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Archive for the ‘luxury’ Category

I masturbate differently in webcam shows for a large group than I do for myself or for private shows.

During group camshows I have a whole hour to draw out the experience. I put on a little makeup and usually wear something that allows me to do upskirts – little nighties, slips, miniskirts, etc. If I have enough time, I love wearing hosiery, especially opaque thigh high socks which is what I wore today: long, tight, stretchy, dark brown socks under a hippy-style sundress with a smocked top which is great for showing off my cleavage and tits.

Because I’m not being paid by the minute to fulfill requests by viewers, the “action” in my group shows is aimed to please me (and, incidentally, other people who have my particular tastes), all slowly paced to fill out the hour. I’m not super-entertaining, I just slide into a groove and enjoy looking at myself doing things I wouldn’t otherwise do: smiling at myself in the camera, and just making myself do shit that makes me hot, like exposing myself in taunting, mostly-softcore ways. I get very mesmerized by myself, like when I show myself (and everybody else) my creamy thighs parting to expose my hairy cunt with that beautiful contrast of the dark socks. I don’t know what it is about that contrast, but it’s fucking irresistible to me. I can watch myself do that over and over again.

We had more time than usual between shows this month so it’s been about three weeks since I enjoyed one of these long sessions; doing these long shows every other week or every three weeks is perfect for me because, without knowing it, I really build up a desire for them. My clit’s had a break from extended time with the hitachi magic wand and it’s been awhile since I really took a good look at myself.

Today I decided not to shower, putting my dirty hair in pigtails instead. It’s been four or five days since I had a shower and maybe only two baths (last night and some other time) during that time. For three days I wore the same pair of sticky, hot-smelling panties. My bush is getting really filled-out again, and every time I go to the bathroom I sniff the crotch of my underwear and play with my cowlicks that come together and curl up where my lips meet. The musky smell of pussy-hair steeped in cunt-sweat is part of what I love about not shaving.

Anyway, it smelled so good today during my show, I just kept petting it and bringing my hand up to inhale, over and over again. Deep breaths, totally drugging myself on that woman-sex smell of myself. I fucking could not get enough of it, smelling it, and watching me on the monitor, stroking myself with my light-pink clit poking out between my dirty-blonde fur and those SOCKS pulled up on my thighs making everything in the middle look so fucking naked and whorey.

I remember the first time I ever rode on Highway 1 through Big Sur, not being able to get enough of that hot sage smell. It doesn’t smell like pussy exactly, but it’s addictive and elevating, like ascending to heaven and being on some other unearthly level in between the ground and meeting God’s secretary while He’s away. I feel the same way about the smell of my musky bush, like if I were to immerse myself in it far enough I would wind up in some other place of knowledge and luxury and a decadent form of peace.

Today while I inhaled I realized the scent on my fingers reminded me a whole lot of crayola crayon wrappers. Not exactly like that, but similar. I always wonder where that Really Perfect Pussy smell comes from, like what the secret recipe is for it to be that perfect all of the time. Was it steeping my hair in dirty underwear so long? Was it the hot apple cider and cashews we had before bed? Was it the flax seed and evening primrose oil? Was it having PMS? Was it the mingling of a favorite lotion with the cunt smell to create a perfect pussy-church combo?

I came three times today with one of the orgasms augmented considerably by the call and response of me being ridiculously horny for myself and crooning, “oh yeah” to myself right before Jimi Hendrix said “oh yeah” at the beginning of Red House. Then . . . brilliant guitar and that was all she wrote.

*****

Right after my show I still felt a little hypnotized. I took a powerful piss, then stumbled into the bedroom where I felt a hot gush of liquid burst through my cunt. I reached down to touch it and came out with beautiful, crimson blood all over my fingers with more than enough left over to streak down my right thigh. I haven’t had such a dramatic start to my period in years.

A few awesome things I’ve done/felt today:

*walked through a quiet art gallery and had time to stroke an inlaid wood table decorated with shiny, randomly-inset little nailheads of different sizes and metals.

*bought some favorite usually-overpriced tomatillo salsa on sale which I’m eating right now. Thick green stews and salsas always feel like delicious magical potions to me.

*enjoyed Delia’s preview of some of the pics I shot of her recently for her Fall Flower Fairy gallery.

*woke up without a headache after having one for five solid days (don’t feel sorry for me; I made some bad choices with food, how I mishandled stress, and delayed getting my B vitamin shots).

