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Sometimes when everything is perfect, sex can become transcendent. In my case this causes me to scream my fucking head off and feel like I am about to die. In a good way.

Over the past several months, Jay and I have noticed that when I am being fucked very hard, I lose some of my capabilities and seem to sink into a pre-verbal, primal moment. The first time it happened, I didn’t even recognize what had occurred, I just had the idea that I had been noisy. When I asked Jay what had happened, he told me that I had been screaming my head off for several minutes. That explained why my voice was so raw.

This sort of thing happened again on the phone a few nights ago. I was taking a call on my line where the caller listens to me get fucked by Jay. I always enjoy myself, naturally, and this caller had listened to us before. Something clicked this time and I lost myself again. I can’t say exactly what circumstances lead to it. Clearly the persistence of Jay’s thrusts deep into me were the primary factor. But the encouraging voice on the other end of the line - a New Yorker hitting every button as he told me what a dirty slut I am. The moment took me away. When it was finally over, there was stunned silence on the other end of the line and I tried to regain my composure. Again, I didn’t really know what had occurred or how long it had gone on for.

In a conversation later, our caller told me that he was stunned and had never heard anything like it. He also remarked that I was saying something between the screams from time to time but that he couldn’t make it out. Could I have been speaking in tongues? We consulted with Jay since he would have been the most likely to know what I had been saying. Apparently it was “I’m dying” or “I’m going to die.”

On face level this seems pretty creepy, but I immediately started thinking of it a little differently. The French have a euphemism for orgasm, “la petite mort”, which means “the little death.” How is orgasm like death? Well, Jacques Lacan said that it is part of our death drive (i the Freudian sense). The jouissance of orgasm is a manifestation of this. Not all orgasm reaches this level, though. For Lacan, jouissance is moving beyond the limits of pleasure that we place on ourselves. And therefore jouissance is suffering - pleasure that has gone too far.

So, my trance-like state and screaming as if I were being killed makes some sense in the scheme of things. I don’t think that I’ve actually achieved jouissance because nothing about that moment was suffering. But, perhaps I was on the edge of achieving too much of a good thing. Being fucked so hard that I couldn’t handle the pleasure.

Feeling Domme-y lately

I’m craving the chance to tease the hell out of a grovelling man. Something has gotten into me this evening and I desperately want a slave boy at my feet, staring up at me adoringly, and praying that I will treat him with kindness. I don’t want to treat him with kindness.

I want him bound and beaten. I want him to take my strap on or suck the cock of whatever real man I have sitting around at the moment. I want to tease him with peeks at my stockings, panties, cleavage but not let him touch himself.

I want him to beg me for release and laugh in his face. Give him the chance to smell my skin and then slap him. There is no satisfaction for the weak-willed in my mind tonight.

Chris Cocker is a genius. He has managed to capture me *exactly* as I sound when I’m on the phone. Brilliant! ;)

Tell me I’m better than my momma, boys!

I’ve had an interesting past few weeks and heard from several of you about scheduling a phone session with me. I’ve also come across an interesting question that I grappled with for a long time. If I get paid for phone sex, will it become just a job to me? Will I lose something of myself? Is it inauthentic?

I’ve thought about this a lot - of course I don’t know the answer perfectly yet since it hasn’t been much time - but I think that the question is coming from the wrong direction. What is it about money that automatically taints a sexual experience? Why, amongst all things that people have a passion for and are also lucky enough to be paid for, do we look at sex as fake and diminished when money enters into the transaction?

I’ve worked as a reading tutor before and developed a passion for teaching and sharing knowledge with other people. I’ve also been paid for teaching. Does my care for my students or my love of the work of teaching disappear when I get a paycheck? Am I merely a “reading whore” when I peddle my services to paying clients instead of giving it away for free?

While the analogy works, I know some people will get tripped up on it. We tend to think of sex as the one thing that should be motivated by pure and unadulterated altruism because of the assumption that it should be tied to romantic love and fidelity. Anyone that observes the world around them knows that this isn’t truly always the case but it is a strong current that sex workers must fight against.

Building a fantasy for free or building it for money has the same effects - someone gets to experience a fantasy. Just the same way as my students benefit from learning to read regardless of whether or not I am paid.

Do you get all of Ellie when you call an 800 number? Of course not! But you get my time and my talents and my passion. I think my time and talents are worth being compensated - the passion is an added bonus that makes me want to pursue this work. It is genuine and it doesn’t leave me regardless of whether or not money is being exchanged. So, instead of thinking of myself as selling out, when someone asks me if this is “just a job”, my response is, “it is a job because I’m good enough to be a professional.”

S and I always have so much to talk about that we tend to chat for an hour before we get down to ‘business. The phone calls usually feature a moment where one of us says, “So, um, what are you wearing?” or some other ridiculous line. Before we know it, someone is barking orders and someone is whimpering responses as their fingers slide over a slick cunt.

