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CALL OF THE DAY: “I have no limits”, or, the mating call of the armchair sub

Took a call from a new-to-me-sub last night. He's obviously been watching a LOT of fem-dom potty porn—"I have no limits," he said, HAHAHAHAHAH those armchair subs can be hi-LARIOUS—but after I figured out what I could get away with in terms of dismissive contempt, I had a good time.

Which doesn't always or even usually happen, right? Not even with these sub calls. In lifestyle power exchange, what's being exchanged is solely power, and the players have an exchange, I want to try this, let's do that, not so much of this, hah, but maybe you need it for your own good because I am your master and you need to get used to it. Those exchanges can and do happen. The interpersonal back-and-forth of power is right there. But in paid work, the dom has much less power; I think this is at least as true in face-to-face work as it is in phone work. We have the power to take the call or client or not. Some of us can set our own hard boundaries. But really the scene is about what the client wants.

In face-to-face encounters where no money is involved, I can say "no" to greedy, entitled little bottoms who want to use me for their own satisfaction and don't care about whether I'm getting anything out of the encounter or not. At my company, though, I don't get to turn down calls, so I have to listen over and over to guys saying, "Anything goes" and then proceed to lay down their laundry list of narrow-focus needs. This... irritates me. Now, I understand. This is fantasy, and fantasies can be done however you want. The client is paying; it's what he wants. Futhermore, it is not part of the deal that I get to be personally challenged and engaged for any of my calls. But hey: it's nice to have fun when you can. When I get a new sub, I wanna see how mean I can get. Now THAT'S a challenge! Too mean and they could hang up. Not mean enough and they could hang up.

Last night I found the zone with this new sub. He gave me enough hints with his little "I have no limits" monologue that I could hit the ground running: I told him to piss in a cup before we were five minutes in—"no domme has ever made me drink piss before," he said, his voice shivering with anticipation—and asked him if he had any toys or anything on hand.

"No, this was kind of a last-minute thought."

I see, I said, and filed that away, not before reprimanding him about the need to affix "ma'am" to any answer he gave me. (His voice got even more shivery during that lecture.)

Eventually we got to the point where I had him get his finger wet, stick it in his own ass, and then pull it out and lick it. It was inevitable, of course; potty play + pegging + submissive + no fucking toys = stick it and lick it. I made him swish his finger around really deep and well, and I made him look at it first. Is it dirty?

"Yes, ma'am!" He was whimpering a little.

Do you normally clean your ass out before sessions with those other dommes?

"Yes, ma'am!"

But you didn't this time, because it was a Last-Minute Thought, isn't that right?

"Yes, ma'am!"

You need to plan better, you little pervert. If you had planned better, you would have cleaned out for me, and you would not now be getting ready to stick that nasty dirty finger in your fucking mouth, would you?

"No, ma'am!"

So it seems that either you like sticking your shit-covered finger in your mouth, in which case this is not a problem, or you will remember next time and not do a Last-Minute Call. You will get cleaned out and you will have some fucking toys on hand, because I cannot really pound your ass properly with just a finger, do you hear me?

"Yes, ma'am!"

*****

I think I was a drill sergeant in a past life.

my ideal client

I have preferences in clients, of course. In my current work situation I don't get to use those preferences in any way that might benefit me. I don't control my marketing, nor do I get to select or screen who I talk to. But I still have the preferences. I keep them in the little break room of my mind, where the worker me goes to hang out when things get weird. There, up on that metaphorical bulletin board, I pin special moments, and lines from my favorite customers, and little sound bytes. To remind myself, you know.

The guy I did yesterday is on that bulletin board. He is a gentleman from North Carolina, with a soft, high-pitched, almost delicate voice, who likes to talk about the women he spends time with over at a brothel a half-hour away. "They like me there because I love pussy," he says, claiming that they will let him eat them out for free on Sundays because it's usually slow and he's that good.