*bought myself little foil star stickers. To reward myself for finishing items on my to-do lists. This is not as childish as it may sound, and I really love shiny little stars in red, blue, silver, green and gold.

*had two awesome poops

*am wearing my octopus necklace, handcrafted by a local artisan

*scoped out / walked through a really cool coffee shop. Even though I’m not a coffee shop kind of gal, I love knowing there’s one I might actually enjoy sitting in if I ever decide I want to. The kind where there’s plenty of space between plenty of armchairs and darkness and both good coffee-n-pastry aromas plus dank book smells. The kind where, I hope, no one would talk to me. Of course, that desire for solitude didn’t deter me from fantasizing VIVIDLY about seeing a hairy man I fancy and wordlessly tangling into each other and fucking in one of the fairy-lit corridors there.

*survived and almost enjoyed capturing & editing my masturbation video that I’ll post for members tonight: tidied and put away a multitude of things while each of four files were encoded. Enjoyed afore-mentioned tidying.

*Fondled silky lingerie in a little independent shop downtown.

*Picked out striking, large, dramatic pieces of jewelry I’d buy for Delia if I had money to.

*Looked in two shops for crock pots. Neither place had one.

*Didn’t really waste as much time as  you think doing all of these things because I was alone, undisturbed, and easily able to soak up and get my fill of each stimulating little experience.

The best part is I think we might fuck tonight. IT’S BEEN WAY TOO LONG. I need to write a little something about how much of our lives revolve around cum-rationing. And how someday we’ll fuck hairy men in fairy-lit corridors and never want for extra cum again.

The other day I treated myself to a trip to the spa as a reward for being 33% of the way to my June 1st weight loss goal. I decided to get a body wrap for health reasons (it helps you detox) and out of curiosity since I’d never done it.

I knew going into it that I *might* really hate being wrapped up like a mummy and mostly-immobilized for forty minutes, but I also knew I *might* really enjoy it and, at the very least, could endure it without feeling as though I’d been placed in a straitjacket.

By the time my appointment rolled around at 4 pm I’d been soaking, sweating, reading, and steaming at the spa since 10 am (I should’ve made my body wrap & massage appointment beforehand but was afraid to in case I couldn’t figure out how to pay for it or wanted to do something else instead so 4 pm was the earliest they could get me in) and was GIDDY with anticipation.

The girl explained what was in the mud (mugwort, seaweed and a bunch of other stuff I can’t recall), instructed me to disrobe and sit on the massage table (on top of a sheet of plastic on top of a metallic emergency blanket on top of MORE blankets) with my back to her. She warned me to expect the mud to be fairly “warm” because it cools off so quickly, then she started slathering hot goop on my shoulders, back, and arms. She had me lie down after that so she could apply it to the rest of my body. Right before she smeared it on my boobs, she prepared me to anticipate the touch in a nursey-kindergarten voice: I’ll just apply some to your breasts now . . . (circle, circle).

After she got it all over me except RIGHT between my legs, the soles of my feet and my face, she closed the plastic around me, then the reflective blanket, then the other blankets and towels until I was thoroughly cocooned with only my head sticking out. She asked if I wanted a pillow or for her to bring water or tea when she came back to check on me in ten minutes. Then she turned out the lights (as I requested) and left me alone in the dark, unable to move. AND TRAPPED WITH A TERRIBLE CD OF ROMANTIC/NEW-AGEY GUITAR MUSIC CRAP.

The first ten minutes were pleasant (except for the hideous music). I didn’t even attempt to move, afraid I would make myself itchy and be unable to scratch myself. I could see how easily I could become panicked if the slightest carnival-ride twist had been added to it (it WAS April Fool’s Day, after all). Like if she’d laughed maniacally before she left and I could hear the door being locked from the outside. Or if weird scrubby things began to descend from the ceiling towards me. Or if the walls just started shrinking inwards. I kept my eyes closed JUST IN CASE so I wouldn’t have to see anything like that happening. Or if a man with a bunch of surgical tools were to simply walk in, bend over my face and start whispering at me you can’t move you can’t move you can’t get away from me or my tools! and just put his hands heavily on my chest.

So yeah . . . this might help explain to you PART of why I’m not interested in being bound. Because it would be way too fucking easy for someone to scare me psycho. I can happily lie motionless for hours, but FORCE me to — restrict my mobility — and I might freak the fuck out. Part of me can appreciate the appeal, imagine experimenting with it under very specific conditions, and be tempted by the psychological challenge of it and another part of me just thinks the (psychological) risk is not at all worth the scariness. I feel the same way about LSD. It sounds really interesting but I think I might be a little too vulnerable to bad side effects. The body wrap at the women-only spa is about as far as I can go.

