Doin' It for Daddy

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.

1 Comment
  • Ryn

    the only thing that came to mind was ‘awwww’ 😀

    August 11, 2009 at 2:46 pm
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