If I had to come up with a nickname, I would call him the Sniffer. He likes smells, all the smells: well-fucked, unwashed cunt, pee, sweat, ass crack, body odor. (I compared him to a wine enthusiast and called him a connoisseur; he loved it.) He also likes hirsute women, with unshaven pussies—"it holds the smells in better"—and hairy assholes and armpits and legs and hair goin' up the belly. He likes cellulite, jiggly asses and thighs. And he likes older women, MILFs on up to 70-year-old ladies. In fact, the Sniffer seems to be drawn directly to all the things that our society tells us aren't sexy, and he goes into marvelous detail about his enjoyment, with gusto and little exclamations of delight.

Even when he comes, he can describe what is happening with his feeling; "it's going up my spine and trickling down my forehead like beads of ice water." I mean, that's fantastic  The Sniffer is so detailed and enthusiastic that he actually freaks my boss out a little bit. This is funny to me, considering the other callers that we handle. And on that little checklist pad of preferences, he just goes tick, tick, tick, right down the list:

SELF-AWARE. My preferred client has spent some time figuring out what they want. They pay attention to the stuff in their own head. If they like something that is illegal, they are obviously aware of the differences between actuality and fantasy, and they are comfortable navigating that line, which leads me to ....

UNASHAMED. They do not waste any of their precious minutes circling around their fantasy, or coming up with something else to supposedly throw me off the trail, or excusing it or avoiding it.

HEDONISTIC. They are going for the sensations and experiences and fantasies that they truly enjoy. They are having fun with it, not only with the fantasy, but with the phone call itself, and with me. They love their orgasms, too, and have created the space around the call where they can come as loud as they want.

COMMITTED. They really throw themselves into it. If they step outside of the experience at all, they do it cleanly and explain themselves—"hang on, honey, I need to go check on the ribs in the slow cooker"—and then step right back in.

ARTICULATE. Phone sex happens through the words and sounds. When I have to make all the words, it is a performance, with all the burden that entails. When they contribute, and do it well, it's less a performance and more a dance.

Strange as it sounds, I love to dance with the Sniffer.

CALL OF THE DAY: “is anyone there with you?”

We chatted a bit about what I looked like, and what I "did for work" (um....), but he moved pretty quickly to what was important to him: "Is there anyone with you right now?"

EEEP. Such a short sentence, illustrating two of the primary rules of paid phone sex:

  • The way they ask questions tells you the way they want them answered.
  • Say "yes, and..."

The first rule relates to listening. "Is there anyone with you?" is a different question than "there isn't anyone with you, is there?" First construction calls for a coy yes, most likely, while the second version is begging for a reassuring no. Easy to read, but uh oh. Answering this short question the way he obviously wants it answered, while following the second rule ("yes, and") leads me to the edge of a very slippery slope. The caller wants someone there with me, and I don't know who or why. I don't think it's a pedo call; usually those guys will lead with asking whether I have any kids, and probably the dispatcher would have mentioned it. But sometimes it's not in their client files, and I don't know for sure. Proceed with caution...

Not right here with me, but my lover is in the next room.

(He's not at all, I'm just trying to temporize, give myself a little more time to  figure out what's going on.)

"Can I talk to him?"

(See, this. This is what I was afraid of. I can't say yes to this. I don't have the skills to switch to a male voice. What to do, what to do. ... I know! I'll go with in-charge, slightly mocking laughter, while I figure out what to say...)

HAHAAHAHAH, NO, you can't talk to him, are you kidding! (Um... oh, yeah, control the situation, set the boundaries...) You aren't paying enough to talk to him! That is a whole different kind of call! What do you want to talk to him about?

"I want to hear him fuck your ass."

(What does he mean by that?)

What do you mean by THAT? I mean, you can't talk to him! He's not getting paid to be a part of this. And I hope you know it takes longer than <checks timer> six and a half minutes to get really into anal.

(Whew.)

"Okay, well then, I want to hear him fuck your pussy."

(For fucks' sake...)

Anyway, we just had sex this afternoon.

(Okay, that answer is not going to hold him for long...)

"What, he can't get it up again?"

(He had to go there...)