This time when I spoke to S, the chatter was especially significant (and prophetic.) Being a seasoned polyamorist himself, S loves to hear about my novice forays into sluttery. As per usual, I had more whining to do about the state of my “game” than any exciting tales of hedonism and release. S cooed and sympathized with my stories of online duds until I finally burst out with, “Why the can’t I just fuck people I already know?” S couldn’t see the reason I shouldn’t but I already knew the answer. I felt too weird outing myself as an aspiring whore to people I sit next to in graduate seminars.

Furthermore, being in a relationship knocks me straight off of most people’s radar. I can hardly wear a t-shirt that says, “Yes, I have a boyfriend but I still might sleep with you.” We finished that portion of the conversation with me feeling condemned to put up with nonsense on personals sites if I ever hoped to achieve my dream of a threesome. Despite my needy whining (always a turn on), S was still in the mood. Perhaps it was all that talk (however bleak) of threesomes that managed to keep us both frisky.

He began giving me a detailed description of taking me over his knee and spanking me. Just then an idea occured to me but it seemed a bit far-fetched. As S and I continued, I couldn’t shake it from my head and before I knew it I had blurted my idea out. “Would you like to hear me really being spanked?”

There was a beat wherein I was certain that my idea was being dismissed as preposterous. Then he replied, “Do you think you could pull that off?”

I snapped to attention, “Oh yes, I think there is someone around here that might be willing to help!”

I scampered to the other room where J was playing a video game. I stood in the door behind him and said, “Um?”

He turned to view me leaning against the doorframe in my panties, still clutching the phone in my hand. “Is S done with you already?”

“No, actually we were wondering if you could help us with something.”

. . .

“Will you come spank me while he listens?”

What happens next is really just a bunch of salacious details, you can skip over them if you wish to advance the narrative more rapidly.

S ordered me onto my hands and knees on the bed. This gave J a nice view of my upturned ass from the edge of the bed. As S continued his filthy monologue, J layed a hard smack on my behind and I let out a squeal. S growled in approval.

Around this time, I slipped my hand between my legs and began touching my slick pussy. The excitement, and fear, and newness of it all had made me incredibly wet. As I strummed my clit, I didn’t know which sensations to focus on. I realized I could check into one or another and really concentrate or I could float dreamily among them, accepting stray twinges of sensation to latch onto and enjoy. A sexy voice in my ear, a hard spanking, my own squealing, and my fingers flicking my wet clit.

J’s gift is having one perfect, insanely hot line whenever we get rough. This time was no different. As S verbally coaxed me to explode, J laid an especially hard smack on my ass and collapsed against me as I shrieked. His mouth just a hair from my ear he roughly whispered, “You better fucking come for him.”

I groaned my acceptance of his command, mashed my fingers into my pussy and did as I had been told. S murmured his approval and gently praised me for being such a pretty, dirty slut. I caught my breath and slid my hand over my newly reddened tushy to test the heat it was giving off.

J later told me that he has never spanked me that hard before. There is something to be said for divided attention.

I’ve talked a lot about phone sex in the past. Traditionally, it has been a fun part of my sex life, has allowed me to explore new ideas and fantasies in a relatively risk-free way, and has been a cool way to, um, meet new people. I’ve also mentioned in the past that it isn’t something I could see doing professionally.

When I said that, I imagined that the anxiety and trepidation I felt every time I had phone sex with a new partner would ring true in a professional setting. My palms sweat, my pulse quickens, I get timid and quiet. My nervousness at the outset seemed like it would bar me from a career as a professional telephone actress.

Turns out I was wrong.

I decided to take the plunge and have signed on with a dispatch company. I’ve worked my first shift and it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I expected. The men have been sweet and friendly so far, I’ve felt very in control of the situation, and it all comes to me so fluidly and without fear. To put it plainly, my paying customers are getting much better phone sex than some of the men I’ve done it with for fun in the past.

I love it, it combines my hyper-active sex drive with my fascination over the sexual proclivities of others. My first 8 calls have featured in no particular order: strap-on sex, a man in pink panties, a vacuum cleaner, a foursome with the neighbors, and lots of your standard dildo sucking.

It’s the time of my life and I’m getting paid for it. Who’s jealous?

This post is inspired by a conversation I had with Vinnie Tesla recently. Basically, he wrote all of the funny parts and I’m just stringing it together.

So, this has happened a few times. I will be fooling around with someone on the phone and he says “I want you to taste yourself.” So, I do.

Then he says “Tell me what you taste like”

And I’m fucking stumped. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

Vinnie argues that, “the *significance* of it is not cullinary, of course–your partner is attempting to assert the physicality of the act– another sense engaged, and trying to make the image of you doing so more vivid for himself.”

Well, that sounds really pretty when taken out of the context of me splayed out on my bed with fingers in my mouth trying to frantically come up with a Michelin-style write-up of my pussy juices. Cliches always jump to mind from reading too much crappy porn. The word “sweet” always comes to me but of course doesn’t describe it at all. To be honest, I don’t taste much like anything, I’d be hard pressed to distinguish from the normal taste of saliva in my mouth. I usually cop out and give a coy response like, “I taste like me.”

The next person who asks me, though, is getting pure sarcasm.

“I detect oak notes, hints of vanilla, a well-structured finish, with elements of berry and a light astringency. An appealing, woody varietal, excellent with hearty stews or grilled meats.”