip peeking out from the folds.

I can almost feel what it would be like.

Maybe it was because I was being so clinical and reflective about it, but I didn't feel turned on at all. Just curious and sort of... nostalgic? Warm? You know, like, here is this vessel that I live in or that is me, that is carrying me through this life, bringing me so much pleasure, etc.

But today, in the middle of the conference I am in, while the presenter was in the middle of her powerpoint presentation, I suddenly had to excuse myself. I came back up to my room, stood in front of the mirror, stripped off my jeans and underwear, and made myself cum in about three minutes flat. Fast and furious.

I went over to my bag, pulled out a dildo I had brought along, went back to the mirror, and slowly slid it inside me. It is a little bit large for me, so it stretched my pussy lips all the way open as I slowly fucked myself with it, watching every move.

I just wanted to watch the whole thing - the wet dildo, my clit swelling, my nipples hard and pink, aching to be grabbed, pinched, twisted. I was moaning, grunting, bending down a bit, crouching so that I could shove the dildo deeper inside me.

But what made me cum was the thought of you shooting your load on me - all over my tits and neck and face. When I thought of that, I pulled the dildo all the way out, and then slammed it back in just as I came, hard, crying out, tasting your cum.

Then I washed my hands, slipped back into my jeans (left the underwear off), walked back downstairs and sat back down in my seat. Only twenty minutes had passed.


all of me

I read everything you write to me. Every word. And I think I am starting to see my way through this. I am still putting words to it, though, so I won't say anything yet.

You should know that I hate doing things halfway. I want the time to pay full attention to you, to be here at the exact moment when you need to talk to me. You know what I mean by that. I know that ache. You have no idea.

But, you should also know that I am getting on another plane (hmmm...), and will be gone for about a week. I will be checking email, but will have almost no time to respond. So don't be sad.

You see the problem: What is it going to take to cut into my life, peel away the fluttering busyness, and get my attention? This is not just what you might be wondering, it is at the heart of what I am wondering, too.

One thing is certain: When I do talk to you, you will have all of me in that moment.