14. Conversation Interruptus: Short Stories of Short Calls
Andy interested me from the beginning, first because he said he was 6’4", and second because he said he was a redhead. Actually, those things interested Kristi – she’s 5’8" and likes to wear heels, so she likes tall guys, and she’d never been with another redhead before.
He was very young, a 19- or 20-year-old college student, and very nervous when he approached me online. I didn’t really expect him to be brave enough to call, but he was. I’m almost certain he’d never done anything as crazy as talking to a phone sex girl before.
He was most interested in hearing me describe myself, with particular emphasis on my stockings and heels, and all he wanted was plain old regular romantic sex. We built up slowly. We kissed and touched and I talked dirty until he was moaning. This kid was giving me such a wonderfully honest reaction that I began to think it was his first sexual experience of any kind. I worked even harder to make it good for him.
He started to breathe faster and faster, and he was just at that point of no return when I heard, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh god.” This was not him climaxing – something was wrong.
“What?” I whispered.
“Shit, my roommate is home. I hear him in the hall.” Oh, great.
“Close the door to your room,” I urged.
“I can’t, we share a room.” He was still right on the edge of orgasm, torn between desire and fear.
“Go into the bathroom!”
“Goddammit!” he moaned, and hung up.
I felt very sorry for him. Roommates suck.
•
“Hi Kristi! Would you like to be my teenage next-door neighbor?”
“Great.”
“Am I a nice girl? Or a slut?”
“A slut, definitely. I want to watch you undress.”
“Through the window?”
“Yes, I’m watching through my window. You’re out on the patio. Your parents are away.”
“Ooh, I’m an exhibitionistic slut!”
“Yesssssss.”
“Do I know you’re watching?”
“Oh yes. You noticed me one time, and now you always undress for me.”
I started off describing my outfit, how I’d worn it just for him. I told him how I waited for him to come home, and then when I knew he was watching through the window, I stepped out onto the patio.
I didn’t really know where this fantasy was going. Was he going to come over and take my virginity right there on the patio? Spank me for being such a bad girl? Invite me over to play? I just went with it.
“I slowly lift my shirt over my head, and toss it onto the patio chair. I have a bikini top on underneath, and it’s skimpy and tight.”
He groaned.
“I pretend I don’t know you’re there, but I look right at you as I run my hands over my tits, my nipples already hard thinking about you watching me.”
A bigger groan.
“Then I reach down and unfasten my top, shrugging it off my shoulders and lifting my arms to make sure you get a good view of my perfect little tits.”
“Ohhhhhhhh god Kriiiiiiiiiiisti.”
I paused.
“Oh, Kristi, that was great. Thanks!”
And he hung up.
I sighed. No spanking, I guess.
•
New caller. Got all his information, no problem. Put him on hold. Dialed to get the authorization. Got that truly annoying “please hold for assistance” recording.
I hate that. First of all, it takes forever, and it usually means there’s a problem with the card. I can’t even click over to the customer to reassure him, because I’ll lose my place in line.
Then they always ask for information that I don’t have at hand, like the merchant number (which is programmed into the phone). And anyway, I feel funny – like the authorization guy just knows it’s for phone sex.
“Amount?” he asked with an audible smirk.
“20 dollars.”
“20 dollars even? Are you sure?” he leered.
Sigh. “Yes, I’m sure.” I’ll be damned if he’ll intimidate me.
So I got the authorization from the sneering guy, no problem. He gave me the number, I thanked him, I clicked back and said, “Pete?”
Pause.
“You still there?”
“Yes,” he answered, and I was relieved. The automated system only takes a minute or two, but a live agent takes much longer. With a new caller, that delay could cost me the call.
“I’m sorry,” I explained. “They were having trouble with the automated system so I had to get the authorization manually.”
“No problem,” he assured me.
“Great!” I switched over into my sexy voice. “Sooooooo… tell me about yourself, sweetie.”
“What?”
“Tell me a little about yourself, sweetie,” I repeated.
“Um…ma’am, this is the authorization agent.”
“What?”
“For the credit card company. This is the authorization agent….”
I turned purple, muttered an apology, and hung up. Luckily the real customer called back a few minutes later. (That agent could have had free phone sex. I never would have known the difference.)
•
With all the crazy fantasy calls I get, sometimes it’s the simplest ones that leave the biggest impressions.
