~ Samantha ~ (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} sinfulxxxtacy) wrote,@ 2006-03-19 15:35:00 |
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Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman
Little Miss Brigitte looks and sounds like walking talking jailbait. Most varieties of sexual perversion are given a free pass at Mardi Gras, but even there people seem to take a dim view of statutory rape. It was great fun getting the evil eye from hopped up tourists every time I reached over to fondle my little blonde moppet. I mean, yeah, I get carded for liquor, but Brig gets carded for a PG-13 movie.
Oh and for the record? Those hyper little girl cumming noises she makes are utterly authentic and even louder in person. Every time I fucked her, I was worried some good Samaritan was going to come
bursting through the door to rescue her.
Obviously the best part of Brigitte's visit was fucking her. But boy fucking with her was a close runner up. Little Miss Thing is absolutely terrified of ghosts, right? We're talking whimpering, lip-biting, quivering-in-her-tiny-pink-bunny rabbit-panties terrified. And me? Uh, yeah, not so much. So we're sitting in our hotel room one night (that one of the two hottest, sweetest men on the planet sponsored for us) and she's telling me about all the ghosts that have had the pleasure of haunting her. I scoff bethcause, frankly, she's being a little ridiculous. Damn did she turn feisty fast! She ordered me not to say that I don't believe in ghosts, because that would cause them to take an interest in me. I very patiently explained to her that if there is
such a thing as a ghost, I'd love to have one take an interest in me. I think that could be a rollicking good time. She pitched such a fit about this that I decided to back off and let her have
her way.
That resolve didn't last long. The next day she and I were tripping around one of the New Orleans cemeteries and I just couldn't resist the opportunity to get me a spook of my own. I started talking out loud, explaining that I didn't believe in ghosts but that if there were any such thing, I dared them to haunt me. I double dared them. I even tried to entice them by telling them about my fabulous panty drawer, in case there were any of the poor dead beasties were kinky in their former lives. All my taunting paid off.
Briggite nutted up. Oh my God, it was great. I love her temper tantrums. She puts her hands on her hips and she stomps around with her teeny tiny feet and I think I may have seen her hop up and down once or twice. She was huffing and puffing so hard I actually thought she might blow my house down. A couple days later when we were driving home, I started trying to do Candyman in the rear view
mirror. I had to consult her for advice. Oh the fun just never stops.
I know the whole princess thing is overplayed, especially by phone sluts. But I must qualify as some form of royalty or deity because I get spoiled like you wouldn't believe.
First there is Benedict Arnold Chris. I'm starting to feel a tad guilty about that nickname, given the way he's been lavishing me with presents. Most recently, he got me the prettiest Mikasa Cheers glasses so that my friends and I can look fancy when we get all liquored up, some black honey lip gloss, and the book I am currently reading, Anansi Boys by Neil Gaman. It's fabulous, by the way. He also put Brig & I up at a great hotel in the French Quarter. Have I mentioned how much I love this guy? Best of all, he bought me a huge, gorgeous ebony and silver mirror. That's the second divine mirror one of my customers has purchased for me. I spend a really obscene amount of time playing Mirror Mirror on the Wall and making them tell me how beautiful and luscious I am.
How pathetic do you have to be to keep buying me presents long after I have cut you off from doing calls with me? Petunia instant messages me frequently, wheedling for spare scraps of attention. I just ignore him. Last week he got a little desperate and tried to buy his way into my good graces. He bought some dogs bones, a little dog bowl and a doggie book. I think he wants to be my new slut puppy. Too bad for him that role is already filled out quite nicely.
John Thumper, porn star extraordinaire, spoiled me with my favorite L'Occitane lavender amber room perfume. It was a pretty clever gift because now every time I walk into my sweet-smelling room, I think of him. Good thing he's such a sexy porn star and not one of those skeevy, stringy-haired ones.
Ruby is a frilly, old-fashioned girl with a pronounced southern drawl. She flounces around her house in layers of cream colored lace and opera-length gloves with pearl buttons. She's straight out of Gone With the Wind, well, except for the whole sissy part. As if that weren't enough to make me love her, she has made it her mission to take care of my beauty needs. She has makeup box all stocked up with eye pencils, lipsticks, foundation, eyeliner and all those other girly necessities. We have gobs of fun when we play dress up together!
Tom Thumb has been going on a lot of Samantha benders, lately. I guess life is hard when you're a short, revolting fuck that no hot girl like me would ever touch. Recently I've been forcing him to tribute me anywhere from about $200 - $500. A perfect 10 like me should be able to saunter up to a genetic defect like him at any time and levy additional short taxes at whim.
Daddy Trent is soooo good to his spoiled brat. He bought me a really pretty new backpack that my laptop fits in just perfectly! And you know what else? I think he knows me a little too well. He must have gotten tired of me saying I'm never at my computer because it hurts my wrists to type too much because he went and bought me this really fancy trackball thingy he insisted would fix all my problems. hehe Now I'm going to have to confess to Daddy that I'm just a lazy lil slut who spends my free time reading and lolling around on my hammock waiting for my phone to ring.
The Cad upped the present ante big time. I mean, I loved the last presents a whole bunch. But then he got me the shiny black Italian leather wallet I'd been drooling over and I swear I creamed my panties. He tends to have that effect on me.
Philip up and tributed me $30 yesterday, even though I haven't been around to do a call with him in ages. Do you know why? Because I'm a Goddess. I think I'm going to have to actually give him a little attention and get my hands on more of his money. He's such a vulnerable little thing.
