CALL OF THE DAY: my pretty, pretty princess
He used to be a regular. He could still be a regular, except I’m not. Regular, that is. My schedule is all over the place for six or seven months out of the year, when I’m touring, and so any regulars I found in my first year, when I was on at least 15 hours a day, every day… well, I had a lot, and I lost most of them. I don’t know if they went to other companies, or just kept it to evenings with my current company, but if they had kept requesting me, they probably stopped after a couple of months. I would imagine it’s just too depressing after a while to keep trying.
So I don’t get this guy but maybe once every couple of months now, when I happen to be on and he happens to be off work, but I still greet him by the nickname we settled on back in the beginning. It’s in parentheses at the top of his card: Daisy.
I remember that negotiation very well. I was just getting to know him and his fantasy. Lots of cock-sucking, with him in the role of greedy “tranny” slut (his word, not mine), but he put a surprising amount of energy and thought into selecting his outfits, or rather, he wanted me to select his outfits for him. His calls were my introduction to the idea of costuming not just as an element of setting, but also an arena in which I could begin laying down the power dynamic.
So we’re going to the police station, are we?
“If that’s all right, mistress.”
Well, we gotta put some clothes on you first, I mean, I can’t very well parade you naked down the streets.
As much as you’d probably like that, you show-offy little bitch.
You do like it when people stare at you, don’t you.?
Well, then, let’s give ‘em something really good to look at.
And so we did a whole wardrobe assessment: tramp or pretty princess? Oh, a bit of a princess, eh? Then we’ll take the lacy white top with the pink bra underneath. But down-home style, that means the denim micro-mini. What kind of panties? No no, thongs are trashy, Daisy, we’ll get something pretty and pink to match the bra.
I want to keep you looking sweet, I told the caller that first day The first man to get into that tight pussy of yours is going to be paying extra to keep the panties as a trophy, so let’s make them something worth framing and putting on the fucking wall.
“What shoes should I wear?”
Oh, honey, it doesn’t matter. Once we get you in the office there at the station, you won’t be on your feet long enough for that to matter.
After we got him through the five-minute wardrobe discussion, and 8 or 9 minutes with every single male officer at the station that day—some back for seconds and thirds, with an emphasis on the better-equipped African-American policemen—I said, Your (male) name makes no sense for what we’re doing together. I’m gonna give you a new one, for when you work for me.
He was still coming out of his head space, so his laugh started out as a giggle and then dropped down. “That sounds perfect.”
I guess I’m a little surprised that it stuck with him, given the irregularity of our contact. But when I greet him that way, after a gap of three months, there’s no denying how quickly his voice gets higher.
What have you been up to, you little whore?
“Nothing, mistress. I save it for you.”
I don’t mind his little lies. It’s the thought that counts.
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