When John Brownstone and I were in a long distance relationship, our cell phones were everything. We texted, emailed, and talked multiple times a day. The few times we had to skip scheduled calls were the worst. It’s bad enough to miss someone because they can’t be with you. Having to wait longer for a phone call or email made it that much harder.
Of all the times we talked on the phone, phone sex was where we connected on a physical level. He is always the Dominant and I am always his submissive, but during those steamy, erotic phone calls is where the kinky fuckery magic happened.
Every weekday morning, on his way to work, he called me. Our time zones were different by an hour, so he was my wake-up call. That was better than any alarm, I promise.
“Good morning, babygirl.”
If you’ve heard him on the podcast, you know what he sounds like. Now imagine that voice taking on a seductive, growly tone intent on sensual sadism. Unf. Even now it’s enough to make me wet and wanton.
He has always claimed to enjoy my sleepy, gruff-sounding “Good morning, Daddy.” Before I was fully awake, he was ready for me.
“Get your hand on that cunt, girl.”
“Touch your clit.”
“Let’s see how many times you’ll come this morning.”
Because we enjoy orgasm control, sometimes he forced my orgasms and sometimes he edged me until I begged. And when I say “he,” I mean he told me what to do and my hand did the work. This is how we had sex for 18 months between visits. For a long time after we moved in together, I couldn’t masturbate without his voice telling me what to do.
Evening Kinky Fuckery
We never were the type to Skype or FaceTime. If we weren’t writing our thoughts (by email, text, or blog comment), we were speaking them. But the only time we saw each other was face-to-face. I’m not really sure why that is. It was likely an internet/data limit/too many people around thing.
At night, when we both had more time and a little privacy, it was time to play again. I often kept the lights on (knowing I’d have to get up and clean myself up) and lay on top of the sheets and a towel, ready and waiting. Sometimes he gave me instructions before the evening call and sometimes he surprised me when I answered the phone.
Butt plugs, glass dildos, vibrators, nipple clamps. Whatever I had at the time (it was a much smaller sex toy collection than today), we used it. Every action directed by his voice, telling me to imagine him there, and what he would do the next time he visited.
I’ve smacked my pussy, pinched my nipples, squirted into my sheets, and choked back screams of pleasure because of phone sex. Thankfully, he didn’t expect me to say much back beyond, “Yes, Daddy” and “Please can I come?” Most of the time, anything I would say only came out as squeaks and whimpers. I’m fairly certain he lived for the moments when all my words jumbled together as I struggled to ask permission to come or beg for mercy before I exploded.
It’s not something I’m interested in now, even when we’re apart for a night or two, but for a long time, phone sex allowed us to express our sexual D/s connection when we were apart. That we were addicted to each other made it easier for me to get over my shyness. (Phone sex is right on the edge of role play for me — and we know how I feel about that).
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