Dear Kristi,
I saw your profile and I’m very interested in calling you. I wanted to e-mail you first because I have a very “different” kind of fetish. I know this will probably sound strange, but the sound of a woman sneezing really turns me on.
I have tried to talk to a lot of phone sex women, but not many can really sneeze for me. So before you answer, please try to make yourself sneeze with some pepper or something, and see if you can do it.
I don’t want to talk about sex, just sneezing. If you have allergies, that’s a big plus too - I’d love to hear you talk about them. I am looking for the right person, and will be a loyal caller to the woman with the right sneeze.
Thanks!
•
Most phone sex operators, once they have been doing it for a while, are pretty much unshockable. If you think your fantasy is too strange, believe me, it isn’t. I don’t even have to know what your particular fantasy is to say that with confidence. If the operator hasn’t heard your specific fetish before, she’s heard much weirder.
I had a man call wanting to hear about my underarm stains. Another wanted me to feed him to a bloodthirsty plant. Still another wanted me to tell him all about how I’d leave him for another man with huge biceps. One even wanted me to kneel down in my prom dress and suck his cock in front of my parents while he (I swear) ate a bologna sandwich with mustard.
Still think yours is too strange? This chapter is for you.
•
Breathing Lessons
Dear Kristi:
I like your pictures and your description. I have a specific fetish and would like to know if you would be up to chatting with me about it.
My first erotic encounters were in my swimming pool. Ever since then I have loved watching and listening to girls hold their breath as long as they can. I also love having contests with them to see who can hold their breath the longest.
You have probably seen kids playing in a pool, or even girls at a slumber party, decide to have a contest to see who can hold their breath the longest. That’s what I enjoy (but in sexy women, not kids!). If they are strong-willed and competitive they might really push themselves to win, but there’s no force or anything dangerous involved.
For most of my life, I thought I was the only person in the world with this desire, but since the Internet, I have discovered that there are hundreds of people out there like me.
If you think you’d like to chat with me about this, please let me know, and I will call soon.
Thanks!
Russ
He called the next day. It turns out that the underwater business is incidental, and it’s really the “breath-holding” that’s the fetish. I didn’t find it distasteful, I just didn’t see the sexual appeal of holding your breath.
He told me his own history with his kink. I didn’t find it especially sexy. I actually found it awkward, and I didn’t think the conversation was turning him on. The most interesting thing he said is that lots of people hold their breath when they come, and that he never understood how you could not associate breath-holding with orgasm.
Finally in a desperate attempt to make conversation, I asked him how long he could actually hold his breath. I could tell right away that this was the right question.
“Guess,” he said.
I thought for a moment. “A minute and a half.”
“Do you want me to try?”
“Sure,” I said. Finally something was working. “Should I time you?”
He made a small turned-on noise. “Yes! Do you have a watch?”
I glanced at the stopwatch, ticking away his $1.99 minutes. “Yes, I do.”
“Okay, tell me when to start.”
“Wait,” I said. “Do you want me to talk while you’re doing it or be quiet?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Definitely talk.”
“Ummmmm… what do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you a sexy story or…”
“No,” he answered. “Why don’t you, hmmmm, cheer me on. Encourage me to keep holding my breath. And also, tell me if you think you could hold yours as long.”
“Okay,” I answered slowly. An unworthy thought: why do I keep getting the freaks?
“Tell me when to start.”
“Okay… go!”
He took a huge, loud breath, much louder than I expected, and then there was dead silence on the other end of the line.
And then I had to talk. He wanted me to talk.
“Well okay…that’s ten seconds…um, that’s good, yes I know I could hold my breath this long…and, ummmmmm, yes, 20 seconds, almost half a minute, yes, great, half a minute, pretty good but I could still do this …[silence silence] okay, coming up on a whole minute, see, I think maybe a minute is as long as I could go, but you can probably do it longer than me, because you’ve been practicing, and wow, a minute and 15 seconds, great, good going, yes, and wow, a minute and a half, I’d definitely be breathing by now…[silence silence] and you really are good at this, almost two minutes, I’m really impressed…”
He held his breath for two and a half minutes, me blathering awkwardly the whole time, and then he panted and gasped and finally breathed. The last 30 seconds or so I could hear him struggling.