RUUSSSSS! <pause> RUSSSSSS! Can you come in here for a second? <pause> Yeah, this guy is calling into question your masculinity. Can you just stand over here by my head? Yeah, and get those boxers off. <pause, and direct the next comment to the caller> You're gonna have to give me a minute or two to get him hard.

(Slurpy noises. I can do slurpy noises.)

"Aw, yeah, have him fuck your throat."

(Okay, now we're back into familiar territory. Gagging on virtual dick is way easier than  playing the voice of my lover. Anyway I just had some cheese puffs, so my fingers taste pretty good.)

CALL OF THE DAY: “Make me come” usually means the magic’s over

fap_a1713

Oh, god, I'm not going to make it... IT'S HER FAULT!

There are many things I don't want to hear when doing a call. "Oh, whoops, I gotta go. <click>" "Uh... I think they sent the wrong girl." "You're sounding a little raspy today!" But the thing I NEVER want to hear... ugh. I heard it again tonight.

"Make me come."

GAHHHH.

I usually get it from mild-to-moderate douchebags who are drunk or coked-up and therefore underestimated the amount of time they would need to get off, i.e. ALL OF THE TIME AND IT STILL WOULDN'T BE ENOUGH. Extreme Top, the Dean of Douchebag U., often starts out his calls with it.

"Make me come." It is bad enough from assholes, because it tells me exactly how little they are thinking about their role in this encounter and how much they think I am to blame for their failure to launch. I am entirely to blame, apparently, even though I am nowhere near their dick. And an independent observer would notice how many times they flipped the scene, when they could have just sat with one or two shifts and let the momentum build. Or how many times they took a "bathroom break". (I'm looking at you, Extreme Top.)

So when these douchebags panic and say, "make me come", it is understandable, if not excusable. Last night, though, I got it from Bilingual Papi. And I thought, oh god. That's the end. Those words are the death knell of a GFE phone sex relationship. The underlying entitlement has finally poked through.

Because in GFEs, the caller is keeping up the fantasy that they love me and respect me and all that business with credit cards, that's just a side thing, peripheral, it has nothing to do with me or them. They get to imagine that I'm in it because I love them, too, and I will do anything to make them happy, for however long it takes, because I want to.

But the clock is alway ticking, on my side if not on theirs, and last night we were up to 12.5 minutes on Papi's usual 10-minute call, and even though I had given him the "come cue" at 8 minutes, and told him at 11 that I had to go—and he said "no, you don't"—I could tell he was nowhere near coming. I said again, I have to go, and when he protested, I flung it back in his face.

Why do you do this to me, Papi? You go over a lot, and I get into trouble.

"No, you don't," he said.

Yes, I do. I gritted my teeth. I love you, Papi, but I have to go.

And I went.

Second time I've ever hung up on a caller. But I had to go. I called the dispatcher immediately and let her know what happened. She said, "what an asshole", and told me not to worry about it, that I did the right thing. I wasn't so much worried about that; I just felt bad for hanging up on someone who I didn't think was actually a douchebag. But he was turning into one, by virtue of willfully ignoring the boundaries that were firmly in place, and I was turning into a sucker who would let him. I didn't want it to go any further; I had to take a stand. And so I hung up.

To my relief and surprise, this morning he was my first caller. And he had bought 15 minutes, AND he apologized, sincerely and repeatedly.

Whew.

Boundaries, man. I don't really get to have them in phone sex at all, except the limits dictated by the company. So this was a happy ending.

My time is not my own

square_time_spiral

Some days I don't know where it goes...

It is easy to forget, after a few slow days on the lines, that time is not what I think it is. On some of those days, my own self-imposed deadlines may be few, so I'm really just farting around online. An incoming call may startle me, but it's actually a welcome interruption. So I do 10 minutes, or seven, and then roll back over and get back on Facebook and it's just la-di-da-di-da, what a low-paying but relaxed life. I have all this free time to do what I want.

But then a day comes along when I really am trying to do something I want, and the bubble bursts. Like yesterday, when I wanted to eat a delicious pancake breakfast with my lover and get ready in a leisurely fashion for a meet-up that I would have to leave the house for as soon as my shift was up. And then I got a 30-minute regular. And another one. My pancakes sat there congealing and the bacon got cold, and the call timer moved slowly while the real-world clock rushed on, and I knew that I was not only going to be a little late, but hella late for the Exploring Sexuality Book Club, and that's even before putting a dab of makeup on and finishing my bacon.

