I KEEP looking back and forth between my cell phone and the laptop screen, willing the flashing red toll-free number to make up my mind for me. I’ve stopped looking at the picture next to the number, because it’s probably fake, and really, it was the recorded voice that piqued my interest. However, that doesn’t explain why I stumbled across this site to begin with.
Is this truly any different from throwing a bunch of money at a bartender serving drinks at some club I would rather not be patronizing? I don’t want to have to wade through a sea of bodies, hoping I can connect with someone who will want to come home with me. I want instant gratification, damn it, and I’m actually too much of a pussy to seek out a one-night-stand. Add to that the fact that I’m barely sticking my toe outside of the proverbial closet, and this idea is looking better and better.
Whomever I talk to will be a sure thing; they will tell me exactly what I want to hear, make me feel important. I will get off, and I will never even have to put on a condom. A lonely option for a pitiful Friday night, yes, but I’m looking at this as a baby step. First step, anonymous phone sex. Second step, flirt with the new guy in Human Resources and hope he doesn’t kick my ass for it.
Okay, so I plan to do an all-out tap dance on step number one before progressing to step number two. Sue me.
Swallowing hard, I dial the number, and my thumb trembles over the “send” button for a moment before I finally press it.
I only half listen to the recording of the girl attempting to sound sexy while letting me know that I will get the exact fantasy I want and that the charges will be discreetly billed to my credit card.
“For our fun and frisky ladies, press one,” the syrupy voice purrs. “For our sexy, hard studs, press two.”
Two, please and thank you.
“For Kevin, press one. For Steve, press two. For Isaac, press three. For Carter, press four….”
I quickly interrupt that ridiculous voice by violently stabbing the number four on my keypad.
You may be number four on the menu, but you’re number one in my heart… or my pants… whatever.
Before I can continue my sad excuse for internal monologue, the line rings again.
The voice that answers is a grittier version of the one I listened to on the website, and I am now completely tenting my boxers.
“This is Carter,” he breathes. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
The sultry sound of his voice consumes me, and I can’t form words for the fact that I’m struggling just to breathe.
“Mmmm… strong, silent type. I think I like that. You don’t have to tell me your name, baby. Hell, I can do all the talking—”
“It’s Greg,” I blurt out. Christ, it came out like a squeak. He’s gonna think I’m some pre-pubescent twink that stole Mommy’s credit card.
He chuckles at that, but it sounds in no way condescending. On the contrary, it’s complimentary as he hums in satisfaction, and I find myself sinking into my seat as my hand idly drifts down to my erection, gliding across the fabric of my boxers.
“You sound awfully young, Greg. Would you mind telling me how old you are, stud?”
I take a couple of deep breaths before answering. “I’m twenty-two,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I just got a little nervous.”
“No need to be nervous, baby; I don’t bite. Unless you want me to, that is.” He chuckles again, and it’s so fucking sexy. I bite my lip and moan at the thought of his teeth raking across my flesh.
I know this is pathetic, but I can’t help it. I know he’s answering this call at his house and I probably just interrupted an episode of some reality TV show, so he’s probably only half paying attention to me, but I don’t care. His voice, a gritty purr, is exactly the voice I want murmuring in my ear. I would prefer it to belong to the HR hottie as he bends me over his desk, but for now, this will do just fine.
“I love the sound of your voice,” I whisper, continuing to caress myself through my boxers.
“Do you, now? Well, just wait ’til you hear my voice calling out your name, handsome,” he purrs.
My breath hitches as he hums into the phone.
“So, tell me, Greg. What are you wearing?”
So cliché, but I don’t care. He could ask me my favorite color and I’d gladly give it to him, just to hear the word “blue” slide off his tongue.
“White T-shirt,” I whisper. “Red boxers.”
“Mmm… I love a man in a plain, white T-shirt. I bet it’s easy to see your nipples through the fabric, am I right?” he asks.
Looking down, I bring my free hand up to my chest and slide it across my pectoral muscle, feeling my nipple tighten beneath my hand. “Yes,” I breathe.