By this time I was feeling very uncomfortable, because I really didn’t know what to say.
“Were you surprised at how long I could hold my breath?”he asked.
“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Surprised and impressed.”
“How long do you think you could hold yours?” he asked.
“I don’t know…” I thought. “A minute, maybe?”
“You think you could hold it that long?”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
A pause. I could almost hear him thinking in the silence, so I said what I knew he wanted me to say.
“Do you… want me to try it?”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “I’d like that very much.”
“All right,” I agreed. I’ll be happy to hold my breath for you for $1.99 a minute. “What do I do?”
He was interested and excited now. “Just start taking long, deep breaths. Start concentrating on your breathing. I’ll tell you when.”
I did, and began to breathe deeply into the phone. I actually caught a little of his excitement, and started enjoying the anticipation.
“We’ll start in 20 seconds…just keep breathing deeply…starting in ten seconds … 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… go!”
I took a deep, audible breath and held it.
“Oh, god,” he said intensely, “You have no idea how much this turns me on.”
I realized for the first time that I couldn’t answer him. Holding my breath meant that I couldn’t talk. I know that sounds obvious, but I hadn’t really been thinking about it, and suddenly it felt like… like bondage. I was surprised to discover that little bit of my own kink in his.
When he started talking to me, I finally understood what he had meant by encouragement. It sounded just like what you expect from phone sex.
“Oh yeah… that’s right… hold your breath… hold it… hold it… oh yeah… that’s good, real good, Kristi… oh yeah, come on … 30 seconds… just a little longer… that’s it… hold your breath…”
It was very, very odd, and strangely arousing. Just a little bit. It clanged on my submissive buttons – “don’t breathe until I let you.” I held my breath for one minute and five seconds.
We talked some more, and then he asked me to try again, and to really try hard to hold my breath a little longer. The struggle seemed to be a big part of it for him.
I admit that the second time I faked it. I didn’t intend to, but I started out wrong and had to breathe after about 25 seconds. I didn’t want to disappoint the guy, so I covered the phone and inhaled. I supposedly lasted a minute and 15 seconds that time, gasping convincingly at the end, and he seemed very happy.
He told me again how much listening arouses him, and it finally occurred to me to ask if he liked to have sex or to masturbate while holding his breath.
“Oh yes,” he said, “That’s the whole point.”
Ah ha. I don’t know why I didn’t catch on to that quicker. “So do you do it before or after or during…?”
“Any or all of the above.”
I asked him to tell me about it, but he said that he needed to go. It had been about 20 minutes.
After we hung up, I stayed where I was. I thought about sex, and tried to imagine sexual situations involving holding my breath. Holding my breath while someone played with and pinched my nipples. Holding my breath while someone performed oral sex on me, me wriggling around trying desperately not to breathe. Going down on a guy while he was holding his breath, doing my best to make him lose his self-control. Something clicked in my head, and I kind of, sort of, almost understood it.
Hi Russ -
I just wanted to drop you a note to say that I really enjoyed talking to you. I hope you enjoyed it too - as you know, I was on unfamiliar turf there.
I really did find it sexy - holding my breath, which meant I couldn’t talk, trying hard not to let go. I’ve been wondering what it would be like to touch myself while I was holding my breath, maybe listening to you talk to me while I was doing it. Or vice versa.
Hope to talk to you again.
Kristi
He went nuts. He wrote back, telling me how delicious my e-mail was. It made him hot. We starting chatting online for a few minutes every day; I would tell him how I began to notice things I’d never seen before – girls holding their breath at a pool party, for instance – and he started asking me questions about spanking. He’d never even considered my kind of kinky play, but he agreed that making someone hold his or her breath could be considered a dominant act. He liked that idea, and I did too. He especially liked the idea that it turned me on.
One day he mentioned holding his breath for three minutes, and I said, “If you hold your breath for three minutes, I’ll try to hold mine for a minute and a half.”