(Fuck the book club. Always finish bacon.)

Yesterday was the sort of day when I remember, sharply, that my time is not my own. It belongs to the company, and ultimately, the callers. My time belongs to the universe of phone-sex wankers. That time feels like an endless river sometimes; I mean, I can get a lot done on those slow days. Some days I can just keep dipping my cup and take out as much time as I need.

But I'm only borrowing it. I only get to use it if they're not using it. When I get a call, whatever time I've just scooped up has to get thrown back in the river. Whatever I was doing with that time—whether it's eating pancakes or talking to the bank or riding my way steadily to ecstasy on top of a lover—that gets thrown out the window.

I know these things. They are nothing new, merely the real-world results of going against the guidelines that all steady on-call PSOs know: no cooking anything that can't be safely and reasonably stopped mid-production; don't eat anything that is going to get worse from sitting out; time your bathroom breaks carefully; don't step outside or make a separate phone call without signing off, no matter how little time you think it is going to take.

I know, I know. This is the choice I made. But if I were to follow all those rules all the time that I'm on call—some days that's up to 16 or 18 hours—my life would become emotionally and culinarily untenable. So I run the risks, I push back against the rules on a regular basis. I borrow that time flagrantly, and hope it doesn't get called back in. I take showers with the phone sitting on the top of the toilet. I bake (today I'm making carrot cake). I fuck, occasionally with toys that are not easy to take out quickly. I make business calls on my other phone, always warning the other party that I might get a call and have to go.

And I make pancakes and bacon for Sunday breakfast, pretending like it's just a normal Sunday with my lover, pretending that the hairs in my ear are not all on edge the whole time, semi-sub-consciously waiting for the inevitable, waiting for the call to return this time that I borrowed.

It's not mine, but damn if I will not wring out every drop I can.

CALL OF THE DAY: making a meth user come

A new guy, but not a brand-new-to-the-company new guy, as I have cause to be grateful for when the dispatcher fills me in: he wants a party girl, "someone who does ice."

Does what?

"Meth."

What the... I don't... what does that even sound like?

"I don't know, I guess real wired? Here you go, 15 minutes!"

Eeep, wait!

Drug calls are rare for me to get, which is GREAT, because actually I am extremely naive when it comes to drug use and effects and side effects and adjusting the pace and energy of the call accordingly. Does the drug in question kill boners, like alcohol? Is it difficult-to-impossible to come under the influence, like cocaine? (I have reason to believe that Extreme Top is a coke-head.) I haven't had a lot of face-time (genital time?) with guys who are doing drugs to the point of being noticeably affected—I just don't run in those circles—but at least my dispatchers have dropped me hints here or there, so I've learned basic logistics over the years, things like giving the caller lots of time warnings, and preparing for the worse, i.e. they may not come before the end of the call and sometimes there's nothing you can do because BIOCHEMISTRY YOU STUPID FUCK.

But I still don't have a good sense of what the drugs FEEL like, you know, how I should be acting if I, too, am supposed to be getting high, so if the caller wants me to party with him, like this guy, I am totally making shit up.

"You like to party?"

Oh, yeah, yeah! I mean, if someone's got something, I'll do it!

"How do you do it?" (That's not what he said, I can't remember the word he used, but I got the sense of it. GAH! I am not hip to this jive! I am going to blow it! Please, please, can we just get to a blow job?)

Oh, I, uh... mostly I just smoke it. I had some friends over last night, I think we smoked most of it... but I have a half-glass of vodka left over by the bed! (Is this what party people do, drink whatever leftover alcohol is lying around? I imagine so. Whooo, party! Glass of vodka, so edgy!)

"Cool. I shoot up. I've got a whole [incomprehensible drug measure] right here, I wanna do it with you on the phone."