Kyle is about 21 and lives at home with his mother and brother in some small Bridges of Madison County Midwestern town. He originally said he was interested in being dominated, but I think he was more shy and inexperienced than submissive. He just liked the idea of someone else taking the initiative.
We talked online, and he told me frankly that he was a virgin. He had a girlfriend but they both agreed to wait. I assured him that there’s nothing wrong with that, and in fact, I think it’s an intelligent choice in this day and age.
His first call was very sweet. He was a bellhop (his real profession) and I was a rich, sophisticated hotel guest. He carried my bags, showed me the room, offered to get me some ice, and asked if there was anything else he could do for me.
“Yes,” I answered. “Call your boss and tell him that I need help unpacking and not to expect you back for an hour.”
“But ma’am,” he protested faintly, “it will only take five minutes to unpack your bags.”
“Call him,” I insisted, “and then take off your shirt.”
Needless to say, he was easily convinced. It was a delightful, sensual call.
When I saw him online some weeks later, he was moody and frustrated. Trouble at home, he said. His brother was driving him crazy. I teasingly suggested that he should call me and I’d relax him, and to my surprise, he did.
“My brother’s home,” he said. “But I don’t care. I have both phones in here with me, so he can’t pick up.”
We chatted a bit, and then I asked him if he had other fantasies he was interested in talking about. (The bellhop fantasy had been his idea.)
“Well,” he said slowly, “there is one thing I’ve always wanted to try. But it’s a little kinky and my girlfriend flat-out won’t.”
That sounded promising. Bondage? Exhibitionism? A threesome?
“What’s that?” I asked encouragingly.
“I’ve always wanted to do 69. But she won’t. I don’t think she ever will.”
Oh wow. Not at all what I expected. Such a simple thing for his girlfriend to be so against.
“Oh, I think I can help you out with that one,” I grinned.
“Really?” he asked.
“Sure! Have you ever gotten a blowjob?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, unenthusiastically, “a couple of times my girlfriend did that, but she doesn’t like to. She’ll do it if I ask, but she’d rather not.”
“Oh, man, that’s awful!” I exclaimed. “I love doing that.”
I was just sympathizing out loud, but I was immediately annoyed at myself for saying that. I make it a policy not to criticize their partners – it’s none of my business. There’s nothing at all wrong with disliking oral sex, and it’s certainly not my place to judge her choices.
But he didn’t seem to notice, and before I could apologize, he said, “You… like it?” He sounded stunned.
“Yes,” I answered. “I do. I especially love the reaction I get.”
He was silent, absorbing that. I’m not sure he ever imagined that a girl could actually like it.
I lowered my voice to a sensual whisper. “You know how I like to start?” I asked.
He could barely answer me. His breathing was raspy and quick. “How?”
“I’d start by unbuttoning your shirt slowly, kissing down your chest all the way.”
The guy was practically hyperventilating. I didn’t get far – nowhere near actual fellatio – before he hung up.
I was a bit surprised, because he’d lasted quite a long time on the first call. As it turns out, his brother had been banging on the door, so he had to hang up to beat him up.
Hey, everyone has his priorities.
•
Trisha went away on vacation and left us a list of her regulars. She left an outgoing message on her machine to try calling one of her girls, but this was the special “take extra-good care of them” list. One of the guys called me the next day.
Jack was cheerful, with a deep voice and an infectious laugh. I immediately felt comfortable with him, and he was just about the perfect phone sex caller. He was at ease with himself, had a vivid imagination, and was very responsive. And he was a believer, totally taken in by the fantasy of the pictures and the profile. He was definitely talking to Kristi, the gorgeous redhead.
We talked about kissing – all the sensuous, exciting ways to kiss. We talked about what I was wearing and how exactly he would remove it. I could hear him getting more and more aroused with every word.
Unfortunately, halfway into what promised to be a truly memorable call, he cursed and asked me to hold on. After a few minutes he came back and apologized profusely, explaining that there was a workman at the door. Could he please call me back later?
“Of course,” I assured him, but I couldn’t help teasing just a bit. “Did the guy notice your raging hard-on?”
He groaned audibly and hung up.
About two hours later he found me online.
“The guy is still here,” he complained.
I offered my sympathy and sent him a naked picture of Kristi and a few hot sentences. He then switched to complaining about how I’d managed to undo the careful calming down of the last several hours. I laughed at him and suggested that he throw the repair guy out.
He didn’t get to call me back until the next day, but when he did, it was explosively hot. Afterwards he wanted to talk.
“Do you really like to get spanked?” he asked.
