For A Good Time, Call... (3 page)

Sniffling
on the other end. “I miss her so goddamn much,” he cried.

So,
apparently today... I am the therapist.

It's
amazing how many men called in for a quick spank and ended up bearing
their souls. They needed to tell me about how their wives never let
them fuck them anymore. How she lost her sex drive after the kids. Or
how they feel like freaks because they get sexually aroused by
cartoon characters. Some of my most regular clients called and had a
quick jerkoff session and then wanted to talk to me for half an hour
about how awful their last date went.

At
seventy-five cents per minute, I was making an easy two-thousand a
week. Especially considering I was independent and didn't have to cut
anyone else in, most of that money was going right into my pocket.
And I only worked part time.

“Can
you send me a pair of your panties?” new guy asked after he was
done crying.

“I'm
sorry?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

“Panties.
Can you send me a pair of your panties? Like... after you've worn
them.” No wonder his girlfriend had left him. She probably
caught him digging through her dirty laundry and smelling her
panties. Oh, the panty sniffers. “I'll pay you for them.”

“Of
course you will.”

“What
will it cost? How do we do this?” he asked, sounding excited.

“Fifty
bucks per pair,” I told him, coming up with the number easily.
I knew it was a thing. When you job is kink, you needed to keep
informed of trends and rates. You could usually make a good
seventy-five to a hundred for a pair of used panties.

Underneath
it all, I had good business sense. Even if my business was
non-traditional. I knew what I was doing. And I was always ready to
capitalize on new ideas. The pictures of my feet went for five
dollars a pop. Especially when I did different things for them.
Soaked them and got them nice and pruny, submerged them in honey or
chocolate syrup. Foot fetish guys loved that.

So
I was more than a little happy at the idea of a new business venture.
I could get panties on the cheap. Wear them for a day... maybe two.
Then send them out. Fifty bucks plus shipping.

“Plus
shipping,” I added. “And we would handle it like we
handle these calls. You log into my account but instead of my
invoicing you for the time, you can just transfer the money each time
you want a pair.”

“Okay.
And I'll... add a note with an address.”

“Great,
Tony,” I said, already thinking about the shopping I would need
to do. The updating I would have to do to my profiles. And inform all
my callers. “Yup. Uh huh. I know. It was really great.
Tomorrow? How about... one PM? Great. Yes. Mmhmm. Bye.”

I
checked the time, knowing I would probably have at least one more
call before the men went home to their families. I went to my closet,
picking out an outfit. I grabbed a polka dot t-shirt dress, black
tights, a black faux leather jacket, and a pair of chunky black
heels.

“Hello?”
I said into the phone, slipping my pants down my legs. “Hey...
Danny,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Nothing much. I am just
taking my clothes off so I can take a shower. Mmmhmm, Danny. I am a
very, very dirty girl.”

I
reached into the shower and turned on the water. “Oh yeah. I am
getting all wet for you. You like that?” I stepped under the
stream, holding my upper body away from the water. “Yeah my
teetee is so wet for you.” Literally, he made me call my vagina
a “teetee”. What kind of damage did these guy's parents
do to them? It was no wonder they needed to call and talk to me. “Do
you want to touch it and see? Yes, I'll stand still while you inspect
it. Yes.”

“That
feels good, doesn't it, sweetie?” he asked, sounding husky.

Danny
liked me virginal. Oh, the virgin fetish. Always going strong. Every
man wants to be the first, the only. Maybe because they think if the
girl has no reference to compare it to, then they wouldn't know he
was completely unsatisfying. He wanted us both to be fifteen and
first-time touching. He wanted me unsure. Turned on, but fearful. It
was a careful balance to be maintained.

I
make a whimpering sound.

“It's
okay that it feels good,” he murmurs. “I like how you
feel. I want to feel you on the inside,” he says and I know he
is closing his eyes. Getting into it. “I am going to put my
finger inside your teetee,” he says.

