Call of the Day: the taste of mother love

He’s got a cameo in Phone Whore: caller #3, the mommyfucker. From remarks that the dispatchers have made, I know that I’m not his only phone mommy, but when I get a call from him, it’s almost always a request. For a long time now, he’s been wanting to hear about this marvelous symbiosis that we have, well, he doesn’t use that word, but that’s what it is: I drink his delicious jizz, as much as I want, which is always a lot, and he sucks up my pussy juice and (sometimes) breast milk by the gallon, that’s what makes his cum taste so sweet.

Frequently, like tonight, I throw a party where I show off his prowess, er, I mean, LOVE, yeah, his love to my friends. They gather around the specially made coffee table in the living room, where he is lying on his back and I am kneeling over his mouth, and we show them how much we love each other by how much we come in and on each other, and at the end, I aim his cock at my friends and they get to see exactly how much love he has for me. His mother love flows over me and them like a barrel of creamy white paint thrown at the side of a barn. That, or he comes in my ass. Either way, you know, it’s all good.

TANGENT: There’s very much a flavor fantasy happening in here, something that is pretty common among my callers who want me to put any bodily fluids or waste in their mouths. This caller talks about how sweet my “juices” are, and creamy white; the way he describes it, I imagine the frosting on a Cinnabun. In actual fact, my ejaculate is clear and watery and, while NOT PISS, still has that slightly salty, coming-out-of-my-cunt-region bouquet. (On top of that, I would suffer total cell collapse from how much fluid he has me lose, but hey, that’s one of the great things about fantasy: medical impossibilities!) Other guys who are into eating my shit talk about that chocolate coming out of my ass, which tells me that they have likely never put their nose within 10 feet of a scat scene.

Anyway, this caller has grown up a little since we first talked, almost three years ago. Instead of maybe 10 or 11, he’s now playing a 17- or 18-year-old, as far as I can tell. And he’s gotten bossier, too, feeding me my lines like a heavy-breathing prompter in the theater wings: “Don’t you love to show me off, mommy?” “Tell me how your magic juices sprinkle out of you first, mommy, and then it gets thicker when I go deeper in.” But he still gets desperate toward the end of the call—”mommy, I love you so much, oh my god, I love you, tell me how much you love me”—and I have to dig deep and come hard to make him happy.

Today, I feel like I struck gold. Same scene as usual, same rivers of cum and fountains of jizz, same chorus of amazed friends, gathered around the table to witness our magical bond. In the middle of it, he said: “Can I climb up into your pussy, mommy?”

Of course you can, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to ask.

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