Call me...

Hey, don't hold your breath, but at this moment my computer is up and running! I get to take the PowerBook into the shop on Monday to be tweaked by our Mac guru. But right now, I can finish up the Fetish Friday theme still ringing in my head. I've got 486 phone references in stories on my laptop...and counting.

Phones can be such fucking fun. The barrier between the characters. The distance. The faux sense of safety, which can build so quickly to danger. Like in Isabel Kerr's undeniably filthy Ablutions:

The phone rang: I saw his ID and waited for a few rings to answer it.

“Hi.” I said softly.

“Hey baby. Sorry about that outburst the other day but you know I can’t stand that don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.

“That’s better. Now when I come over there today are you going to be all clean and fresh?”

“Yes Sir.”

*****

In Too Dirty to Clean, I wrote about a payphone on Beverly Boulevard. God, I can still see it. I didn't have a cell phone then. Because nobody had cell phones yet. Just car phones. But I will always appreciate just how guilty you can feel when you have to pull over to call your lover from an anonymous box on the street:

I’m really not supposed to be calling you. I’m supposed to be on my way to the corner grocery store, to pick up something I forgot today when I did the rest of the week’s shopping. That was the excuse I gave, anyway. Lame though it may sound, it was all I could come up with through the hazy, horny fog of my X-rated thoughts. Need tomato paste for the sauce. It won’t taste as good without. So be right back, honey. But “right back” isn’t supposed to include a stop at a graffiti-tagged pay phone around the corner, where I slide in a silvery quarter, dial your number from memory, and tell you how much I miss you.

And how much I miss your cock.

“Say that again,” you prompt.

“Cock,” I repeat automatically. “I miss your cock—”

“Tell me more. What do you miss the most.”

“I miss bending over, parting my thighs, and taking it.”

“Taking what—”

“Your cock,” I say again, and I hear the low chuckle caught at the back of my throat as some sane part of my inner critique witnesses me having this unbelievable conversation. I manage to shock myself with the words that come automatically to my lips when you and I are on the phone.

*****

Aimee Nichols Wakeup Call appeared in Got a Minute and shows how frisky a phone call can get when you indulge at work:

“I'm going to lick your cunt, Lana.”

She heard a sharp intake of breath.

“I climb off your lap and you watch me like a hawk, unsure of what I'm going to do, but hoping all the same. I spread your legs and lie between them, breathing lightly on your pussy. You tremble and tilt your head back. I start caressing you with my tongue, savoring your taste and silkiness.”

Emma paused to hear Lana's breathing and the little moans that escaped her mouth without her realizing. Emma's own breathing hammered in time with Lana's, and she turned her back on the store to give herself as much privacy as possible.

“You writhe against me and I gather your clit in my mouth and suck it hard.”

“I'm gonna come!” Lana gasped, and immediately let out a series of moans. Emma could hear her thrashing on the bed. She waited, still with her back to the store, for Lana to recover.

“That was wonderful,” Lana murmured when she had her breath back.

Emma smiled. “Glad you enjoyed yourself. But I should go. I don't want to get sprung making personal calls during work time. Especially not this personal.”

*****

Ever since I first saw the movie Something Wild, I have relished the idea of fucking while a partner is on the phone, like in Control by John A. Burke, which appeared in H is for Hardcore:

Benjamin thrust harder, savoring the sound of the flesh of his thighs against the fatty part of her ass, "I know you do. All my little whores like it in the ass."

The secretary shifted, grabbing at his cock with her cheeks, "Yes Mr. Friar, fuck me harder."

He savored the discomfort across her face and relished the though of her walking funny the rest of the day. He pumped harder, quicker, nearing climax, as the phone on his desk rang.

"Fuck," he spat in disgust, pulling out and reaching for the phone. The moment had been lost, his control broken by the chirping of plastic and electronics.

*****

Sometimes, the phone is merely a description, like in Kristina Wright's Where There's Smoke from Playing with Fire:

Daniel tucks his hands under her ass, pulling her up to meet his cock. “Tell me what it’s like to fuck him,” he says, his voice low and dirty, like an anonymous pervert on the phone. “Tell me how you fuck him in our bed.”

*****

Donna George Storey, in Six Layer's of Sweetness, delivers a concept that everyone who has ever had a crush will embrace:

“When do I get to meet this Michael?”
“When I figure out whether I like him or not.”
“Oh, you like him. You always blush when you talk to him on the phone. You’re even blushing now.”

I have done that! I've blushed on the phone! All right, I've blushed just about everywhere. But on the phone is a big one for me.

*****

Occasionally, a phone call starts a story, like in Sommer Marsden's Panty Lines, which appeared in Hurts So Good:

When I answered the phone, he said, “Put them on.”
That was all. Then he hung up. I put them on.

*****

And then there are the missed calls, like in my post called "Silence":

Back at home, my heart was racing from nerves and from coffee. I set out my purchases, surveyed the scene. Then I checked the answering machine. Four messages. The first was from Alex, not Jack. He was checking up on me, wondering where I was. He’d call back in an hour. And he had called back, his voice more tense now. The third time was Alex, as well, saying if he didn’t hear from me soon, he’d be coming over, and adding, with that cold voice he adopted from Jack, that I wouldn’t like it much if he had to make the trek from Malibu.

The fourth call was Jack.

I stopped, now dressed in the glossy black vinyl catsuit I’d bought, standing on my tiptoes to admire my reflection in the mirror, imagining my favorite pair of black patent leather heels.

“Pick up the phone.”

Of course, I hadn’t. I hadn’t been there.

“Pick up the fucking phone.”

My heart seemed to stop for a moment, and then race forward, pounding at triple speed.

“Alex is on his way over, kid. If you’re not there—“ I could imagine him shaking his head, could see his disappointed expression as if I were in his office with him.

The key in the door, then. I turned around, surrounded by pink tissue paper and mylar bags, my body encased in what now felt like a silly get-up, my feet still arched up on tippy toe. Alex’s first expression, before he could fix his face, was of total relief. I wondered what Jack had told him to do if he didn’t find me home. But the man was good. He recovered instantly, and walked past me, not saying a word, to the phone in the kitchen.

“She’s here.” A pause. “I haven’t talked to her yet.” Another pause. “Looks like she went out shopping—“ Dark laugh. “Yes. Sure, Jack.”

Sure, those are only the tiniest taste of the nearly 500 stories I possess. Or the others ones I have waiting on hold in my mind. I'm more than happy to link to your blog or site if you post a phone-sex story of your own. And I'm always voyeuristically yours if you want to whisper about a hot conversation you had on the phone last night...

XXX,
Alison

P.S. You could also nominate your favorite phone-themed scenes from stories you've read... I'm still searching for the Mike Kimera one!