I
pause a second, another whimper. “Ouch,” I say,
discarding the knowledge that a finger probably doesn't hurt when
you're fifteen and had been sticking tampons up there every month for
the past three years. Then, “Ohhh,” sounding airy,
surprised, elated at the new sensation. Phone sex operators have to
know how to put on a show.

“You're
ready for me,” he says and I shake my head. Oh yeah, one finger
in the heater for two seconds and she's ready for your cock. That's
totally how it works. “I am going to put my rod in you. And
it's going to hurt. Just a little, I promise.” But he doesn't
want me to sound like it only hurts a little. He wants me to cry out
like he stuck a fist up there. So I do, the sound echoing off the
shower walls. “Ow ow ow ow! Danny?” I cry out, sounding
confused.

“You're
okay. The worst is over now.” Ha. Fat chance. Stupid guys. “Oh,
you're so hot and tight. Feel how your teetee is holding onto me so
tight?”

Then
it is all grunting as he gets himself really going, imagining his
fist is my tight little pussy and he is thrusting wildly into it. I
make gasps at first, half pain, half surprise, then it quickly
becomes moans. Groans. Begging. A high-pitched, dramatic “Oh!”
and I am finished. And his hands are all sticky.

“Oh,
baby,” he says, back to his normal adult voice. “You get
better and better.”

“Why
thank you, darling,” I coo. Always sweet and accommodating.
“You know,” I say, turning so the water runs down my cold
back. “if you want the panties from today, I can arrange that.”

A
pause. Interest. Hook, line, sinker. “They're pretty white
panties aren't they?”

Sure
they are. “Of course.”

“Great...
how do I get them?”

An
hour later, and soon to be a hundred dollars richer, I walked out my
door and headed into town. Cheap panties. I needed a lot of cheap
panties. All different styles and colors. Pretty white bikinis, maybe
with a little bow for my virgin lovers. Red, purple, hot pink thongs
for the somewhat normal guys. Lace ones. Silk ones.

If
I timed things right, I could get more than one ready each day. I
could wear one pair downstairs to workout in. I could wear another
pair out on the town at night. Maybe even a third pair for sleep. Who
knew. I wasn't exactly sure how strong an odor we were going for
here. But if I got sweaty enough, and maybe got myself a little
excited here and there... maybe that would do it. Who would pass up
the opportunity to use their vibrator more often and call it
business?

I
got back to my apartment around seven-thirty, a huge bag of panties
in my hand. A good thirty pairs. It would be enough to get me
started. See how things went. It if was going to be worth it in the
long run.

Each
step up the walk, into the elevator, across the hall filled me with
more and more dread. I never stopped home. Not even to change shoes
when my feet were bleeding. Not when it was dark out. Dark in my
apartment. Dark in my head.

But
I couldn't exactly go out to a bar with a bag full of unmentionables.

I
unlocked my locks, flicking on the light, ignoring the strangling
sensation in my throat. It was fine. I was fine. I just needed to
drop the bag in my room and head right back out. I had just closed my
closet when there was a banging on my door. Loud, insistent, off the
hinges banging.

My
heart flew into my throat. That was such a corny, overused expression
and I hated even thinking it. But that was exactly how it felt. It
felt like it had pounded free of my rib cage and shot up into my
esophagus. That was what dread felt like. The kind of dread that came
from banging doors with monsters on the other side. The kind of
dread that came from experience.

I
backed up into my bedroom, my legs catching the end of my bed and
sending me flying onto it. I was trapped. There was no other way out
of the apartment. And that was stupid. That was something that I had
never considered before. The need for a fire escape. Stupid, stupid
me.

“Open
up, Sixteen,” a vaguely familiar voice called. Not the voice I
was afraid of. Not the one that brought back the memories. The one of
my pain in the ass noisy neighbor. What the hell could he possibly
want?

