CALL OF THE DAY: the day a client apologized

You do not want to fuck a dry foot...

You do not want to fuck a dry foot…

When I found out Bilingual Papi was calling, I got excited, and my frequent readers know why. I am generally quite fond of him, and talking with him is usually enough to make my night, he’s that much fun. But tonight was different. Something felt off, and I couldn’t tell what or why. I just knew that he wasn’t in the right head space for our usual play.

For starters, he wanted to fuck my feet, which are not his usual target for attention. Bilingual Papi has been my number-one ass fan for nearly six years. I even joked about it: someone’s been checking out different channels on xHamster, huh? We went ahead and did it, but it didn’t rev him as thoroughly and quickly as ass-play does, so at the nine-minute mark I was behind schedule, I could hear it in his voice. He was not there, and he was not going to get there by minute 15. I tried to pick up the pace a little, but at 14 minutes he changed up again.

“You know what I want to do to you, baby?”

No, and you better tell me quick, because we have a minute left.

“I want to spank that ass while I fuck it, and I want you to beg for it.”

Please, papi, please beat my ass cheeks, leave your fingermarks, please…

“And I want to hear it, bitch!”

I almost gasped. Bitch. What the fuck. Both the word and the angry tone of voice were completely unprecedented. I get bitch a lot, but in the context of very different calls. Bilingual Papi calls me much worse, like his puta-reina (whore-queen), and god knows whatever other Spanish words he’s spilling out that I don’t know. But these have been always thrown at me as endearments. When he said bitch, it rang with frustration, the frustration of a man with a hard-on that he is really wrestling with and a time limit that he underestimated, and he let me down in that moment by doing what they all do: he basically blamed me for it.

In the moment, I managed to catch my breath and keep spewing out the ass-beating filth. He was still frustrated, he was almost there, but the clock was rapidly approaching one minute over, and I knew I was going to have to say something. As always, though, I tried to keep it in character. Daddy, I said, making myself sound sobbing and upset, and frankly it was not difficult to tap into that emotion. Papi, I have to go. Why do you do this to me? You know I get in trouble, you know how this works.

Right then, in the middle of my half-real sobs and tearful recriminations, he came. While I listened to his gasping orgasm, I wondered if that made him happy, to imagine that he might have reduced me to tears. Oh, god, no. I don’t want that to be an emergent kink for him. I looked at the clock. A minute and a half over. I should have just hung up, but this had to be said.

Daddy, I said again.

“I know, you have to go.”

Yes, but there’s one more thing.

“What’s that?”

Don’t call me bitch like that, not when you’re being mean.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m sorry.”


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