“I’d love to suck on your nipple through the fabric of your shirt, Greg. I’d draw it hard into my mouth, past my teeth and flick it firmly with my tongue.” He takes a shuddering breath, while I hold mine, before he continues. “I’d make the material wet with my mouth as I work that hard little nub, just as I use my fingers to pinch and tug on your other nipple. Would you like that?”
Listening to his words, I begin to picture my HR hottie doing that very thing to me as I roll my hardened nipple between my thumb and forefinger. “God, yes, I want that.”
“I’d love to play with your nipples as I climb in your lap, and feel your cock straining against those red boxers,” he pants. “Are you hard for me, Greg?”
I whimper as my hand slides back down to my boxers, this time slipping beneath the waistband and fully gripping my erection. “Yes,” I rasp. “Very hard.”
“I can feel it pressing against me. I want your dick, sexy. I want your hard cock in my mouth before you fuck me—”
“Actually….” I let my voice trail off, slightly embarrassed that I interrupted him.
“Actually what? Tell me what you want, baby. Talk to me.”
He wants me to talk to him? Aren’t I paying for things to be the other way around? Does it matter?
“Actually,” I repeat, “I would much rather have you fuck me,” I whisper, quickening the pace of my hand. I should be embarrassed that I’m not going to last long, but I’m not.
“Fuck yeah,” Carter groans. “I’d love to pound that tight ass, Greg. How do you want me?” His breath begins to stutter, and I start to wonder if he’s masturbating too. I know it adds to the fantasy that the person the caller’s talking with is getting as much pleasure out of the conversation as they are, but I’m not naïve enough to think that I’m turning him on.
Does it stop me from picturing my HR hottie jacking off while talking to me on the phone? Absolutely not.
Keeping with the HR hottie theme, I tell Carter how I’d like to be taken. “I want you to bend me over your desk, gripping my bare hips as you fuck me hard.” My hand is flying now as I picture HR hottie—I really need to learn this guy’s name—with his dress pants pooled around his feet, his tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned as he slams me from behind.
“Hell yes. Can someone catch us? Can someone walk in on me drilling you? Stroking your throbbing cock?” he gasps on the last word, and I can hear the distinctive sound of his fist pumping his erection. If it’s an illusion, it’s a damn good one.
“Yes, we can easily get caught. You keep trying to keep me quiet, but I can’t stop myself from crying out. You feel so fucking good inside me.” My back arches as I feel my orgasm begin to build.
“Mmmm… baby, we better hurry. I think I hear the boss coming. Oh, wait,” he grunts. “That’s actually me. Fuck, Greg, that hot ass is gonna make me come. It feels like hot velvet wrapped around my cock. The skin of your dick is so silky soft as I rapidly stroke you. I want you to come for me, Greg. I want to feel your warm cum slicken my fingers as my hand slides along your cock.”
“Shit,” I grunt, my hips lifting off my chair.
“I’m right there, sexy. Come on; come with me. Oh fuck,” he groans.
That does it for me. I quickly slide the hem of my T-shirt up to my chin as I begin to shoot onto my belly, gasping for air and whimpering into the phone.
The line is almost silent as I try to catch my breath. “Thank you, Carter, that was—”
“Fuck! Jesus Christ!” he cries before I hear the sexiest growl to ever rip free from a pair of vocal cords.
Heavy breathing and various muttered expletives drift into my ear, and I ask, “Carter, are you okay?”
“I need a moment, please.” The gritty velvet of his voice has momentarily disappeared, and instead of sounding like the too-good-to-be-true phone operator, he sounds quite human. I’m shocked because I’ve never dreamed that he would actually masturbate with me, let alone enjoy himself so enthusiastically.
“Oh my God, Greg.” The gritty velvet is back almost instantly. “That was hot. Shit, you need to call me more often, stud,” he chuckled.
Smiling, fucking glowing, I reply, “I just might do that.”