CALL OF THE DAY: the cream-pie cookbook
He is extremely articulate and polite, and frankly doesn’t sound like he loses control that often, in sex or in anything. He is also pretty specific in his phone-sex tastes: he likes his girls big and he likes them after everyone else has had a chance at them. So I give it to him, in juicy, drippy detail. He uses that cream pie to lube up, and then gives it to me in the ass.
Simple plot, right? But the devil is in the details, and the details are the spin. How many guys did I have and did I enjoy it? How am I feeling afterward? Am I embarrassed or proud of my work? What exactly does my plowed-up pussy look like, and how does he really feel about seeing it? What parts exactly about sliding into a pre-fucked cunt are exciting to him, and why? How long does he spend in there? What does he imagine it feels like? The answers to these questions, which are flying past in my head, barely breaching the surface in the middle of the frenzy…. Added up, these answers are what makes the difference between a proud boyfriend and a contemptuous participant in a gangbang. That is not a mistake you want to make, in either direction.
Just because I can lay out those questions and considerations in a list up there doesn’t mean that’s how I present them. I don’t get those answers overtly or all at once, no. These are data points that I have stockpiled over time, over maybe 20 calls with him over the last two and a half years. I don’t talk to him that often, see, so his preferences don’t even have the benefit of frequent repetition to help me remember them. Every time there are those few notes on his index card—BBW, cream pie—plus some rattling little half-echoes in my mind and a painstaking crosscheck-and-verification process that is delicate in my head and sleazy in my mouth.
Thankfully, his voice and manner are very distinctive, which helps to re-orient me very quickly to him. Fuck, he is so precise! Even his orgasm sounds fairly well contained. Afterward, I crack a joke about cleaning up. It’s another assay into information-gathering, actually; some of my cream-pie guys do like clean-up duty, and I can’t remember if he’s one of them. Framing the option as a joke gives me plausible deniability that I meant it, and gives him an opportunity to take it.
He doesn’t. No, he laughs right along with me. “I don’t think I could actually do that,” he says. “In real life that would be too gross.”
O-kayyyy. Add that note to the card.
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