Chapter 7 Hannah
Hannah
“Ohhh yeah,” I say, trying to ignore the phantom pain in my nipples as my CMA caller describes clamps and chains and the reddened, mottled skin they’ve supposedly left behind. “My nipples are . . . nipped out.”
“Beautiful,” Randy—a.k.a. the current bane of my existence—comments. His voice is raspy with anticipation, and I try not to think too hard about the fact that he’s probably sitting on the other side of this call with his wiener out. Ew. “Now you can focus on my dick.”
Oh, how exciting . . . I roll my eyes. This insane job, I swear, might be the death of me.
Not to mention, I’m already the proud owner of a new cell number because of my recent employment at Call Me Anytime.
After Detective Dunn told me I gave him my real number when he called the Ruby line, I couldn’t be sure if I’d made that grave error with another caller, so I took the inconvenient yet less risky path of a number change.
On top of that hassle, I’m out forty bucks, because if there’s one thing cell providers love, it’s nickeling-and-diming you in every way they can.
“You there?” Randy asks when I don’t respond right away.
I instantly glance down at the notepad on my desk, which contains the list of “good dirty-talk words” I’ve scribbled down over the past few days while I’ve been working at CMA and, you know, corrupting my morals and shredding any sense of my innocence.
“Uh-huh. You bet your big dicky dick, I’m here,” I answer, scanning each word I’ve jotted down with quick eyes.
For the dicks:
Big
Hard
Long
Wiener
Cock
Juicy
Meat Sword
Magic Stick?
Throbbing
Massive
Sausage
12-incher (Can a penis really be ruler size? Probably need to google.)
Schlong
Meat Stick?
Banana Hammock?
“You feel so big. And hard . . .” I reference my notes again.
“And long, like a . . . like a flagpole I want to climb up and start singing ‘God Bless America’ while I’m waving the Stars and Stripes in the air and riding your .
. . big, hard, long, thick cock,” I tell him while trying to use my sexiest voice.
“I want to save Lady Liberty and ride Randy.”
“You want to sing what?” Randy asks, and it feels like maybe my patriotic ramble threw him a little off his game.
“I don’t want to sing anything, Randy,” I quickly redirect myself. “I just want to feel your big ol’ cock and balls inside me.”
“You can take all of me inside you, Ruby? My cock and my balls?”
I scrunch up my nose, trying to figure out if that’s even physically possible. What do I know? I’ve never had a penis inside me, much less a penis plus balls.
Surely anything’s possible in fictional phone sex land . . . I shrug and pick up my pen to tap it against my notepad. You never know when a word will come out of a pervy caller’s mouth that I can use for future calls.
“Oh yeah, Randy. I can fit all of you in me. Your cock and your cock’s ball besties. It’s going to be a whole big party in my . . .” I glance at my notes again, sliding my pen down each word in search of a few that seem to fit the vibe.
For the chicks:
Pussy
Cunt
Wet
Aching
Needy
Pink Taco? (too much?)
Moist
Twat
Hoo-hah?
Beaver?
“. . . wet, needy, aching pussy,” I say, just mixing a dirty-word salad on the fly. “Should I put them in me? Your cock and your balls? You want my big . . . huge . . . cunt to play magician and make them disappear?”
Big, huge cunt? I cringe at myself. Way to paint a picture.
“Not yet, Ruby.” Randy’s breath is getting breathier, and I’m silently thankful he doesn’t mind the idea of cavernous beavers.
I might’ve accidentally looked at my list for dicks instead of chicks. Whoops. Though I’d say it’s pretty clear I don’t have a single clue what kind of dirty shit men like to hear. For all I know, Randy would blow his load over me saying I’m going to shove a vacuum cleaner up his ass.
Don’t worry, I’m not going there. I refuse to go there, actually.
“What do you want me to do, Randy?” I ask, hoping to move this conversation straight to the part where he climaxes so I can hang up.
“Put my dick between your feet and rub your toes up and down it.”
“You got it, dude.” I shrug and lean back in my chair. “Up and down and up and down they go, Randy. My toes are tiptoeing all over your big ol’ cock-a-doodle-do.”
“Yesss,” he groans, and I quietly gag. “Rub your feet all over me.”
“Oh, I’m rubbin’. Rubbin’, rubbin’, rubbin’. I’m rubbing so hard I hope you don’t get foot burn.”
But seriously, can feet create that much friction on a penis?
“Are you playing with yourself, Ruby?” he asks, his excitement enough to make my stomach lurch. I swear, much more of this deep dive into the sex pool, and I’m going to start feeling like being a mid-twenties virgin isn’t such a bad thing.
