The Anatomy of an Easy Call

I would be yelling at you now, even if they weren't paying me...

I would be yelling at you now, even if they weren’t paying me…

The people who are around me most, my lovers and close friends, know how to make appropriate chit-chat when we’re wrapping up at the end of the day. “How was your shift?” they might say. “Hope you got lots of easy calls!” They know enough about my work that they understand what “easy” means for me.

Easy calls are most of my regulars, the ones whose cards I don’t have to pull in order to prep for them. I may even know their number immediately upon hearing their first name and initial, and I make a game for myself by reciting the number to the dispatcher before she can recite it to me. I don’t need to refresh my memory by looking at my notes for these guys, because I talk to them often enough that I either remember everything that we’re up to or because we are comfortable enough with each other that I can just ask them outright to refresh my memory about something.

Easy calls are the ones that don’t require me to strain my vocal cords in any way. This is why my tickler, as nice as he actually is, as softcore as his fantasies are, he is not an easy call. Laughing for a half-hour, non-stop, is not easy. Anything that involves me crying or whimpering, yeah, ow. This is definitely one of the more annoying factors that goes into the sheer hell of Extreme Top: forcing my voice up into a 13-year-old girl’s register, and a frightened one at that… that HURTS like a fucker. Not easy.

Easy calls are close to me. Rather, the closer a call’s dynamic or content is to stuff that I know, the easier it is likely to be. If a caller wants to do a daddy/daughter thing, yes, I know about that. If they want to fuck my ass or tie me down, yep, okay, I can relate. If they want me to pretend to be a shy and uncertain housewife who doesn’t really like sex? Yeah, that’s a tricky one.

Easy calls are meta, at the heart of it. The callers who know and fully understand that they are getting a service from me, and maybe even sometimes refer to that, they are a little more chill about the give and take and the fun explorations possible. They are not pressuring me to meet. They know that what we have is something that we are creating, and they do not expect more.

The easiest calls are the ones that happen to fit my mood. If I am feeling horny from just having been properly fucked, and then I get a call from a guy with a nice smile—I can tell from his voice—and a ready laugh and he wants me to just jump on and get riding… that’s going to be an easy call, because the emotional underpinning is right there, supporting everything I do and say.

Or like today. I got a call from a regular (I’ve got his ID number memorized), he’s one of my Extreme Subs whom I do not have to orgasm for (no vocal strain). Now, I’m not a domme in real life, and he is kinda shitty with the boundaries, keeps pressing me to meet him, etc. So, he’s not that easy.


Today my period cramps are peaking and I am ready to claw my face off because I haven’t had coffee before I take his call. “I did something special for you,” he says. He tells me that he hired a prostitute last night and she made him come eight times and she saved it in a little glass, which he put in the hotel freezer after she left three hours ago. I didn’t ask him to do this, he’s just making this shit up on his own, and I don’t know if that’s for real, but my mood says Fuck It, and my mood says, get it out and eat it, a half-spoonful at a time. I know that’s what he really wants, otherwise he wouldn’t have saved it, but my mood and the fact that I’m a bitchy domme with him means that I can play this however the fuck I want.

So when he gags, I call him a pussy and tell him to stop it, stop gagging or I’m hanging up, get a fucking glass of water, for fucks’ sake, drink some of it. Oh, you’re watching a what? A tranny? You’re watching a woman with a dick do a strip-tease for a man? Has he seen her dick yet? Does he know? Oh, he’s surprised, is he? Didn’t see THAT coming. I can mock him relentlessly, and do. And I can fucking tear into him about the escort that he supposedly hired last night. You gave her $100 extra for each time she made you come—each time—$800 you gave her, but you’ve never even TIPPED me, you fucking pussy? No, shut up, I say, and relish saying it. SHUT UP. I don’t want to hear it. Put another spoonful of come in your mouth, and no gagging!

Everything about this call fits right into my mood. I am mad, I am undercaffeinated, and I am happy to vent that shit out on him. It doesn’t help my cramps entirely, but it is definitely an easy call.

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