Cameryn Moore, PHONE WHORE

My extreme sub (hi, Gary!)
September 3, 2009, 6:38 pm
Filed under: Cameryn 101 | Tags: ,

I have one caller, Gary, who reads this blog. Has read this blog, at least. I don’t know how often he visits. I talk about him to my partner, to a couple of friends; to them he is my “extreme sub”. I believe him, that he does what he says he does. And if I believe him in that, then it’s a fact that no one else I know goes nearly as low. In the land of extreme submission, Gary is the most brazenly, flamboyantly humble of them all. To be specific, he’s a toilet slut, a sort of time-lag shit-pig who hates the act at the time but for days and weeks afterward wallows in his perversity.

Most of our calls, though, are normal. Like, we talk about stuff for 45 minutes or so and then I talk about force-feeding him my shit, and then we wrap it up and say good night until next time. In that prelude time, we talk about anything, and a couple of months ago I told him about my plans for the Phone Whore play and audio downloads. He said, show me the blog, maybe I have some ideas for marketing. I took a leap of faith and told him.

Since then he’s been away, to East Asia and Europe, on business. The fact that I even know why he hasn’t called, tells you a little something about our relationship. Last night, finally, he called. I was pleased to hear from him, and told him so. I asked him about the trip. I asked had he seen the blog yet. Yes, he said, It’s interesting. I’m a little hurt, though, that you haven’t mentioned me.

I told him that I felt protective of my connection with him, that it would feel strange to talk about in public. I told him that I wrote about him in Phone Whore, a whole paragraph. (Yes, I even asked him to donate to the play!) That seemed to settle it. But after we had our scene, and we said good night and hung up, I realized that it wasn’t settled. Not for me…

I know what you want to hear, Gary. Apparently the fierce possessiveness that you heard in my voice last night, the part that made you come, wasn’t enough to convince you. So I’ll tell you, right here, in public:

In my mind’s eye I can see you crumble and cry beneath wave after wave of filth. You are resplendent in your despair, and beautiful when you break. I wish I could be there when that dom couple down South degrades you so thoroughly. And I’m glad you keep choosing me to hear about it, and ask you pointed questions, and listen to your voice dropping low and trance-like, and make you relive that degradation all over again. I cherish that power. So much that I’m giving you this post as a thank-you gift.

So read it over again now, imagining it in my voice, and come all over that nice leather sofa of yours. Now lick it up. Do it.


You’re welcome. Call me again soon.


The More You Know!: Cuckolds and Cream Pie
August 31, 2009, 5:37 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , ,

Today I write of another kink that I knew very little about before joining the lines. It’s these guys who fantasize about their wives or girlfriends getting boffed by other, better-hung fellows (or in the case of one of my regulars, a buffed-out dyke with a supersize strap-on).

I’m not going to deal with the 101 of cuckolding, because Dan Savage covers it nicely here and wikipedia goes into great detail also. For myself, after extensive reading of overwrought cuck fic and a couple of afternoons laughing at the bad acting at those interracial hot-wife sites (no links to that, that’s what google is for), this is where I’m at:


I’m just not much closer to emotionally comprehending the turn-on. Sure, I had my theories, but the chart is starting to sprawl as my cuck-callers keep adding phrases and scenes and images to the mess: imagining your conservative wife letting loose with some horse-dicked stranger, in a way that she doesn’t with you. Smelling that distinct lust-must smell in the conjugal bed. Her getting knocked up and not by you. Being the clean-up boy as your reward (oh, homosex overtones, I never get enough of you). Watching her exit the restaurant with her boyfriend on the eve of your anniversary dinner, leaving you with the tab, defizzed champagne, and a melting tiramisu. A call I took last week made me cry, when one cuckold fantasizer asked me, “what will it feel like when my wife falls in love?”

This stuff is CHARGED. Last night I took a call where the hardest spot of resistance for the caller was when I told him, the husband, that he needed to open the door for my lover and welcome him into the house. He resisted, he was shocked and appalled, but he didn’t hang up, which is why I spent some time needling him about it. “Don’t you love me? Don’t you want to see me happy?” I asked, throwing an extra pout into my voice. “I can’t do it,” he kept saying. “It’s so humiliating.”

We ended up arguing for nearly 10 minutes, because here we were, 60 minutes into the call, and we had already imagined him taking the guest bedroom, right next to the master bedroom and hearing me get my brains fucked out. So what was it about opening the door and offering a drink to my lover that was so much harder? “He’s been in our bed before, you know.” “I know. But I can’t just welcome him in like that.” In the end, we negotiated–a cream pie in exchange for opening the door and being respectful–but over my head the lightbulb didn’t just go on; there were 200 of them flashing all around. Jeezus christ, I thought, all that psychological symbolism is right on. It’s like a porno and horror film all mixed together.

Whatever you do, cuckold, (don’t) open that door. After that, it’s all over but dessert.

The More You Know!: Tickling
August 20, 2009, 3:38 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: ,

I’m not ever going to go into details of a virtual blow job on this blog. It’s been done elsewhere, and if you really want it from me, I’ve got a workshop about phone sex coming up at the Boston-area Good Vibrations in November. (Edit: also, describing a blow job while I’m supposedly doing it gives me a little brain cramp every time. My mouth is supposed to be full, you dumb fuck! I can’t tell you how much I want it! Just listen to me slurp! I’m not a fan, for reasons of logic.)

Here I’d rather spend time on stuff that gets less play in the perversity petting zoo, stuff that maybe sends even me for a loop. This week in The More You Know!, Cameryn gets her first two tickling calls!

Right. I can sense your furrowed brow right through the screen: How the fuck do you indulge a tickling fetish over the phone? The answer, it turns out, is easy: lots of laughing.

