CALL OF THE DAY: “surprise me”

That... wow... okay, that sounds nasty enough.

That… wow… okay, that sounds nasty enough.

So, I said, and even to myself, my voice sounded impatient, all arms crossed across the chest and tapping toe of my patent-leather stiletto. So, your ass is still off limits?

“Yes,” he says. “It’s still a little torn up back there.”

For the 100th time I wonder at this sudden 180-degree into rectal reticence. After all, he was the one a couple of years ago who had pushed for pegging and other ass-play variants. He was the one who had told me how big his dildo collection was, and how sizable each item in it was. Also, I haven’t touched his ass in at least six months, so if his ass is “torn up” (whatever that means), maybe he needs to talk to his wife, who, at last report, pegs him on the regular. I mean, it’s not like I can ACTUALLY do anything to his ass. He’s the only one who can do anything to his ass. Maybe he needs to stop bending over for strong women. Maybe he needs to consult a specialist.

In the meantime, I have to figure out other ways to dominate him. (Dammit, but pegging is so easy for that!) We’ve done CBT (cock and ball torture) of various sorts, piss drinking (the previous call), cum eating (the two calls before that), ass to mouth with his own dirty fingers, guided masturbation, of course. One serious challenge is that he usually calls me from his office, where he does not keep any sex toys. I have to improvise with whatever he tells me is on hand. Last time I had him rest his dick on his desk and then drop a heavy three-ring binder on it.

“I want to go really nasty,” he says, interrupting my rapid thoughts.

You what? I let my voice drop low and menacingly. Are you telling me that what we have done together isn’t sufficiently NASTY for you?

“I could go further,” he almost stutters in his nervousness.

You know what? I could take you a lot further if I were there. I would have instant feedback about whether I’m being Nasty enough for you, or if I’m even going down the right path. Now I’m just getting bitchy, but I don’t care. There’s room in my pro-domme persona for that, and frankly, I know what he’s going to say next.

“I want you to surprise me.”

FOR FUCK’S SAKE. Surprise you? It’s a trap! Phone subs don’t really want to be surprised! They want what they want. FUCK. I’m already seething, and then he adds fuel to the fire:

“Use your imagination.”


Right. No mercy. Over the course of the next 20 minutes, I make him pick his nose and eat his snot, instruct him on how to sound his own dick using a carefully chosen pen from his pen cup, and for the pièce de resistance, I have him lash his balls tight with one end of a spare phone cord and then attach the other end to the door knob of his office door.

Stand back until the cord is tight, I say. How long is that?

“About a foot,” he says, unsure of where I’m going with this.

Right. Now open the door, step back just an inch further from where you were, and then slam the door.

“Okay,” he says, and after a pause, I hear it:






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