I didn’t ease him in. “You’re not pulling out,” I said, already smiling into the phone. “If you called for cream pie phone sex, you already know how I like it. Deep. Messy. Mine.”

He made that little hungry sound I love, so I stretched it out. I described how wet I was just thinking about him finishing inside me — no condom, no last-second panic, just the slow push and the hot spill. Cream pie phone sex is my favorite kind of filthy because it feels claimed. I want him thinking about dripping out of me the whole next day.

I told him exactly how to stroke. Slow at the base, tighter when I moaned, stop when I said stop. Every time he got close I made him talk — how full he wanted me, how hard he’d stay buried, how he’d hold my hips so nothing spilled until I said so. Cream pie phone sex only works when the edge lasts. I kept him right there on purpose.

Stay in me. Don’t you dare waste it.

I built the fantasy room by room. Me on my back with my knees up. Me bent over the edge of the bed. Me in his lap, grinding until he couldn’t think. Each version ended the same way — him locked deep while I clenched and told him to fill me. No limits once I’m in that mood. Bratty. Greedy. Loud about what I want.

The longer the cream pie phone sex went, the meaner-sweet I got. I laughed when he begged. I praised him when he held still. I described the wet sound, the heat, the way I’d make him stay inside after so nothing leaked yet. Then I’d make him push it back in with his fingers while I watched in the fantasy. Filthy little details. That’s how I play.

I switched between soft and sharp without warning. “Good boy” when he slowed down. “Don’t you dare cum outside me” when his breathing got desperate. I told him I wanted to feel it — thick, warm, too much — and that I wanted him to hear me react when it hit. Shared mess. Shared need. That’s the point.

I kept going deeper. Second round in the fantasy. Him already sensitive, still hard enough because I told him to be. Me reaching back to spread myself and show him the cream pie he left. Talking him through licking it, pushing it in again, starting over. Cream pie phone sex with me is never one-and-done. I like him wrecked and still obedient.

When I finally let him finish, I made it count. Full strokes. My voice right in his ear. Exact timing so the fantasy climax and his real one lined up. I stayed on the line through the shake and the quiet after, describing how full I’d feel, how proud I was of him for giving me every drop.

I didn’t drop the attitude. Soft aftercare, yes — but still bratty, still smirking, still reminding him he could call back when he wanted to leave another mess in me.

If you want cream pie phone sex from a filthy little brat who will make you stay deep until you’re empty, come find me at sinfulkink.com/madison. I’ll already be thinking about it.