I told him a little bit about what I like. He’d never tried it, but he seemed fascinated. He’s so incredibly fun to tease that I started describing what it would feel like to have a naked girl squirming over his lap. He surprised me by picking up the fantasy and having a second orgasm.
A few days later, Trisha sent a note with his name on it around to all the girls. It said, “No calls for this guy no matter what he says.”
Odd, I thought. Even if his checks were bouncing, she’d usually say “no calls without a credit card.” The only previous time I could remember a “no calls” message was about a kid who had been using his mother’s credit card, and Jack clearly wasn’t a kid.
I wrote Trisha and asked her what happened. (I was disappointed – I liked him!)
“He promised his wife he’d stop calling,” she wrote back. “He asked me to write to you all so he wouldn’t be tempted.”
Awww. I thought that was sort of sweet.
•
“Hello, Kristi? This is John.”
Oooh, yum. John had a lovely British accent. He’d seen my website and was intrigued by my statement that I like it rough.
“I like it rough, too,” he informed me.
I was excited. I’m just a sucker for a British accent, and I had immediate visions of schoolgirl canings and scoldings. My knickers were ready and waiting.
“Not just spanking, though,” he said. “I like sex rough, really rough.”
Even better. Just show me where to sign.
“Well,” he began, “why don’t you imagine that you’re in a nightclub. There are, oh, a dozen men crowded around the bar, and you’re on top of it. You are, shall we say, the entertainment.”
Not what I expected, but an image flashed in my head: Kristi doing a little tease number on the bar, being yanked down by a bunch of strong arms and, say, thrown over a barstool. The striptease was a little out of character, but hell, she’s a very bad girl. She can learn to strip.
I closed my eyes and started to talk, picturing Kristi all glammed up and teasing a bar full of horny guys. First I told him about what I was wearing (skimpy clothes and high heels, of course) and then described the music and the movements. I’d never tried to describe dancing before, and it was more difficult than I expected.
I only fumbled for a few seconds, and then, inspired by some imaginary strip act (I think maybe it was Demi Moore in that terrible movie), I described turning my back, tossing my halter top away, and turning to face the crowd of guys. I whispered about crossing my arms over my breasts so the customers still couldn’t see anything.
Now, time for the action.
“Oh, Kristi, that was terrific. Thanks, love.” And he hung up.
“Hey!” I asked the dial tone indignantly, “What about my rough sex?”
•
And speaking of callers with accents…
I met Cliff online and we chatted briefly. He’s your basic guy, with conventional fantasies, and anal sex as his kinkiest dream. He called and I was immediately distracted by his accent. He’s from Minnesota, but he sounds like he’s from Fargo. The movie Fargo.
He was perfectly average, but I had a lot of trouble with the call. Every time he said something, I wanted to burst out laughing. I kept seeing Frances McDormand with her huge pregnant belly, questioning the hookers in the restaurant:
“So, what’d he look like?”
“He was, yah know, funny lookin’.”
“Funny lookin’?”
“Yah.”
“So you were havin’ sex with the funny lookin’ one?”
“Ooh yah.”
Cliff just wanted to talk about straight sex. Oral, anal, whatever. Completely ordinary and yet impossibly difficult. I would ask him some intimate question and he’d answer, “Ooh yah,” and I’d be back thinking about McDormand talking to the other police officer:
“Didja have yer breakfast, Marge?”
“Ooh yah, Nerm made me s’me eggs.”
“Yah?”
“Yah.”
“Is yer cock hard for me, Cliff?”
“Ooh yah.”
I barely got through the call. I was stern with myself. I could not laugh at this guy. There was nothing funny about the call, it was just the accent. Stop laughing.
I called Rachel afterward and we cracked up. For a little while it became my favorite phone sex story. Then he called back a few weeks later and I suddenly felt ashamed. This is a real guy, a person, not a caricature of a movie.
The accent still makes me laugh, though. Now I laugh and feel guilty about it. I’m not sure that’s an improvement.
But I confess, I live in fear of men with accents now. I’m terrified both that I won’t know what they’re saying and that I won’t be able to prevent myself from laughing.
I had one aborted call from a guy with a southern accent so thick I could barely understand him.
“Sheeeeeeee-it! Yer a hottie!”
I admit, I was relieved when his credit card was declined.
Then Henry called – a young guy from New York with a pronounced Asian accent. It was thick but he was still perfectly comprehensible, and we had a pleasant time chatting.
