Page 1 of Hung Up

Note to her: I wish I could, too.

“Shit,” John hissed. Through the phone, I heard John moaning. There was a fever pitch to his voice, one that told me he was getting close. Whether those groans and hot gasps of breath were of pain or pleasure, I would never know.

Well, it was probably both.

John’s pleasure fell through the phone, but his needy groans didn’t even stir a flutter in my pussy.

My eyes rolled of their own accord, my right hand holding a bright pink princess phone against my ear while I inspected the almond shaped manicure on my left hand. Its long, deep maroon color was sinfully classy, and I couldn’t help but picture it gripping a live cock in front of me. But this was business.

“Again,” I instructed, my voice dripping with sex after years of practice, “I want to hear you.”

John was currently dripping melting wax down his chest at my command. He seemed to be interested in temperature play, but I only found that out after our third call. He’d been too afraid to ask a partner, because he wanted to maintain that control over the wax.

Enter, me: Harper Rhodes, your friendly neighborhood phone sex operator.

My eyes scrunched shut but I fell into the call, breathing heavily so John could hear me. You know, really selling the fantasy.

The sound of his wet flesh squelched through the phone. Knots clenched in my stomach, though not from arousal. Wax play didn’t really do it for me, but the moment John was brave enough to ask me, I’d done a shit ton of research on how to make sure I could safely guide him.

“Yes, I’m so close,” he croaked.

There were some of my clients who really revved my engine, but John wasn’t necessarily one of them. I was drier than the Sonoran desert—if you could believe it—and that was hard to match.

But that was the job, and it was a job I did well. So well, in fact, that I had regulars—like John—who called me precisely when their appointment started. They tipped exorbitantly and sometimes they even sent extra money, just because. I’d trained them well, I always joked to myself.

To . . . myself.

John, here, was on the newer side, but with each call he opened up more to me. I was sure he was a perfectly fine person, but his sexual appetite never did it for me. Which was fine, I’d never yuck anyone’s yum, but his fantasy would never be mine.

And it didn’t have to be.

So I panted, and I moaned, and I squealed like they were the center of my universe. And for a few minutes each night, I supposed they were.

“One more,” I murmured, dropping my voice so he’d really have to pay attention. “One more, and then you can come.” My left hand flicked an invisible piece of lint off my knee, which was currently propped in front of me. I wrapped my arm around my leg, leaning my cheek on my bony knee, my eyes falling shut as I listened to John pour more wax onto his chest, his orgasm riding in tandem with the hiss slicing through his teeth.

When all that was left was the sound of John trying to catch his breath, I cleared my throat. “That was wonderful, John. I’m so glad you called me again. You really know how to make a woman feel so special.” My eyes scrunched as I choked the words out and my heart skipped a beat over the false sentiment.

“Well, Harper, you are irresistible.”

My blood rushed so loudly it was all I could do to hear him over it.

“How could I not call you?”

I chuckled low, the sensual kind I reserved for my clients. Keeping them on the phone that first time was always the most difficult, but once you finished the first call, they were usually eager to pick the phone back up again the next time. But it was always smart to play the game until the goodbye.

“Same time next week?”

“I look forward to it,” I answered, which was only partly a lie. I definitely looked forward to his payment.

It was muffled but a groan slipped through the phone. I imagined him biting his knuckles to keep himself quiet. Now that caused a flutter inside me.

The phone clicked and I sighed, gently placing the handset back on the base. I’d picked a landline because I didn’t want any other contact with my clients other than through this phone. It was my way of separating myself from my job. You know, like how they say not to put a television in your bedroom because your bed was only for sex and sleep? Like fuck was I going to not watch my reruns of Criminal Minds with a glass—or three—of white wine from the comfort of my California King whenever I felt like it. Idiots, those scientists, I always grumble, even when my eyes burn when I stay up too late watching Spencer Reid for hours on end.

For my job, though, I forced that separation by having this hot pink princess phone, fixed with an actual cord I sometimes wrapped around my finger. With my chin length black bob and bangs, the movie practically wrote itself.

It’s French, Claire.

The phone was my saving grace, found while thrifting a few months after I graduated from college. Gave me a whole idea right there in the middle of the shop. Immediately I knew, if I was going to do this, I’d have to go all out. Pull out all the stops. Give them such a good time they came crawling back for more. My clients called at exactly their appointment time, not a minute early, not a minute late, and paid me twelve hours before to confirm their appointment.

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