This challenge was apparently the most exciting thing I’d ever said to him, and sent him halfway to orgasm. I saw him online the next day, and he confided that he’d been hard ever since our last conversation.
“I wonder what would happen,” I typed, “if I had your cock in my mouth while you were holding your breath.”
He typed out a groan and said he’d like that.
“But I would only do it while you were holding it. I’d stop every time you had to breathe.”
I had him then. Somehow I’d gotten into his head. He called the next day and we were much more comfortable. He held his breath for three minutes, while I teased him. Then I kept my promise and tried to hold it for a minute and a half while he talked to me. I could hear him breathing hard, definitely turned on more and more each second.
Finally I started describing taking him in my mouth, licking and sucking on his cock. I told him to hold his breath, and kept talking to him about sex and breath-holding, and he came like lightning. I was pretty turned on too.
Kristi:
It was wonderful. You were wonderful. I will never forget that incredible feeling of hearing your teasing, coaxing, encouraging voice in my ear as I held my breath, and held it… and held it… pushing myself past all desperate warning signals from my body…
Russ
We’re still chatting when we see each other online. He’s threatened that the next time he calls me he wants me to hold my breath for two minutes. He’ll learn to use a cane, he says, and he’ll cane me once for every second under two minutes I last.
•
Not That Kind of Kinky
A shy boy IM’d me, asking if my hair was natural or permed. He seemed disappointed when I said it was natural. But he went on talking about how gorgeous it was, and how he’d love to do my hair. Also, he said, he really liked spanking.
“Oh,” I asked, “so you might like to hold me by the hair and spank me?” That sounded pretty good to me.
“No, no,” he replied, “I like to be spanked.”
“Oh,” I said, suppressing my disappointment, “So you might like me to spank you while draping my hair all over your bare skin?”
He groaned. “Oh yes,” he said. “And with my hair in curlers.”
Great. That’s just great. I sighed. I tried to get into this. I like long hair on guys…
“So do you have long hair?”
“No.”
Count to ten. Don’t snap at the customers. 1… 2… 3… 4…
“Well is it long enough for curlers?”
“Oh, wait,” he said, “I don’t mean that kind of curlers.”
Ah ha! Maybe I misunderstood.
“Oh? What kind do you mean?”
“Like little ones,” he clarified. “Perm rods.”
“You mean the little plastic curlers with the piece of elastic and the little hanging cap?”
“OHHHHH YEAAAAAAAAH!”
Sigh.
•
Kristi:
Just found your hot website. I have a unique boxing fantasy where a sexy athletic woman knocks me out and then revives me sexually. Do you think you could make me see stars?
Let’s box until I drop!
I suppressed my giggles and wrote him back something enthusiastic, but I didn’t hear from him so I figured he’d gone elsewhere. It’s common for a guy to send the same fantasy around to a bunch of different phone sex girls to see which response he likes best. Rachel and I often start to describe the same amusing letter to each other, and I’ve even gotten the same exact piece of e-mail to more than one of my characters. It makes sense – why waste your time and money calling if the operator can’t handle what you want?
One night I was chatting away with a new caller, and after a few minutes he hesitantly mentioned that he had written to me a long time ago.
“You might remember,” he said haltingly. “It was about a boxing fantasy.”
Of course I remembered, which seemed to impress him. “That’s one advantage to that sort of fantasy,” he joked. “At least it’s memorable.”
He also recalled my reply to him in detail, and asked in a kind of inside joke way if I was getting any better at my side-kicks. At first I didn’t know what he meant, but then I realized guiltily that he must have written to me during my extremely brief flirtation with Tae-Bo. Oops. That lasted all of a week.
Well, I’d just have to fake it. Quickly changing the subject from my own inadequate martial arts experience, I asked him if he’d ever tried boxing with a woman in real life. To my surprise, he actually had.
Apparently there are websites catering to this fetish (there are websites about everything these days) and there are a few female athletes who specialize in playing out these kinds of fantasies. I got the impression that these women are like professional dommes – they’re not prostitutes, but they provide sexually oriented fetish services.
