Phone Sex Series: Client #2 Mr. Pain Slut

This is the second real client-inspired smut piece in the Phone Sex Series. Mr. Pain Slut always had the same fantasy. He often tipped me generously “ $500 once – for my phone fucking services.

“You’ll call me Beautiful, Perfect Princess. Can your incompetent little mind handle that?

It was in this way that all of our interactions began. His breath was huffy. His cock would go from a pretty brown penis to a hard purple prick. Any woman seeking “healthy or “egalitarian sex with this man couldn’t have given him what I give him. Why? He didn’t deserve these things and he knew it almost as well as I did.

He was 37 when I was 18. That’s when we met. He worked for a local evangelical radio station. He was one of the voices I heard in the morning joking insipidly about latte-sipping liberals or all the same old shit about Jesus being my eternally loving sadomasochistic daddy. It was a chance encounter and he said he fell for me right away. He said I gave him this look of real, unapologetic cruelty that didn’t match my innocent chubby face.

It began with small things. It’s not in a pain slut’s nature to go all the way the first time, unless he’s got nothing to lose. And this guy, he had a lot to lose. He would ask if he could buy me things. I obliged his little compulsion and he would purchase stiletto heels and marabou slippers (which I used to walk on him), cashmere sweaters (which caused him to wince as he handed over his waning credit card), silk panties and thigh highs (which I wore occasionally for him, but more often for the men I actually wanted to fuck). After a few months, I came to visit him at his house and he was on his knees diligently cleaning the red Ferrari he had purchased for me earlier that year.

Before he bought it, he talked about that Ferrari a million times as he laid on the floor frantically pumping his penis as I pushed my heels into his nipples. These heels made him salivate. He asked if I would put them on and walk slowly over to him as he cowered on the kitchen floor. He said he liked hearing the rhythmic clack on the linoleum. He said it made him feel like he was about to be in “real big trouble.

As I came closer and closer he would repeat the mantra: “Beautiful Perfect Princess. Beautiful Perfect Princess. I’d stop just short of him, my legs spread so he could smell the viscerally awakening scent of my pussy. It was then that he would stop breathing. Everything was silent, but I swore I could see his body gyrate with the palpitations of his heart. In one quick swipe, my waist was bent and my hand “ topped off with the recent manicure he’d purchased – would be slapping his cheeks over and over. Beside the contact of my heels with his chest, this was the only physical exchange we had.

That afternoon, as he stood there cleaning my new Ferrari, I walked over to him and laughed in his face. He loved that. He said I laughed like a woman who knew how powerful she was. I called it the Cruella de Ville laugh. In my hands were bags from the shopping excursion he had funded earlier that afternoon. He knew better than to look me in the face as I leaned over to tell him in his ear that I had a date tonight and that my girlfriends would enjoy zooming around in the Ferrari with the top down picking up real men. I told him I’d be back in about an hour and that he’d better have that Ferrari spotless or else.

I went inside and laid my bags and my body on the bed. He had a special bedroom for me that he wasn’t allowed to enter even when I wasn’t here. I removed my heels and the sight of my own thighs as they opened made my clit hard. I sat up on the bed, watching him from the window. I decided that I’d get myself off and then take a bubble bath.

After the bath, I chose one of the 5 outfits I had purchased earlier. There was no decision to be made really. The one I picked was red and tight. The top swooped below my neck, ducking right where my cleavage begins. The material was slinky and puckered just below my breasts and was tight all around my belly. The skirt was narrow and allowed for little more than small steps. No panties. Push-up bra. I slipped on the sling back high heels. My lips were red with two layers of gloss. They were so seemingly cum-covered that it felt that the one was going to slip off the other if I wasn’t careful.

I made my way outside and I slammed the door so he would know that I was coming. I made my way down the driveway and I saw him after a few more steps. He kneeled, eyes averted as I made my way closer to the car. “Step away from it, you pathetic little shit. I need to inspect it to see that it’s suitable for my friends. He handed me the glove, white and thin as he pulled himself by the hands and knees to the side of the driveway. I saw the smile spread across his lips. “Does Jesus know what a sick fuck you are?”