“Fuck
off,” I called, walking into the living room, watching the door
like it might push inward at any moment. He was big enough to make
that happen.

“Open
up or I'll take it off it's hinges,” he said and I knew he
meant it.

“With
what tools?” I called back, thinking of the hammers still in my
sink.

“Awe
sugar, it's amazing what can be done with a screwdriver if you know
what you're doing.”

Oh,
hell.

“Fine,”
I grumbled, sliding the locks, but leaving the chain on and pulling
the door open wide enough to see him through. “What do you
want, Fourteen?”

“Well
here's the thing,” he started, his light blue eyes watching me
through the three inch gap. “some crazy bitch broke into my
apartment and stole all my hammers.”

Frustrated,
I grabbed the chain and pulled it. Mostly because I wanted to really
see him when I put him in his place. “It's not breaking in if
the door isn't even locked,” I said, opening the door up fully.

“Think
the law would see it that way?” he asked.

“I
think the law would see your construction noise at six in the morning
to be a complete violation of the noise ordnance,” I countered.

“Nicely
done,” he said, nodding and I thought he was going to back off.
But then his arm shot out and slammed into the door, pushing it and
me out of his way and stepping into my foyer.

“Get
out,” I practically growled at him. Out. He needed to get out.
I never let anyone into my personal space. No one. And yet there he
was, a huge mass of man that made the space feel cramped and
claustrophobic. I needed him out. Out. Out. Out. Who did he think he
was barging into my personal space? A little voice in the back of my
mind whispered that maybe I shouldn't have barged into his first
then. But I told that nosy bitch to stuff it.

“I
want my stuff,” he said, watching my hand as it went to my neck
and stayed there. Unable to really suck in a breath properly.

“Fine,”
I said. “They're in the kitchen sink. Just take them and go.”

He
nodded at me, walking into the kitchen and I heard the scraping as he
pulled the hammers out of the sink. “You did a lot of work in
here,” he said, sounding impressed. “It came out nice,”
he said, coming back toward me. But he didn't turn and go for the
door. He walked past me, bumping my shoulder and moving into my
living room. “It's very... clean.”

“Thank
you,” I said through grinding teeth. He needed to leave. My
chest was feeling tight.

Then
he was walking down my hall, reaching into the bathroom and turning
the light on. “Wow, this is well done. I like the table. That's
different.”

At
this point, I just stopped breathing. Literally. Nothing was coming
in or going out. He walked into the hallway again, me following
dumbly behind him. He reached for my bedroom door handle and I
couldn't take it anymore. “No!” I yelled, pushing myself
between him and the door, looking up at him, not caring if he saw the
raw panic in my eyes. I just needed him out. Right then. He could
not, absolutely could not go into my bedroom. “No,” I
said again, more needy, more pathetic. Hating myself for it.
“Please.”

He
looked down at me for a long minute, his blue eyes searching mine. In
the end, he backed up a foot, nodding. “Okay,” he said,
turning and walking back toward the door. “See you around...”

Augh.
An introduction? Really? Weren't we intimate enough for neighbors?
“Fiona,” I gave in. The sooner he was out, the sooner I
could curl up into a ball. It was too late to go out. I was too
worked up for alcohol to take the feelings away.

He
nodded. “Hunter,” he said. He opened the door and stepped
into the hall. “See you around, Fee,” he said, closing
the door.

I
went behind him and fastened all my locks, walking into the bathroom,
stripping off my clothes. There was a strange anticipation in my
belly, like turning, like your belly does on a fast spinning carnival
ride. That was always how I felt before. I reached around underneath
my table sink vanity, looking for the smooth feeling under my
searching fingers. Finding it, my nails dug at the corners and ripped
the tape away, the razor blade falling into my hand.

I
sat down on the cold tile floor in my undies, pulling my thigh up
across my tattooed leg, taking a deep breath and looking at my
half-healed scratches. This would help. This always helped. Bleed it
out then bleach all the evidence down the drain.