A woman from one of these websites was going to be traveling in his area. She was primarily a wrestler, but when he wrote and asked her, she said she did some boxing as well. So he made an appointment with her.
It sounded to me like they basically horsed around for an hour in her hotel room. This sounded more appealing to me than what I had imagined, traditional boxing match in a gym. Despite myself, I got interested.
“What were you wearing?” I asked. “What was she wearing? Did she really hit you?” I shot off whole bunch of questions in a row.
He was delighted, and happily told me everything I wanted to know. He wore a pair of shorts with no shirt, and she wore spandex running shorts and a tank top. They both wore boxing gloves, and she insisted that he wear headgear and a mouthpiece. And yes, she really hit him.
“But she didn’t, like, break your nose or anything?” That’s what really makes me find boxing distasteful, the black eyes and bloody noses.
“No,” he assured me. “She stayed away from all that. She mostly hit my chest, my stomach, my arms…”
Ooh. That actually did sound like fun. “Your jaw?” I wondered. Don’t ask me why, but that seemed exciting.
“Yes,” he said. “A few times on my jaw.”
I must have made some sort of encouraging noise.
“She was just playing around with me, really,” he said. “I’m sure she could have knocked me out in about two minutes. But she sparred with me for a while, and a few times when I got near the bed she hit me harder. I guess she knew I could fall back onto the bed. And once or twice I did.”
Suddenly this sounded very hot to me, very much like a specific sort of S/M scene. I could easily imagine myself in the place of the top – teasing, playing, punching hard at his chest and his arms, watching his stomach tighten up as I slammed into it. Even in my imagination I knew that I could punch hard and not really hurt him, and that felt sort of…. freeing and empowering.
After about 15 minutes in the hotel room, he explained, the woman asked if he wanted her to hit him a little harder. He sounded kind of sheepish as he admitted to me that he declined. His stomach muscles were pretty sore already, he said, so for the remainder of his hour she wrestled with him. That had apparently been a big mistake. She was strong, he said, and while it was sexy when she caught him in a scissor-hold between her legs, he was pretty sure that she cracked one of his ribs.
I couldn’t keep from laughing at that, and he was a good sport about it. In an effort to get back to being sexy, I told him honestly that I was finding his descriptions to be more arousing than I expected.
Soon we were mapping out our own scene, picking clothing for ourselves, putting Kristi’s hair up in a ponytail, and imagining an empty boxing ring in a deserted gym. Before we started, I asked him what the ground rules were. What couldn’t I do?
“No hitting below the belt,” he said immediately. I pouted just a bit. What fun was that? I demanded. “Well,” he amended, “at least not right away.”
What was especially charming about our match was that he wasn’t wholeheartedly focused on the boxing itself. He was entirely willing to be distracted by Kristi’s tight shorts and hard nipples.
I had a great time taking out my aggressions on the hot bod I imagined for him, and he was terrifically responsive. He made sexy little grunting noises every time I hit him, and groaned nicely when I teased him. My only difficulty was that I ran out of boxing terminology too quickly. I went through punches, jabs, and uppercuts, then got inspired and gave myself a great left hook. But then that was it, I was out of moves.
It didn’t seem to matter, though. I backed him up against the ropes and pressed my breasts against him. I threw a couple of hard jabs to his jaw when he was in the middle of the ring and he fell to his knees, his face pressing against my bare midriff.
Finally after a few minutes of using him as an animated punching bag, I knocked him out cold. He reported seeing stars before passing out, and awoke to find himself flat on his back, with Kristi straddling his chest, minus both her boxing gloves and her shirt.
The rest of the scene went as one might guess, with one amusing addition. For the rest of the call, he addressed me as “Champ.”
•
Armed and Dangerous
Over dinner with Rachel and Donna…
Donna: You know what Trisha told me? Some guy called and wanted to hear her get raped by an octopus.
Rachel and Kristi: <hysterical laughter>
Donna: I asked her what you do when you’re raped by an octopus. She said, “After awhile, just stop struggling.”
Rachel and Kristi: <hysterical laughter>
When I got home, I sent an Instant Message to Trisha.
Kristi: I hear you got raped by an octopus.