See Mr. I? Not a word about what you did this time. It's our little secret. Well, yours, mine and Visa's.
Little Miss Brigitte looks and sounds like walking talking jailbait. Most varieties of sexual perversion are given a free pass at Mardi Gras, but even there people seem to take a dim view of statutory rape. It was great fun getting the evil eye from hopped up tourists every time I reached over to fondle my little blonde moppet. I mean, yeah, I get carded for liquor, but Brig gets carded for a PG-13 movie.
Oh and for the record? Those hyper little girl cumming noises she makes are utterly authentic and even louder in person. Every time I fucked her, I was worried some good Samaritan was going to come
bursting through the door to rescue her.
Obviously the best part of Brigitte's visit was fucking her. But boy fucking with her was a close runner up. Little Miss Thing is absolutely terrified of ghosts, right? We're talking whimpering, lip-biting, quivering-in-her-tiny-pink-bunny rabbit-panties terrified. And me? Uh, yeah, not so much. So we're sitting in our hotel room one night (that one of the two hottest, sweetest men on the planet sponsored for us) and she's telling me about all the ghosts that have had the pleasure of haunting her. I scoff bethcause, frankly, she's being a little ridiculous. Damn did she turn feisty fast! She ordered me not to say that I don't believe in ghosts, because that would cause them to take an interest in me. I very patiently explained to her that if there is
such a thing as a ghost, I'd love to have one take an interest in me. I think that could be a rollicking good time. She pitched such a fit about this that I decided to back off and let her have
her way.
That resolve didn't last long. The next day she and I were tripping around one of the New Orleans cemeteries and I just couldn't resist the opportunity to get me a spook of my own. I started talking out loud, explaining that I didn't believe in ghosts but that if there were any such thing, I dared them to haunt me. I double dared them. I even tried to entice them by telling them about my fabulous panty drawer, in case there were any of the poor dead beasties were kinky in their former lives. All my taunting paid off.
Briggite nutted up. Oh my God, it was great. I love her temper tantrums. She puts her hands on her hips and she stomps around with her teeny tiny feet and I think I may have seen her hop up and down once or twice. She was huffing and puffing so hard I actually thought she might blow my house down. A couple days later when we were driving home, I started trying to do Candyman in the rear view
mirror. I had to consult her for advice. Oh the fun just never stops.
I know the whole princess thing is overplayed, especially by phone sluts. But I must qualify as some form of royalty or deity because I get spoiled like you wouldn't believe.
First there is Benedict Arnold Chris. I'm starting to feel a tad guilty about that nickname, given the way he's been lavishing me with presents. Most recently, he got me the prettiest Mikasa Cheers glasses so that my friends and I can look fancy when we get all liquored up, some black honey lip gloss, and the book I am currently reading, Anansi Boys by Neil Gaman. It's fabulous, by the way. He also put Brig & I up at a great hotel in the French Quarter. Have I mentioned how much I love this guy? Best of all, he bought me a huge, gorgeous ebony and silver mirror. That's the second divine mirror one of my customers has purchased for me. I spend a really obscene amount of time playing Mirror Mirror on the Wall and making them tell me how beautiful and luscious I am.
How pathetic do you have to be to keep buying me presents long after I have cut you off from doing calls with me? Petunia instant messages me frequently, wheedling for spare scraps of attention. I just ignore him. Last week he got a little desperate and tried to buy his way into my good graces. He bought some dogs bones, a little dog bowl and a doggie book. I think he wants to be my new slut puppy. Too bad for him that role is already filled out quite nicely.
John Thumper, porn star extraordinaire, spoiled me with my favorite L'Occitane lavender amber room perfume. It was a pretty clever gift because now every time I walk into my sweet-smelling room, I think of him. Good thing he's such a sexy porn star and not one of those skeevy, stringy-haired ones.
Ruby is a frilly, old-fashioned girl with a pronounced southern drawl. She flounces around her house in layers of cream colored lace and opera-length gloves with pearl buttons. She's straight out of Gone With the Wind, well, except for the whole sissy part. As if that weren't enough to make me love her, she has made it her mission to take care of my beauty needs. She has makeup box all stocked up with eye pencils, lipsticks, foundation, eyeliner and all those other girly necessities. We have gobs of fun when we play dress up together!
Tom Thumb has been going on a lot of Samantha benders, lately. I guess life is hard when you're a short, revolting fuck that no hot girl like me would ever touch. Recently I've been forcing him to tribute me anywhere from about $200 - $500. A perfect 10 like me should be able to saunter up to a genetic defect like him at any time and levy additional short taxes at whim.
Daddy Trent is soooo good to his spoiled brat. He bought me a really pretty new backpack that my laptop fits in just perfectly! And you know what else? I think he knows me a little too well. He must have gotten tired of me saying I'm never at my computer because it hurts my wrists to type too much because he went and bought me this really fancy trackball thingy he insisted would fix all my problems. hehe Now I'm going to have to confess to Daddy that I'm just a lazy lil slut who spends my free time reading and lolling around on my hammock waiting for my phone to ring.
The Cad upped the present ante big time. I mean, I loved the last presents a whole bunch. But then he got me the shiny black Italian leather wallet I'd been drooling over and I swear I creamed my panties. He tends to have that effect on me.
Philip up and tributed me $30 yesterday, even though I haven't been around to do a call with him in ages. Do you know why? Because I'm a Goddess. I think I'm going to have to actually give him a little attention and get my hands on more of his money. He's such a vulnerable little thing.
See Mr. I? Not a word about what you did this time. It's our little secret. Well, yours, mine and Visa's.
