CALL OF THE DAY: Tastes like sugar and maternal love…
He is a mommy-fucker, one of my regulars, but I don’t always get the extra dollar for a request, because frankly, I don’t think he’s that particular. Also, he’s gotten used to me not being on at night while I’m touring, so when I took his call last night, he sounded surprised and a little embarrassed, like he was expecting someone else and got me, and now I’d know that he was talking with someone else.
LIKE I GIVE A SHIT. Really. Because as regular as he is, he is also irritating like a, well, like a motherfucker. I am happy to share the burden. Heather doesn’t have to be the only one who has two mommies.
This caller often has problems coming in the time that he purchases–I am 95% certain that he is addicted to masturbating, and has just been squeezing his meat Too Damn Hard for years–so he ends up either sounding frustrated when I have to hang up, or he purchases another 10 or 20 minutes and I feel like an enabler. His very particular needs include me describing “my” emotions minutely; he wants to hear how happy it makes me to feed him my pussy juice, or how turned on I get from watching my friends suck his cock. I can play any range of emotions on the phone, from sadistic disgust to cunt-clenching ecstasy, but he whines for it.
What he likes to hear about the most is this strange sort of alchemy that occurs in the time between when he ingests my pussy juice and breast milk and when he comes. The substances I feed him from my body make his come sweet and copious (of course), and this happens RIGHT AWAY. I squirt all into his mouth—cups of it, quarts—and let him nurse while I take his cock in my asshole and ride, and that same sweet gush makes his very next load taste as good as the frosting on a cinnamon bun. In every call, at least once, he talks about my “magic juice”. That’s right, MAGIC.
it might as well be, though, right? Why not? It’s phone sex, we can do anything! This glorious romping through a magically (sur)real bedscape is part of what’s awesome about what I do. But when it comes to biological functions, I just have to grit my teeth with some of my callers; the sex educator in me gets a little miffy. My shit is not chocolate. My breasts will not lactate just out of nowhere. And baby, my squirt is not magical sticky sweet nectar, it isn’t, I don’t think anyone’s is. It’s hot and watery-thin and musky-smelling, and there’s a tinge to it, it’s not clear and pure.
And yet, when I tell him that it is, that it is the equivalent of grade A crystal-clean maple syrup, and he gasps from being so aroused, I have to applaud him, the miraculous acrobatics of his mind, that he is able to keep this mother figure on a pedestal and in the gutter at the same time.