Our first phone call tasted like intimacy.
He was a little freaked out beforehand, worried about awkward silences.
Instead, it flowed easily, warm and affectionate.
He joked that I would blog about his ‘girlish voice’ after I mused that his voice was not quite how I expected it to be (see how this works, e? You joke about it, and I am almost certain to mention it… and yes, I shall expect jokes about your stunning intellect and huge cock next time). His voice, by the way, is not in the least bit girlish.
He talked to me from a position on the floor, a gesture. “Because it felt right,” he said. I love that he did that, a tangible sweetness. Topics ranged from religion to pets to ex-partners to gardening. We talked, teased, joked a lot, laughed often and with pleasure.
Discussing D/s expectations and potential turned us both on, and I love that he said so, that I could hear his breathing change in response to it.
“That’s so hot,” he said, quietly.
“*Fucking* hot,” I replied.
A brief silence after that. It was long enough for me to run through an entire blindingly scorching scenario through my mind, strobe-light glimpses of possibility.
We were ridiculous and sweet. He was irresistibly appealing, slipping in some ‘Yes Ma’ams’ quietly and without fanfare. I do love that so.
I interrupted him in the middle of enthusiastically telling a story to say, “You are so kissable…”
He paused with the shock of it, and countered softly with, “So are you, sweetie…” The endearment tripping off his tongue without thought.
And then we talked some more.
Four hours later, I told him to say “Goodnight, Ma’am” and hang up.
And he did.
Holy fuck, I thought, I’m in trouble.