Trisha: Yeah. He wanted me to struggle for a while and then give in.
Kristi: Ummm…. where exactly is the prick on an octopus?
Trisha: I have no idea. Just lots of tentacles.
Kristi and Trisha: <hysterical laughter>
•
Toe Talk
Got a call from the office to do a callback session. This happens sometimes, usually if the guy sees a magazine ad rather than the website.
“His name is Walt,” said the dispatcher. “He wants a submissive with dark hair and small tits, someone into pain and torture.” She gave me his phone number and added, “He’s authorized for 25 minutes, no longer.”
I carefully hit *67 to block my phone number from caller ID, and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Hi Walt,” I said cheerfully, “This is Kristi from the phone service.”
“Hi Kristi,” he answered. “How are you this evening?”
“Pretty good,” I said. “I hear you’re in the mood to torture someone.”
He laughed, and I knew right away that I was going to like him.
He was from the deep south, and had a charming accent. We small talked for a while and he seemed in no particular hurry. Then:
“Tell me about your feet,” he said. “Have you ever had your feet tortured?”
“My feet?” I asked, trying to think if I had.
“Mm hmm,” he drawled.
“Well….” My feet. Hmmm. I can usually come up with some kind of relevant story, but that was a tough one.
“Well, I’ve been tickled on my feet,” I began slowly, wondering if that qualified as torture.
“Yes?” he encouraged.
“And once…. very lightly… I was caned on the soles of my feet. Not really so it hurt, though.” That was even true. I remember that day fondly.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. Inspiration! “Wait! And I’ve had one of those neurological wheelie things used on them. That was awful! I just shrieked and kicked like crazy.”
Well, not really. I actually barely noticed when that thing was used on my feet, but I knew someone who did have that reaction. She wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it for the call.
He seemed interested but not especially talkative.
“What do you like to do?” I asked, trying to get the ball rolling again.
“Well,” he said, “I like to iron a woman’s feet.”
“Er, what?”
“I like to iron a woman’s feet.”
“You mean like… with… an iron?” I asked, worried. What could he mean? Surely not a clothes iron. A curling iron?
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “With an iron. Like you’d use to iron your shirt.”
An iron.
“Um….” I tried to be tactful. “But doesn’t that… umm… burn the skin off?”
He started to laugh. “No, I don’t do it hot enough to burn. It’s not on high!” (Oh, of course. Only crazy sick people iron on “high.” Regular people iron feet on “chiffon.” Obviously.)
“You put it on the lowest setting and hold it nearer and nearer and her feet get warmer and warmer until she can’t stand it anymore.”
I tried to eroticize this and utterly failed.
“Tell me about your feet,” he said.
“What?”
“Your feet,” he urged. “What are they like?”
“Well… I paint my toenails,” I began, picturing Kristi’s feet, “ and I guess my toes are sort of longish and, um, slender-ish. You know, like, they’re not short and stubby toes. Not really long but, um, sort of long.”
I was definitely not at my most eloquent. I stuttered for another few seconds and then gave up. “I don’t really know how to describe my feet!”
“No, no,” he assured me, “you’re doing very well. Tell me, do you have high arches?”
High arches. I had no idea. I tried to decide if high arches would be good or bad.
“Um, I’m not really sure,” I said. “How can I tell?”
“Stand on a floor somewhere and see if there’s lots of space under your foot,” he said.
“Okay!” I jumped off the bed and into the bathroom. I stood on the tile floor. I tried to look under my feet without picking them up.
“Um, I don’t think they’re really high,” I said. “They feel… like…”
“Yes?” he asked eagerly.
“Like regular height,” I concluded brilliantly.
Oddly enough, he did not seem disappointed.
We chatted casually about pedicures and paraffin treatments and hot wax candles. He wanted to know everything that had ever been done to my feet. Had anyone ever licked them? (Yes.) Sucked my toes? (Yes.) Eaten food off my feet? (No!)
“No?”
“No way! What would you eat off someone’s feet?” I asked.
“Well, I like to put grapes between a woman’s toes and eat them,” he said. “Or berries or something.”