Last week’s call at least touched on territory that was familiar to me. The caller wanted to be humiliated, and tickling was part of that process. He retold at length the “pre-teen as unwilling male stripper at a party full of MILFs” subplot from American Pie 3 (which I may have to see now, oh god), and then told me to step into those MILF high heels and tell me what I’d do to him as poor little Scooter. Goochie goochie goo! Oooh, look how red his face is getting! I was tickling him and embarrassing him and laughing at him for an hour and 20 minutes, people.

This week’s tickle call was flipped: I was supposed to be the tickl-ee (?!). The caller told me that I was a scientist who had developed a new sex machine that ran on laughter, and he was my assistant. I asked him to strap me into the machine and tickle me, and not to let me out until the experiment was completed. “In the name of science,” I intoned. He riposted with “I’m going to start licking your armpits.”


Now, in real life, I am ticklish. In the right mood, I will start snickering and twitching away from an evil grin and some wiggling fingers two feet away. But that wasn’t this. Truth is, I’ve been bottling up my laughter for months about some of the ridiculous scenarios on the lines, and this lucky tickling bastard got all of it.



I needed that.

Doin’ It for Daddy
August 10, 2009, 4:35 pm
Filed under: Cameryn 101 | Tags: , ,

Confession: I’m not a top, I’m a switch. Those who know me may be a little surprised, because I come off pretty assertive. But them’s the facts, ma’am. I switch when I meet someone who can top me hard, and who doesn’t flinch about my predilection for being a little girl in the sheets. A stone daddy, if you will.

Well, most of my callers aren’t tops. Most probably don’t even know what that means. Most are sissy-girls and mommyfuckers, or guys who want me to be vicious and yank their pink satin thongs into a wedgie. The ones who call and want to get rough and/or nasty are staying in their own head, and throwing shit at me to get their rocks off. Whether that shit sticks to me or not is really irrelevant. In line with the 7-minute sub, I guess these guys would be the 10-minute tops.

Well, last week I got a caller who actually did a fucking intake interview: what I liked, what I thought I was good at, what I looked like when I was 12, what I fantasized about with my real-life partners, and what I’ve actually done and enjoyed in real life. Something about the way he did it, I let my guard down. And then he turned it around on me, and I was … floored.

He had paid attention, picking up all my details and weaving them into something else that I could tell was his turn-on, but with enough of my own real-life bits to make it very, very sticky. Not like syrup is sticky, or velcro, but like a cape made of barbed hooks is sticky: once it’s on you, it’s in you, and if someone pulls at it, you go wherever they take you.

It was unnerving to be on the other end of that treatment. He figured out some of what made me tick, made up the rest with a pretty good guess, and I was putty. He was good. He was merciless. He was a foul-mouthed bastard. He was … actually, he was to me as I am to the vast majority of my callers

It was an open-ended call, so the profit motive was strong to keep him going, at least in the beginning. But by the end of the call, I was sweating and panting and torn between wanting the story to keep going and needing it to stop because I was afraid I might faint. Afterwards, while I was trembling and rehydrating, it hit me that I had never felt more deserving of the phrase “sex worker”.

He called me the next night, too, and when the dispatcher gave me the call, she said, huh, that’s weird, he normally only calls the really young girls. And I laughed and said something blasé about my roleplaying skills. I didn’t say anything about the excited little girl jumping up and down inside me. She’s not a marketable skill. She’s just me, and doesn’t come out for anyone but a real daddy.

The 7-Minute Sub (no, it’s not a sandwich)
August 3, 2009, 8:16 pm
Filed under: The Power of Words | Tags: , ,

When I get a call, the dispatcher gives me a quick-hit low-down on what the caller likes, according to their records: likes big tits, doesn’t talk much, likes strap-on. These few words, called “whispers”, are priceless. We need them to get started, because getting from zero to “likes to be pissed on”, for example, in under 10 minutes is tough. Twenty questions would not be enough, is what I’m saying.

But some whispers are, how shall I say… useless. Not because of the dispatcher, but because of the caller, and because of the inadequacy of words, and the inherent self-centeredness of everyone’s sexual world. One whisper I particularly dislike is “wants to be dominated”.

Because on a seven-minute call, unless it’s part of an ongoing, regular phone relationship, you aren’t experiencing domination. You’re experiencing someone being loud and stern at you while you get to do exactly and only what you want to do.

The seven-minute sub, if it was a sandwich, would be your delicious choice of any imaginable ingredient in the world, on two slices of grocery-store sourdough, with maybe some mayo. I would be wearing a hairnet and high-heeled boots, and I would hand your sub to you on a plate and yell, “EAT IT!” at random intervals. But you don’t mind the noise because it’s exactly the sandwich you want. At least the filling is, and that’s what people order sandwiches for anyway, isn’t it?

The seven-minute sub wants the domme call because he wants to lick my ass or worship my boots and he can’t imagine any other way that he would do that without a strong woman being involved.

The seven-minute sub is the ultimate bratty bottom. He doesn’t need a safe word, because he can pull out of his bottomness at any time and say, “Actually, I’m not into that…” Or just say “NO!” and hang up, like one person did on me last week.

The seven-minute sub is playing at it. Some might say that all phone-sex subs are playing at it, that there’s no way to truly dominate someone over the phone. My experience? Not true. I have several regulars who take everything I dish out and are clearly relishing the feeling of being dominated. I have a particular favorite whom I have told to lick his come off of his leather sofa at the end of the call, and he does it, no question, even though he’s already come.

Point is, you can get there in 90 minutes, or even 10. But seven minutes of phone-sex domination is just a scold and a wank. I’ll do it for the money, but believe me, the longer you give me to make you a sub, the tastier it’s going to be.