Call of the Day: Two Girls, One Plate, and a Steaming Douchecanoe

Extreme Top. I’ve talked about him before, and what a foaming douchenozzle he is, from a customer-service point of view. Let me reiterate: I am not bothered by the content of his calls, but his attitude. I usually can handle it. Mostly. But this last call put me right over the edge.

** he said he was drunk.

** “you’ve gotten to come a lot lately, now you need to make me come” (as if it was my greedy-pig fault that for at least the last ten calls he has ordered me to come as many as 20 times in a 45-minute period. You do the math. That shreds my vocal cords, the way he likes me to come.)

** “C’mon, honey, make daddy come” (as if there is a magic sequence of words that triggers his ejaculation, because FUCK THE MONEY I would say it within 10 minutes of the start of every call)


** “Honey, I really want to come.” (I AM SURE YOU DO, but if you are shoving coke up your nose by the shovelful and/or getting drunk, you can’t call a phone sex line, put your PSO on hold in the middle while you reload, and then BLAME HER BECAUSE YOU CAN’T FUCKING COME. I CANNOT FIGHT CHEMISTRY).

** “Make me come, baby” (I want to kill you and soak up your blood with a donut, IT WOULD BE THAT SWEET, GAAAAHHHHHHH.)

Do you understand? He was not doing this in the context of the scene, the fantasy. He was badgering his service provider, laying the entire responsibility on me for an I-can’t-rub-one-out situation that is entirely his making.

After about 20 minutes of me talking about what a disgusting fuckpig I am—the usual stuff—he decides that he wants me to “degrade” my teenage daughters, sexually and scatalogically. Again, this is usual territory for him, and I know what he likes. Oh, yeah, I make them eat it up, my piss and shit, make them wallow in it, he’s digging it, oh, god what a bad mother I am. “Baby, that’s got me so hard.” I think, well, they’ve eaten it from the source, what else can I do with it? I put it on a plate and make them eat it from that. You can almost hear the record scratch.

“Okay, now you’re just getting weird.”

“You’re getting a little off-base.”

Maybe I was a little snippy with my next comment: could you give me a little more guidance, then, daddy?

As soon as I heard him start to raise his voice, more than he usually does, that’s when I lost it. I broke character, fell out of my terrified teen voice, and said, in my normal voice, except louder and more angrily: FUCK IT.

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