One time I did let someone bind my hands behind my back with his leather belt (a natural outgrowth to him of my spanking and man’s-leather-belt fetish, but to me it was just not the direction I was interested in going once I was face down on his bed — it was crazily exciting, but the fear of having my arms locked behind me that way and of him possibly being able to put his weight on me and smother me was just too fucking freaky for me and I begged for mercy so it didn’t last long. I was far more interested in being whipped with the belt (but not to the point of bruising or bleeding), but he wasn’t so much into that so that little experiment didn’t last very long. I know that some of you are thinking I just didn’t do it with the RIGHT person, someone I TRUST. But the point is a) my imagination doesn’t trust ANYBODY, and b) testing my boundaries on this is NOT as important to me as preserving them. For a whole lot of reasons. Thinking about it is provocative, but I am (and always have been) more interested in having force applied to me in a psychological way (and even more so applying it to others) in ridiculous role plays. I like being bound by RULES and structure. I like things that happen inside my HEAD way more than things that happen to my body. Or maybe I’m just lazy. I don’t know. Woops. Now that I’ve written this I can recall a few different instances where I’ve been bound in different ways and liked it. Hmmmm . . . still, not exactly my “thing”.

Back to the spa.

The first time the girl came in to check on me she brought me tea with a straw that she lowered to my mouth. I wasn’t prepared for it and giggled because THAT is totally hot to me, being treated like an invalid. I wasn’t prepared and dribbled tea down the side of my face, then I got her to change the CD to a variety of new agey music I enjoy — Shamanic Dreams or something like that. She asked if the level of heat was okay (yes – warm and cozy) and again if I wanted a pillow (this time? yes).

When she left I decided to try to sleep since I’d only gotten three hours the night before. And sleep I did, for a few minutes. Let me tell you, it was NOT pleasant waking up mummified, sweating like a pig in a strange dark room with weird pagan drum music going on. I decided not to go to sleep again and couldn’t wait for her to come back. When she did I asked for the heat to be turned down. She did, and blotted the sweat from my forehead and cheeks with a cool cloth (yummmmm . . . more pampered-invalid feelings). I wanted to ask her if anybody had ever lost control of their bowels while getting a wrap but decided against it, fearing she’d think I was planning something disgusting. Still, the thought was entertaining. I know SOMEONE, somewhere has done that on accident or on purpose, and I’d really love to hear about it.

Note: I’m far more likely to experiment with and enjoy shitting in a warm, plastic-wrapped bed than with being tied up. Just an FYI. I don’t PLAN on doing either, but a warm bed of crap seriously sounds more fun to me than letting someone tie me up. Maybe I’m just a loner with a short attention span, though, and wallowing in my own poop is an experience I could live fully in five to ten minutes by myself whereas the whole bondage scene requires time and at least one other person. I guess there are some things I could do to myself, but again, I’m too lazy and disinterested for that. Plus, scat is just a whole lot edgier than bondage and I like the idea of being able to make people think by gleefully confessing I’ve shat myself for the pure, HAMRLESS fun of it. It’s stupid, but poop is so much more taboo (and illegal/obscene) than bondage these days. Again, I HAVE NO PLANS TO DO THAT. I’m just comparing/contrasting. For fun.

Anyway, I survived the last twenty minutes without losing my mind, going back and forth between feeling blissed-out and on-the-verge of screaming, “GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!” I kept reminding myself of what good “exercise” it was for me and how much healthier I’d be afterwards. I worried that I’d be so sick of lying there that I wouldn’t enjoy my massage afterwards (but it actually worked the other way, mad
e the massage seem longer and way better). Basically I endured the procedure a little bit more than I enjoyed it. If I get a body wrap again I will definitely bring my own cd with guided meditations or something so my mind won’t wander to torture scenes.

Finally she came in to unwrap me and I went down the hall naked to the shower with the glass-door making my clean-up efforts visible to anyone who walked by. I decided to pee in the shower instead of wasting my massage time putting on a robe and traipsing down to the restroom, but I worried about it, wondering how many other people do/don’t pee in the post-wrap shower, worrying that there’d be some way they’d know I did and would talk about that disgusting customer with the long toenails who peed in the shower. Silly fears, but still. I have them. Which goes to show you just how very VERY far away I am from ever pooping in a plastic-wrap cocoon.