(Ulp.) Oh, huh, I've never, uh, shot up. (Fuck.) So, uh, what does that feel like? (I feel like I am so obviously fishing, but he doesn't get suspicious.)

"I get warm and buzzy all over, it just spreads, you know? And sometimes I can come without even touching my dick." (O-KAY, now that is useful information. Go slow and detailed, and prepare for possibility of early ending.)

Ooh, wow, that sounds amazing! Do it, I can't wait to give you a good fucking time!

I say it that way, but I'm hella nervous. I have never enjoyed hanging out with people whose chemical consumption puts them in a noticeably different headspace than my own. Even the easy-to-come-by stuff like pot or booze: if everyone's on it except me, I'm outta there pretty quickly. It's just too hard to connect, and I end up feeling like a stick in the mud. Injectables... this is a whole different category. Someone pushing drugs into their blood system via self-administered sharp object is operating with a level of ... desperation? dedication?... that I will never know. But here, right now, with a guy preparing to shoot up a whole gob of meth on the other end of the line—okay, I don't know how much, but it sounded like a lot—I gotta go with it.

I can hear it in his voice when the meth hits, and I let him take his time enjoying that initial rush. Then I offer the blow job, and go so so slow. I don't mean my voice is slow, I keep that fast and excited, keep that stream of talk flowing, he seems to like that, but the pace of the described action, oh, I spend a full minute talking about how my fingertips feel brushing along the inside of his thighs.

He talks to me a little, and I try to match his energy, but it feels fuzzy and blurred, he is crackling like a cloud of electricity, voice getting higher and faster, and when he comes—not too much before the end of his call, I am pleased that I managed the time correctly—his voice is practically sizzling through the phone line.

"I'm totally calling you again," he says over and over. I always take that with a grain of salt, especially with my drunk or high guys, but he remembers my name from 15 minutes before, which is a good sign.

I act excited, but I'm not. I really am naive. Drugs scare me.

CALL OF THE DAY: you try singing “Feliz Navidad” around someone’s dick

6153_3yw

I can't find the bustier he was talking about, but this is pretty cute...

Bilingual Papi knows he can get away with it, going over the time limit. He knows I won't stop him. I shouldn't let him, I should get hardcore on his ass, but the truth is I really do enjoy his calls and I let them go.

He has so much fun, especially during any kind of holidays. He's just that guy. I bet when he gets older he will put cheesy seasonal flags up outside of his house. I bet he grumbles about the Christmas lights, but really enjoys looking at them when he steps off the ladder for the last time and looks. And in phone sex, he makes holidays really... special.

This Christmas call, he started off by saying he saw something at Frederick's of Hollywood that he thought would look amazing on me, "if you really look like you say you do." Tell me about the outfit, I said. "Oh, god, there was this deep-red velvet bustier"—of course there was—"and a garter belt to match, that would look so good all digging into your ass. God, I LOVE your ass!" He has never seen my ass, but he loves it, and he is REALLY REALLY EXCITED about it dolled up in tacky winter-themed lingerie. Fishnets, he says, and 6-inch-high shiny black shoes, and a little red velvet g-string with a jingle bell on the back. Ooh, and pasties with jingle bells to match! And a Santa's little helper hat, too! Yeah! He said all that!

(Yeah, I'm not giving you a link to Frederick's of Hollywood. You can google that megamillion-dollar crap-lingerie outlet your own damn self.)

Oh, and he wanted me to call him Papi Claus.

So, I did. And I begged him for some serious ass-pounding, because I've been a VERY good girl this year, Papi, you know I have.

"Papi Claus, say it, sweetheart."

Papi Claus, please please please kiss my little asshole and get me ready for it. I need you, Papi, I need to feel you that deep inside me.

Oh, and he roared into it. "God, you are so beautiful. I love the way you talk to me!" And then he put a 1-carat diamond wedding ring on my finger and kissed me so hard—"I want to get balls deep in your ass and just make out forever"—and dressed me up in a bridal dress, except a little bit see-through so he could see the red lingerie underneath, and then after he lifted back the veil he wanted me to suck his dick while singing "Feliz Navidad."

That's when he came.