This is good, I thought. The accent doesn’t matter. He seems interesting and intelligent. We’ll just have a lovely chat.
“You haven’t commented on my accent,” he said a few moments later. “You must have noticed it.”
Great, just great. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
“Oh yes,” I said brightly, braving my way through, “where are you from originally?”
“Guess.”
Just fucking great. Thanks a lot. I’ll guess Korea, and he’ll be Japanese and offended.
I went with the safe, vague answer.
“Oh, somewhere in Asia I bet.”
How’s that for a cop-out? But it worked.
“Chinese,” he said. “But I was raised in Hong Kong.”
Oh good. Fine. We talked about Hong Kong for a bit, and then moved on. I figured we were safely out of ethnic territory. I was so so wrong.
“Let me see your tits,” he said. “I love white girl tits.”
Sigh. I can deal with this. I did a little white girl strip tease.
“You want to suck my Chinese cock?” he inquired.
“Um, yeah, yeah, I can’t wait to have you in my mouth…”
“Tell me,” he insisted. “Tell me how much you want my Chinese cock.”
And here we are again trying not to laugh hysterically.
“Ohh, I really want your Chinese cock.” Cough sputter.
“Yeah, you white girls love Chinese cock.”
That’s all he wanted over and over. I had to tell him how much I wanted to suck his Chinese cock, how badly I wanted his Chinese cock inside my white pussy, how I wanted him to fuck me with that big hard Chinese cock.
How I did that without offending him or laughing at him, I will never know.
On the other hand, an accent can also be very sexy. I got the chance to do a soft southern accent with Paul, my rich boy, when we played one of his fantasies in a bar. He was the bartender, and I was a customer (a customer in battered denim shorts over a bikini, but hey, it’s his fantasy).
I’d forgotten my wallet and tried to sneak out without paying.
“Ma’am.” A big bartender blocked my way.
Paul paints vivid images, and I can still see the dark bar, the colored lighting, the sawdust on the floor… jukebox… warm air…
“Ma’am, ah do believe that you haven’t settled your bill just yet.”
Paul has a charming but mild southern accent, and I somehow found myself answering in kind.
“Oh now, you didn’t think ah was tryin’ to slip out, sweetie…”
“No ma’am. Ahm sure you weren’t.”
“Ah just left mah wallet in mah car. Ah’ll be raht back.”
“Ahm afraid ah cain’t let you do that, ma’am.”
It was a lovely scene. I pled guilty and my charming bartender agreed to waive my bar bill in exchange for doing a pair of “body shots.” (I’d never heard this term before, but he explained that it meant you pour the shot onto the other person and drink it from their body.)
He had me sit back against the bar and he poured the shot into the hollow of my neck. Oops! It dribbled all over my breasts and stomach and even down into my shorts. Well what’s a poor southern gentleman to do but find and lick up every drop? And to keep my word, of course, I was honor-bound to do the same.
In any case, playing with the accent, even so lightly, really made the scene.
But most of them terrify me. The most recent was the worst. He had a long, unpronounceable (to me, anyway) Eastern name – he was from Pakistan – and his name sounded something like Natjilethalnfgpammsdlkghrah.
“And what do people call you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“They call me Natjilethalnfgpammsdlkghrah.”
Oh please oh please, some deity, please help me out here. Then came the very longest pause of my entire life while I tried to muster myself to say it.
He must have sensed my desperation.
“Well, some people call me Nat.”
Thankyouthankyouthankyou.
“Well, great, Nat. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
I’m not sure I can convey the accent accurately, but it was your stereotypical Pakistani/Indian type accent. It was strong, but his English was excellent and I understood him perfectly.
I asked him what he was wearing.
“You really want to knoh bwhat I am really weh-ring?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, my gell-friend left behind sohme tings end I em weh-ring her bra end penties.”
He had domination fantasies. He wanted to be “spenked,” tied up, bent over, and fucked with a strap-on “deeldoh.” I obliged, but I did a really lousy job of it. He didn’t react much and nothing I did seemed to interest him. Not that I blamed him, mind. I think it was my worst call yet. I just couldn’t get past the accent.
I consoled myself with the thought that I’d obviously done such a terrible call for him that he’d never phone me again.
Of course I was wrong. He called a few days later and I froze. I desperately did not want to do the call. Luckily (for me), he asked if he could just call me back from the other room, and then I didn’t answer the phone when it rang again. I felt badly about it, but I just couldn’t do it.