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Pussy-eating and poetry

I felt it two days ago.

It was with a regular I like. It usually only happens that way, with someone who I know very well and feel really comfortable with. It needs to be a fem-dom-type call, too, an interaction in which I am expected to run my mouth, in which I have to because they are in some kind of subby head space and they maybe have forgotten how to speak, and if I don't keep talking, then the line will go silent for too long.

So I am on top, I'm sitting on his face, I am at the point about four minutes into his usual seven-minute call where he will want me to orgasm loudly and wetly all over his face. It's not enough to just moan. Moaning or "oh, yeah!", that is not enough when I am trying to emphasize how little control he has over the proceedings, that I set the pace and I say what is going to happen and he better get with the program or I'm just going to run right over him.

So I tell him, open your mouth.

Open your mouth and keep swallowing, there's a river coming down on you now, there's a whole fucking sea.

Ah.

I heard it, see. I rarely listen myself when I'm talking; it imposes a constraining level of self-awareness on the interaction that would be fatal in phone sex. But every so often I do hear myself, and it sounds good. It feels good, good enough that there's a little glitch in my verbal brain, just one little stutter out of the flow to put in a pin in that moment, just long enough that I will remember to come back and explore that moment, because it feels beautiful.

It felt effective, too, in the way that good words spoken out loud to the right ears can move the listener to tears or riotous standing applause or, yes, closer to an orgasm. Powerful. For this guy, I knew it would work. But also, it was beautiful.

Everything I say doing phone sex needs to be effective, obviously. I need to get the guy there. But the words don't need to be beautiful, by my subjective standards. That is gravy, and let me tell you, most days Mama does not get a lot of gravy. Most days my callers are fine with the graphic language or a mean (or loving) tone or my fair-to-middling level of inventiveness when it comes to describing acrobatic positions. Most days anything approaching lyricism would be superfluous, wasted effort.

So I never put conscious effort into making a particular passage sing. I just focus on the sex and the emotional connection, and let the language take care of itself. But sometimes poetry happens anyway, and if I'm lucky, I'll notice it. That stuff from my subconscious, sliding up to the surface and into this call about face-sitting, that is not for them. That is for me.

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