I slid the glove on and began my investigation. It was like something out of a movie as I made my way around the perimeter of the car. It didn’t take long before I lifted my glove and saw it, a spot about the size of an asymmetrical dime. It looked like oil. I stood and I breathed, composing myself. A tiny, naughty smile made its away across my lips. I could feel it and I couldn’t stop it.

“What is this? I asked, my body so close to his I could feel his panting breath blowing against my knee.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

“You are the most worthless sack of shit, idiotic, pathetic, mindless, sorry excuse for a man, submissive slut I have ever met. You can’t even clean my fucking car correctly. You want to embarrass me in front of my beautiful friends. You want them to know that I have a ball-less piece of shit working for me. Don’t you? You want me to pull up in a car that is filthy and take my other princess friends out?

“No. No. No! He whispered pathetically.

“I can’t believe this, I told him as I walked over to the car, opening the door and sliding inside. I leave the door open and tell him to come over to me.

He bolts off his fat knees and makes his way over to me. He stands near the open door.

“Closer. Closer, you motherfucker. Now take your little dicklet out.

He hesitates and I repeat myself, slowly in the tone I use when I’m really fucking serious. He pulls his dick out. It’s wet with pre-cum.

“Put it right here. I point to the doorframe.

“Please. Please don’t, he whimpers.

“This is called aversion therapy. You want me to make you better, don’t you?

He does what I say. I lean forward turning on the radio. It’s one of my favorite songs and I begin to sing along. I turn the key in the ignition. I smile at him, laughing and telling him I’m sorry for having gotten upset. He looks at me, tears in his eyes. His body relaxes and then I slam the door on his dick. He falls to the ground, moaning.

“I forgot your dick was in the way, silly. You should be more careful.

He’s on his knees, cupping his sore cock. I’m pretty sure he’s going to have a hard time peeing or jacking off for the next month or so. My nipples get tingly and plump thinking of him jacking his sore dick while he says my name.

“Put your hands on the driveway.

“What? he asks.

“You heard me. Put your fucking hands on the fucking driveway. I manage to say it in my cutest, most innocent voice. The voice I use on him when I’m really looking forward to fucking him over.

He puts his hands down. I rev the engine and the music is still blasting. I put the car into reverse.

“Ask for it.

“Will you please run over my hands with your new car, Beautiful Perfect Princess?

“Mmmmmm¦ I don’t know. You haven’t been very useful today.

“Please, Perfect Princess.

He fucks up my name on purpose. He knows I hate that.

I slam down on the gas and feel the bump. He’s moaning and what any onlooker can’t see (but which I know) is the fact that his boxers are full of cum. He cums every time I run over his hands. He can’t get enough. Every time they heal, he’s back for more. His dick has been rock hard from the moment I told him to put his hands on the driveway, and it’ll be rock hard the next time I do it. He’s rolling on the ground as I pull away.

He knows better than to fuck up my name.

Virgie Tovar

Virgie Tovar is the author/editor of the upcoming fat positive anthology Hot &Heavy: Fierce Fat Girls on Life, Love and Fashion (Seal Press, November 2012). She holds an MA in Human Sexuality, is certified as a sex educator, and was voted Best Sex Writer by the Bay Area Guardian in 2008 for her first book, Destination DD: Adventures of a Brest Fetishist with 40DDs. After teaching Female Sexuality at UC Berkeley she went onto host The Virgie Show (CBS Radio) from 2007-2008. When she’s not teaching sexuality seminars or shimmying as her burlesque alter ego, Dulce de Lecherous, she is creating content for her video blog: Virgie Tovar’s Guide to Fat Girl Living. Virgie has been featured on Playboy Radio and Women’s Entertainment Television. She lives in San Francisco.

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