*****

After the anxiety of the day BEFORE the spa and the super-extended stay I had there, I was in recovery mode all day yesterday, totally drained and exhausted and verging on a big fat headache. If you’ve never gotten body work, steamed, soaked, detoxed, etc. then you probably thing I sound like a fucking crybaby asshole, complaining about how TIRED I am after spending a day doing something that sounds like pure luxury to most Americans but that shit is MEDICINE. My throat and eyes burn after all the gunk inside me is dislodged and stirred up and swirled around and sucked out. It feels like preparation to go into hibernation, like the final step in this cleansing/healing process is to go into an induced coma for two days.

The spa experience is totally my cup of tea, though. The front desk lady seemed to think I was crazy for wanting to stay there for more than eight hours, but since I go so rarely it hardly seems excessive. It takes me awhile to really turn my brain off and melt into it, so that cuts down on the time I’m really benefiting from it, but it’s exactly my idea of the perfect mini-vacation. Alone, not talking to anybody, with scads of naked ladies walking around, walking from one hot room to another, from one pool to another, being ministered to by talented, paid hands, smelling good things, and trying to become invisible to myself.

SHORT ARMS MAKE FOR GOOD PEDICURES

I got a girly foot job today. Because there was a special half-off deal going on. And because we rented a nice room to shoot in tomorrow and really, what’s the point in blowing money on a fancy room to shoot swank nudey pics if your toes look nasty?

My “nail technician” was a cute heavy-set blonde with her hair done up in Bjorkesque knots. She was not much taller than I am so her arms were pretty short in comparison to her boobs which stuck out a lot. As a result, my toes patted and prodded her fluffy pillows of breastage. During the massage portion, my feet (one at a time) were even engulfed in her cleavage.

I know you all think I’m a total fucking pervert who couldn’t help but get off on this sexually, but honestly I kept my thoughts pure in spite of the pleasant feeling of my feet touching a cute-looking woman’s breasts. I *do* love touching people with my feet on both a sensual and sexual level, but I got the feeling that this girl was fairly new to her craft; she seemed very preoccupied, as though she were trying to follow a script she learned at beauty school or was handed by the salon owner.

I’m guessing it’s probably difficult to have her body invaded like that when she’s trying to work and that she has to do some mental and emotional work-arounds to deal with having strangers’ feet jabbing and patting and smushing against her tits. My feet are really small so I can only imagine that people with normal or large feet REALLY press up against her. Given her inexperience and her personality I just felt sort of awkward on her behalf. Awkward in a way that would be hot if it were fiction, but that any decent woman could resist eroticizing (at the time, anyway). My nail technician seemed to hold her cards close to her chest when I tried to get her to talk trash about our respective towns; she avoided say anything very personal or in a familiar tone.

She was pleasant, but clearly had her guard up. I chalk it up to the boobs and being new to her trade, but it might also have been because her boss could hear us. Regardless, I felt it was NOT the time to be getting all horny over the feet-on-boobs action. Even when I saw my little toeprints-made-of-lotion dotting the front of her black shirt. Even when she said, “you’re still wet so I’m going to keep you here a little longer.” Even then, I did not allow myself to indulge in x-rated fantasies.

“But Trixie, it’s not like she could read your mind! Why censor your thoughts?”

BECAUSE. Sometimes dirty thoughts leak out like bad gas and fill a room with discomfort. I believe they do, anyway. Some people can intuitively pick up on someone else’s hard-on, even if it’s purely mental and poses no physical threat. I have no desire to victimize a professional nail technician even if the victimization is only happening in my head. It’s just disrespectful . . . sometimes you have to rise above your baser instincts. Without acting rigid and readably uncomfortable, you have to detach yourself, particularly when you see that the other person is sending signals that detachment is what she needs.

People who touch other people for a living without actually doing sex work — therapeutic massage, nails, hair, facials (haha), etc. — still provide very intimate services that are supposed to make customers feel good, physically and emotionally. I think they go home feeling similarly emotionally exhausted by the shifty boundaries they’ve dealt with all day, touching people’s sweatiest places, hearing their stories, trying to be receptive to chat while not annoying clients by talking TOO much themselves (or entertaining clients who like that sort of thing). I think they deserve a lot of respect (and good tips) for that and deserve to preserve some boundaries; I would just feel wrong about violating that, even in my head. Especially when my feet are already on her boobs.