CALL OF THE DAY: protecting my boundaries with BSD

This is gonna take a bit of cleanup, a-yup...

This is gonna take a bit of cleanup, a-yup…

I don’t like to talk about BSD much in public. His calls are too extreme in content for me to feel safe bringing up with even close friends. I mention his fantasies only obliquely on Facebook, and only to establish context for the acronym of his full nickname. With live-in friends or lovers, anyone who might have an occasion to overhear my side of his calls, I tend to call him by his first name + initial. BSD’s full nickname—Baby Snuff Dude—is not funny to anyone but me.

If you believe, as I do, that BSD knows damn well that raping and killing babies is not something you do in real life, that he just likes his fantasies particularly gory and taboo, and if you’re like me and actual violence and/or realistic depictions are unwatchable, then BSD’s scenarios HAVE to feel cartoonish, by the time my brain is done with processing, producing, and then delivering them. Hell, over the course of a normal day, where he’s done four or five calls with me, he has gone through half of a daycare center and I’m just doing clean-up, putting these hypothetical babies in the Hefty trash bag and heading off on a two-week vacation. That is how he has wrapped up the call a few times: with a Hefty trash bag. He named the brand of the fucking trash bag. How can that not be funny? (I think this is what you call “ambulance humor”. I also think Hefty should pay me a lot of money to remove their brand name from this post.)

In short, BSD’s calls are along the outside-edge of territory that a no-taboo PSO might end up wandering through, and I have to do what I can. Funnily enough, even though BSD is the most extreme caller that I currently handle (sorry, Extreme Top), I have been learning to stake out my boundaries with him faster than with anyone else.

Over the past couple of months, BSD has been trying something new with me, asking me to pretend to be a little girl, somewhere between 6 and 8 years old. I didn’t mind the content, but the voice he likes, it is so far outside of my normal vocal range that it hurts my throat something terrible. Also, acting terrified makes my body FEEL terrified and strung out, at least the way I act it. I could feel the tell-tale side effects already, after just one call like that. So I told him, when he called back for another call right away, I said, I can’t do an entire 15-minute call like that. I’ll give you five minutes.

So we did five minutes of that and 15 minutes of his normal story time, and then he called back a third time, right away, and said he wanted another call like that, with a five-minute scene of raping and strangling me-as-child. You’re pushing it, I said. You are trying to get around what I told you. I can only do two such calls a day.

So. Five minutes per call of me-as-child, and only two such calls per day. I feel like those are reasonable boundaries, and for the most part BSD acquiesces to them, but still he wants to push it every now and then. During last week’s binge, he had already done one such call, and I told him that I had to sign off soon, so the second of self-snuffing calls would be my last call of the day. I can give you just one more of the kind where I’m frightened, I said. After that I can’t do any more calls like that. “That’s a shame,” he said. “If you had told me you could do five more of them, I would have called back five more times.”

It was a not-very-passive passive-aggressive rebuke: he was trying to let me know how much money I had lost, by holding to my own restrictions, but I did not care. Oh, well, I said, keeping an eye on the countdown timer the whole time. I told you what I can do, and that’s what you get.

Give me a mountain of dead babies, but leave my vocal cords alone.


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