Call me bizarre, but that actually didn’t sound so bad. I imagined lying on my back in bed, balancing grapes between my toes while a studly man held my ankle and ate the grapes, tickling my toes with his tongue. I could get into that.
“You know what I really like, though?” he went on. “Marshmallows.”
“Marshmallows? Like, between my toes?” I asked.
“Yes,” he agreed. “You can do mini-marshmallows between. Or you can get the really big ones and poke holes in them so that they fit on the toes like caps.”
I giggled, imagining wiggling my marshmallow-tipped toes.
“Ooh!” I exclaimed. “And then you could take your candle and hold it under the marshmallows and toast them.”
He was taken aback. “That sounds very dangerous. You’d have to be really careful doing that. I’m not sure it would be a good idea.”
Oh, right, I thought. Ironing is safe, but toasted marshmallows are dangerous.
His next question caught me completely off guard. “Have you ever thought about anyone actually eating your feet?”
“Eating them?”
“Yeah.”
“Eating my feet?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Because I have a friend who has a great cannibalism foot fantasy.”
“About eating someone’s feet?”
“Yeah! You want to hear it?”
What the hell, why not? “Sure.”
So he started telling the story:
A woman gets a notice in the mail that she’s won a free “all-natural” pedicure from a very exclusive salon. She’s excited, and makes an appointment right away. (I peered at my own toes and decided that if someone was going to eat off them, I definitely needed a pedicure.)
The woman goes down to the salon and presents the coupon, at which point the receptionist asks her to remove one of her shoes so she can inspect her foot. The woman thinks this is odd but complies. She knows the salon is extremely selective in its clientele.
Apparently her feet are found acceptable, and she is led to a back room, not to a standard pedicure chair, but to a massage table. Soothing music is playing, and several people begin ministering to her, pulling her shoes off, massaging her, and telling her to relax.
She notices sacks of what look like fresh herbs and vegetables in the room. “Just part of our all-natural pedicure regimen,” she is told. “Nothing to worry about. You’ll love it.”
She lets herself relax and drift off, but is awoken by the feel of something slippery being massaged into her legs and feet. It feels strange, unlike any massage oil or lotion.
“It’s butter,” she is told. “Part of the natural treatment. It’s a wonderful moisturizer because it has such a high fat content.”
She’s never heard of this but it sounds logical so she lets them continue. (At this point I noticed how dry my own heels were. I considered going to the fridge for some butter but remembered that I only had low-fat margarine.)
Anyway, the woman is enjoying the butter massage when suddenly she feels something rough and grainy being applied to her calves and feet. This doesn’t feel quite right but the pedicurist assures her that these all-natural herbs are just what her skin needs. She catches a suspicious whiff of pepper, but nonetheless allows her lower parts to be seasoned.
It is only when she notices that the attendants are placing slices of vegetables between her toes that she starts to panic, but by then it’s too late. They hold her down and continue to fit wedges of raw zucchini and carrots between her toes. Then they bring her out to a campfire, tie her to a spit, and start roasting her. But only from the calves down.
I have to admit I’ve rarely had as much trouble keeping a straight face during a call.
He finished with his triumphant (and obviously exciting) image of her feet cooking over the fire, and was quiet for a moment.
“Is that where the story ends?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a fantasy, right?” I said. “For your friend. It’s sexual.”
“Right.”
“So when is the climax? The cooking part?”
He didn’t understand what I was asking. “She doesn’t actually fantasize her feet being eaten, right? Just prepared and cooked?”
“Oh, no,” he answered. “Her fantasy continues on with them eating her toes, and then her feet.”
“Oh.”
“In fact,” he went on, “she fantasizes that her feet taste so good that they continue up and cook her legs and thighs too.”
I glanced at my stopwatch. It had been 23 minutes. Before I had the chance to say that it was almost time to end the call, he was saying goodnight.
As far as I could tell he hadn’t had an orgasm. In fact, he hadn’t even been breathing hard. He just wished me well, thanked me for the conversation, and said he hoped to talk to me again sometime. I hung up at 25 minutes on the dot.
A full day later I was still craving marshmallows.