And that is why I let him go 2.5 minutes over today. Next time I'll tell him that he needs to start buying the 12- or 15-minute packages if he likes hanging out with me that much. But today I got to suck Papi Claus' dick while singing "Feliz Navidad."

Happy holidays, my fellow pervs.

CALL OF THE DAY: being a real-life accomplice

The one call that I hated the most, over my nearly five years in phone work so far, involved a man calling in with his wife, and pressing her to get it on with me. I was so angry at him, for asking me to engage her in nonconsensual activity. I felt like an accomplice. This was real life; someone on the other end was actually being coerced into participation, someone was actually being directly, psychologically abused by their partner, and I was playing along. No other call has ever made me feel even half as sleazy.

Except this guy. He's a close second.

He's a regular when I'm around, he's always so excited the first time I get given his call when I come back from tour, and pretty reliably requests me when I'm consistently around in the evenings. I have no illusions that he, like all of my "seasonal regulars", is perfectly happy with whichever other PSO is handling his call when I'm not available—anyway, since my seasonal availability is self-imposed, I can hardly complain—but I am happy to hear his enthusiasm.

He fantasizes about his wife being a complete cock-hungry slut. (Side note: I kinda like it when guys fantasize about the women in their lives. I mean, in our mutual imagination they could do anything, and they're choosing their wives.) This guy's cuckolding thing is multi-layered: he likes watching her be greedy, he likes the idea of fucking her after a bunch of guys (and a dog) have come in her, and his calls always culminate with a worked-up rant about how loose her cunt is when he's inside her, partly because of how many dicks she's taking and partly, that's just the way her cunt is and that's how small his dick is, relatively speaking. She's loose and he's small, and he likes to see her finally filled up, the way he wishes that she would want it.

So far, so good. He wants his wife to be a slut. I imagine, though I have no stats, that this is probably pretty common. He has talked about taking pictures of her, too. She sometimes agrees to pose, but not always. He tells her that he is just jacking off to them, but I know better. I forget that I know what he does with the pictures, because he doesn't talk about them all the time, but then he mentions them and I remember. And then I feel the sleaze settle on my skin all over again.

He posts them on a fuck-my-wife site. Guys post up shots of their partners, with or without their partners' knowledge, and revel in other guys looking at and talking dirty about their partners. On one call he gave me the link and his log-in name so I could access the site and his photo collection; we sat there for 10 minutes and discussed his wife's body.

This time he mentioned that other guys sometimes posted pictures of printouts of his wife's picture with their come all over it. He also asked if my boyfriend has seen the pictures yet. Shit. I forgot that I said I might show these pictures to my lovers. Shit. I am a terrible liar. Not yet, I say, if I remember I will. Of course I will not show them. Of course I will say that I showed them, and they got so hard. And he will believe me because that is how much he wants images of his wife to be seen by strangers.

I need to remember, this could be all made up. His wife could fully approve of the way he's disseminating her naked images. She could be totally getting off alongside him, but somehow I don't think so. If his wife really doesn't know about this, I hope she finds out and rips him a new one. Hell, I hope she divorces him. In my book, this is a fully divorce-able offense; this is frying-pan-to-the-head territory.

As angry as I am about this betrayal, my anger is muddied a little by my witnessing it, by my complicity and implied approval. It feels a little awful. Unlike all the dead babies and hard-cock ponies and innocent little girls WHO DON'T ACTUALLY EXIST,  I think this woman does exist. I desperately hope that he's making her up, but I think she actually is alive and clueless and cooking dinner regularly for this man who loves her and fantasizes about her and has completely sacrificed her right to privacy to his satisfying wank. My job is to help him with that sacrifice.

Some days I don't like my job very much.

Blue balls and brats: coming back after a week off

man-pouting

Poor baby! I guess Rosie Palm will be tackling this by herself today...

Yesterday was my first day on the phone in a week. I didn't have a private place for phone work while I was in DC, so I just had to take the week off. It's not the longest I've been off the lines—my current record is approximately six weeks, when I was over in the UK this past summer on tour with my show—but to some of my clients, A WEEK IS FOREVER.