Up until now, it’s been solely an issue of time and motivation and partnership—but there’s a whole other disturbing layer building within the walls of my sex cubicle, and from what I hear, PTSD can be difficult to reverse.
My cubby mate, Miss Diamond herself, peeks her head over my wall and waves, and I pray to the gods of sex phone lines that this call with Randy will end soon so I can talk to someone who isn’t wanting me to play footsie with a dick.
“Ruby?” Randy asks between disturbing pants. “Tell me you’re touching yourself, baby. Tell me you’re rubbing your big cunt while you think about my dick and balls inside you.”
“Yep. You betcha.” I roll my eyes and make Diamond, a.k.a. Monica, giggle. She covers her mouth to keep herself quiet. “I’m touching my cookie right now. And it’s so warm and . . . ooey-gooey . . . just for you.”
“Oh baby, I love that so much,” Randy says, his voice far past simply excitable. He’s out of breath, and I’m sure if I listened closely enough, I’d actually be able to hear him jerking it. Don’t think about it. Don’t you dare think about it!
I grab a sticky note from my desk and scribble a message to Monica—Are you taking a break?—as Randy continues to talk sex stuff into my ear.
“What are your feet doing, Ruby?”
“Uh . . . my feet are still rubbing up and down . . .” I pause and lean over my desk to look at my notebook. “Your big schlong.”
“My schlong loves your feet, baby. God, it loves your feet,” he whispers. “Slide one of those perfect feet up my chest so I can suck on your toes.”
Monica passes the note back, her message scribbled just below mine.
Yeah. Want to get lunch?
I glance at my cell phone for the time before giving a thumbs-up that makes Monica jump up and down and clap in a cute fit of joy.
I never expected to find a friend here, but from what I’ve seen so far, my cubby mate is actually fairly normal.
Over the past couple of days, she’s shared pieces of her life that make me see her in a whole new light.
Monica is a premed student at Belmont University, driven and laser focused on her goals.
She’s been saving every penny she can to graduate debt-free and set herself up for success in med school—a plan that shows just how resourceful and determined she is.
She’s got a sweet face and a tiny little button nose, and I wish more than anything neither one of us was desperate enough to be working here.
Monica takes her seat across the aisle, and I focus my energy on getting through the rest of Randy’s needs. Busy is good, seeing as it means money, but a little break from all the rubbing and jerking and sucking is needed after the twenty calls I’ve already taken today.
My well of sex creativity is really starting to dry up. Pretty sure I need some carbs or something.
“Randy, I don’t think my toes want to leave your big juicy sausage,” I whisper, scanning my notes again. “My feet are total sluts for your thick banana hammock.”
“My what?”
Maybe don’t use food metaphors for penis until you actually understand them . . .
“Your big cock,” I quickly correct myself, wincing as I spot Margo Mavis walking through the aisle between cubicles, her eyes pointed my way. “My feet just love your big cock so much, Randy. They can’t stop rubbing all over it. If they could talk, they’d be saying, ‘Yes, Big Cock Daddy.’”
The line goes silent for a beat longer than I expected, but in a twist of luck, despite how out of my depth I truly am, Randy leans into the suggestion.
“What else would your feet say if they could talk?” Randy questions, his voice rushed with excitement all over again.
“They’d say, ‘More, Big Cock Daddy,’” I whisper in the most seductive voice I can manage with Margo standing directly over me and waiting. “‘More. More. More.’”
I know for a fact my feet wouldn’t be saying any of this, but if it makes Randy come, that’s all that matters.
“And what else?” he asks, strangely into the toe talk.
“They’d say . . .” I pause and look up at the ceiling as I try to come up with something come worthy. “They’d say . . . ‘Oh my. You’re getting so big and hard. You’re almost too big for us to rub on you . . .’”
“Yes,” he grunts into my ear.
I cross my fingers as I listen closely through the receiver, hoping that Randy is about to bring it on home. When he starts breathing erratically, I keep going. “They’d say, ‘Come, Randy. Come all over our cute toes!’ They’d say, ‘We’re so horny for your semen.’”
“You have such dirty little toes.” Randy pants. “Such dirty little slut toes.”
“Uh-huh,” I agree, switching gears to let them do the talking. “‘All ten of us are dirty little whores. We’re the whoriest toes in all the land!’”
“I’m gonna come all over you!” Randy shouts.
“‘Do it! Do it! Do it!’” I pretend a crowd of ten whorey toes is yelling for Randy.
“Fuck! Yes!” Randy chants. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
“Shoot it everywhere!” I cheer him on. “To the windows and the walls!”
“Fuuuck!” he bellows, and then the line goes completely quiet besides the sound of Randy’s heavy breaths.