Big tits, filthy mouth, zero patience. You have seen the tits by now. Everybody has, so do not sit there acting clever about it. That is the trap and you walked into it, you gooner phone sex addict. Under the pretty face is a brat with a filthy fucking mouth and no patience for the way you stroke. Which is wrong, incidentally. Too fast, too tight, too eager. You are all identical, all of you, and it is embarrassing. Half an hour in and you are sweating on the handset like it is a fucking workout. Sit up. Slow down. Yes I can tell through the phone, do not test me.
Here is what the tits are actually for. Torture. Mine, not yours, you do not get to hold them. I tell you how they sit when I lean in close to the receiver. How the strap gives up halfway through a sentence. How easy it is to get a grown man nodding along to absolutely anything once they are in his eyeline. Then I go quiet for ten whole seconds and listen to you come apart on the other end. You do not get to finish. That is not the deal. The deal is you edge until I say otherwise, and I say otherwise far less often than you would like. Crawl near the top and one word stops you. Then you hold it, aching like a fucking idiot, while I talk about my afternoon.
And when I have finished playing, you ruin it. Hand off. Off, not slow, off. Everything drains out and nothing arrives. That is ruined orgasm gooning phone sex and it should leave you feeling cheated. It is meant to. Pet names are conditional in this house. Sweetheart when you behave. Useless when you do not, which is most of the time. Ring me with an hour spare and a hand that has been warned. I will be cruel, you will say thank you, and then tomorrow you will do the whole sad little ritual again.
Call Eliza and get put in your place: 1 888 662 6482 for ruined orgasm gooning phone sex