It is, right? When you really want something, especially something that for whatever reason seems silly to even complain about not having? When you want the newest iPhone, you don't NEED it, you just really, really want it, and the stores can't tell you when it's going to be in stock again, so just keep calling back? Or how about when a movie you've really been looking forward to is coming out in a week, and you can't really commiserate with your friends because it's a kids' movie and you're all grown-ups and they would laugh and laugh, so you just sit on your excitement and burn up from the inside?

Yeah. it seems silly to want and want these things, and to feel like a week is never going to be over. I mean, some people have been waiting a lot longer than a week to get a roof over their head in storm-tossed countries in Asia. We must acknowledge that our wants, for gadgets and entertainment and a hot dish of a particular kind of mac and cheese... for example. Ahem. These wants are very high up on Maslow's hierarchy. Pervy phone sex with your favorite operator, the one who knows everything you like, is right up there. Yep. There it is, as undeniable as it is silly.

And when you don't get that, when you're all revved up and tenting your pajama pants and you call in and Cameryn is NOT THERE, well, you might get especially cranky, because that's not just the desire for instant gratification talking, that is blue-ball-related desire for instant gratification.

(Even if you're one of the tease-and-denial guys, my not being there is not actually erotic. You want someone to KNOW that you're not going to get any, to have the possibility of release taken away...)

So, yeah. My boss tells me they get a little miffy when they ask and I'm not there. She hates it when I have to go, because she is down one older-woman talent and she has to deal with my regulars. When I come back on after these absences, she acts all nonchalant, but I know she's glad. My clients, though, they don't usually act as happy as they should. They usually take out their pissed-off-ness on me, a little bit. Like Bilingual Papi did yesterday. Bilingual Papi is one of my favorites; he seems to be a good and decent man. We had our usual butt-sex smorgasbord; he was so happy to be with me again. But even he lost it a little, during our post-coital cool-down.

"Where were you last week?"

I was traveling.

"Still? God, I hate it when you're not around."

I know, it's hard.

"You damn right, it's hard! Goddamn, I hate it when you're not there when I call!"

I know, papi. I'm sorry. (No, I'm not.)

"I want to be able to find you any time I call!"

And at that, I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

You want me on retainer? And I kept laughing.

"What? Why are you laughing?"

Just... that would be easily a four-figure discussion. I don't think you're ready for that kind of commitment.

CALL OF THE DAY: variations on an unexpected theme

He is not so sentimental as to not use the phone service when I vanish for weeks on end, but he always finds me after I get back and begins requesting me again. I'm glad, because he is unfailingly polite and nice. His fantasies are also polite and nice, too, which is... well, nice.

For the longest time we did the sultry older woman thing, with wavy silver-grey hair and everything. He liked to press on me from behind, on a hot day, and smell and kiss the sweat from my neck. I would always be wearing something lightweight and summery, and at some point he would set me down gently on whatever sturdy piece of furniture was available in the scene we had painted, lift my skirt, eat me out until I came, and then enter me and thrust until he came.

All that in seven minutes, so there's never much room to improvise too freely, but he's so sweet and obviously enjoys the stories, so I just shrug my shoulders and spin out the sweet vanilla strands that seem to tug him the right way.

Lately, though, it feels like we're circling around the hot spot for him, and it's not as vanilla as I originally thought. For a couple of months before I left on tour, we played that he was a much younger man—like, a 14-years-old younger man—and I had to instruct him in all this. Huh.

And for the last few calls he has specifically asked for me to dominate him, and to "go ahead and be mean". Er. I can do this, don't get me wrong, but it's shifting up a few gears at once, if you know what I mean. While he's in me, he wants me to forbid him from coming, and if he does come, I need to tell him that his punishment is eating his own cum out of me afterward.

Yes. Not quite as simple as he used to be. Still nice, though. He still thanks me afterward. I asked him one time, after he came, if that is something that he would actually do, eating out the cream pie that he made. "Sure," he said. "I think you should be willing to try just about anything once."

See? Nice guy. I'm glad he's digging a little deeper.

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