CALL OF THE DAY: so soft, it’s hard!

I've never understood the visual metaphor of "curtains blowing in the breeze". Could just as easily be "mac n cheese burning in the oven".

I’ve never understood the visual metaphor of “curtains blowing in the breeze”. Could just as easily be “mac n cheese burning in the oven”.

He likes to call early and talk about kissing me awake in bed. His favorite outfit for me is my birthday suit and some bed sheets, and the other day he actually used the word “loins”. He’s nice, he’s gentle, and if we’re going to be completely honest, he is one of my most challenging regulars. Oh my god, this guy is So Soft-Core.

In movie and TV depictions, paid phone sex is almost always rough, nasty, and/or kinky, or some combination thereof. Even in my own practice, it is easy for me to get stuck in the “assertive/aggressive domme” groove, simply because that is mostly what I am called on to do. Layered on top of that is my own preference for fast-talking filth. So, when Soft-Core calls, I have to take a few deep breaths and make a conscious effort to slow… it… down. Our conversations are slow-paced, soft, gentle, full of “mmmmm” and “yesssss”. I’m glad for all those breathy, throw-away responses; they give me time to figure out what I need to say next.

Because he’s SUBTLE. He likes the adjectives. I mean, all my calls have adjectives, but the domme ones tend to rely more on verbs, the doing, the DOING HARD, the fucking and changing positions and “what are you going to do for me next, bitch?” When you’re in the middle of a gang-bang, there’s not much time for anything but verbs. Choke. Thrust. Fill. Pound. Gush. Yeah, lots of verbs.

Soft-Core, he enjoys the sensing more, taste and smell and languorous touch. Which makes sense. My domme calls tend to be shorter, meaning “get to the fucking point, lady.” Soft-core, he goes longer; today’s 20-minute call—he called right when I started writing this post!—is a typical length. So he has time to savor the experience in exquisite, minutely described detail.

Exquisite detail, not graphic. Not for him the sweat and stink. He doesn’t want legs spread wide enough to hurt. No ass-licking, no cream pies, no choking on cock. He wants to feel the energy lines of my waking-up self twist and twine around him, against him in my half-asleep arousal. He wants to hear about each of the seven different paths that my fingertips could follow from his scalp to his hardness (yes, I think he likes that word more than “cock”).

If he has one fetish, it’s physical perfection. Everything is “perfect”: my pussy, the head of his cock, the fit as he slides in me (always missionary style, followed by titty-fucking my perfect breasts). I think part of it is that he’s overusing “perfect” the way many people overuse the word “epic”, to mean awesome or amazing. I like to make that translation in my head, when he and I talk. “You are perfect,” he breathes.

I laugh silently and think, yes, I am pretty amazing.


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