I hated winters more than I hated the traffic, the pollution and the crowd in London. Little to my knowledge, a crisp, orange mélange skied evening would change my life and make me fall in love with winters.
I was jumping way ahead for now. Let’s back it up, shall we?
It was the mist-hovering, wet and colder month of October where I endured the difficult task of walking up and leaving the warm hold of my bed to trot to my office, all before the London traffic caught up.
My work at Murphy enterprises - the whiskey conglomerate, was that of an assistant. With a job description consisting of only two things; taking dictations and attending calls, I didn’t have much else to do.
So there I was in my twenty by twenty faux, grey-walled cubicle with a cactus as my company, working like all the other days. My job did put my law degree to shame but more about that later.
Although the dictations would cease by the end of my working hours, say around nine-ish, the calls would continue even after. And those weren’t the office calls and the people who called weren’t calling for me - Arin Rafferty.
Those who called me after my work hours at Murphy didn’t know my name or what I did for a living. For them, I was an enigma. Again, I digressed.
Mr. Roger Murphy, my boss was a diligent worker with a bunch of assistants. He has a personal assistant, a secretary and one more, whose job, umm... I kept forgetting. I guess I didn’t know what Daisy’s job description was asides from the fact that she slept with the boss.
That news was confirmed by every office gossip, too hard to ignore.
And then there was me, Roger’s stenographer-cum-assistant. I called myself the ’Lady of letters; a title I bestowed upon myself.
A year since mom succumbed to cancer, my life-named-boat capsized. She wanted me to make be someone famous in life and bloody hell, I tried.
I responded to every newspaper ad that carried a good income job. With a piling student loan and mom’s medical bills, the job at the Murphy’s wasn’t cutting it. Yet, in a place like London, nothing panned out either.
So when the golden hen of a second job fell in my lap, I nabbed it. My current second job consisted of being a part-time call girl. A literal, call girl. A girl who would satisfy every craving of loins on a call. And yes, part-time. The calling started anywhere south of ten p.m. where I made thirty pounds an hour.
Quite expensive for phone sex, you’d say?
Well, not everyone has my accent and vigour to experiment with the array of demands put across.
Before your mind ran scenarios, let me put it straight. I didn’t pleasure myself on the call. That wasn’t part of the professional ethics manual that I designed. I took the job to sustain a roof over my head and have a decent life. If for that, I had to do anything with my clothes on, I didn’t hesitate.
The underlining term was clothes on so get your mind out of the gutter.
That evening proceeded as usual with Mr. Murphy leaving the office followed by all of us. Of all the assistants that I talked about, I was fond of Mrs. Rose.
A woman in her late fifty’s with a mélange of blond and grey hair and light of wisdom on her face attained only if one had been good throughout their life. After mom’s demise, she ensured that I didn’t crumble and fall. Since the day Mrs. Rose stood at my doorstep with a casserole and refused to leave till I ate her famous baked chicken, she became an integral part of my life.
With walkable distance from the office, I reached home in less than ten minutes. Once inside my humble abode, my routine followed. A long hot shower, microwave dinner and calling up my operator was now muscle memory. I would be in business within the next few seconds.
As a coveted call girl, my phone lines remained jammed with people continuous dialling to talk.
With the incoming call display flashing across my screen, my night resumed. A seductive voice always did the trick.
“Hello there,” I said. There was radio silence on the other end. “Can you hear me?”
A deep breath followed a man’s sweet, soft voice, “Yes, I can hear you,” he cleared his throat. “So how does it work?”
“Don’t play coy? You know what I mean.”
“Well, you talk to me. Tell me about your fantasy and we will talk about it while we both relive ourselves on this call.”
Lie. After the call, I would need another hot shower before I’d be able to sleep without reliving the fantasy of being someone’s slave.
“It’s very steep.”
“The services you get are also good. Try it once,” I fought back.
The caller seemed like a dropper. In my line of business, droppers were a problem. Men who might not continue the call after hearing the price or wouldn’t come back for a second call afterwards morning’s morality washed over last night’s action. I had a solution for it.
“How about this. The first half an hour of the call is on me,” I proposed. “We get to know each other and that’s free of cost. Does that help?”
Whoever called me always had a financial issue, never a moral disentanglement.
“Fine... So my name is-”
“Ahh, ahh. No. No. Noo...” An amateur had to be told all the instructions before we’d start. “No names. You can use pseudo names. Also, you should not give any personal description.”
“Discreet and efficient.”
“Yes, I pride myself in that.” God. It sounded like a cleaning commercial.
“How about you start, I’ll follow your lead.”
“Fair enough. You can call me anything you like. I can see that you are a first-time caller.”
Humming vibrations came through the phone. “I want you to call me Master.”
“So, you like to dominate in bed, huh! Are you into specific kink or...”
“I’m not into anything specific. Roleplay, and stuff... That’s about it.” After a brief pause, he whispered, “How about for a whole night?”
“For a whole night of what?”
“How much would I be charged for a whole night?” His commanding voice boomed through the phone.
To be frank, I never had anyone ask that question before. “Well, I can ask and get back to....”
“Fuck it. I’m paying. We’ll talk for the whole night. Or till you have to go to work.” A pause later, he continued. “You do have another job, right?”
Someone who was shy and scared a while back was now taking command.
“I do have another job, Master. And my other job requires my presence only by eight in the morning.”
“Like most working-class people then ah?”
The working class sarcasm had me smile. “Yes, like most of them, Master.”
“Babydoll, you sound amazing when you smile over the call,” he whispered, soft strokes of air warmed my senses, as if he was right beside me.
Master and Babydoll!
“Babydoll? Is that how you call your partner?”
Another deep breath flagged his incoming words. “That’s what I’ll call you.”
“How did you come to this profession?”
“Well, you can say fate, luck whatever. I found the job when I needed it.”
“Your other job doesn’t pay you well?”
Border lining personal question. However, it took a lot of convincing to make him stay for the whole night. I wasn’t ready to kill my golden egg-laying hen so I danced around the topic.
“It does but I wanted some adventure in life.” Men tend to get on with their act faster if I dropped philosophy. I expected the same from him. He took a long pause, seemingly evaluating my answer. “So it seems our half an hour is up. Maybe, we move onto more mature topics now?”
“Don’t rush it. We’ll do what I came here to do in due time. For now, talk.”
“Okay, I need a topic to talk.”
“You like poetry?”
Predictability and the caller ran in opposite directions. “Yes, I love it. Fitzgerald, Shakespeare are just some of the many-”
“The right poem finds us exactly when it needs to,” he quoted. A smile broke on my face. My teeth dug into my lips, unwilling to let him hear me smile.
“Yes. You do know your poets, Babydoll”
His smile, a long drawn breath flew through the speakers. The way he elongated the word, babydoll had my breath paced up. I was re-living fantasy, listening to a man who promised to drag the ground beneath me with his wordily affair.
The clock chimed up, reminding me of unfinished business.
“So Master shall we move onto...”
“You seem very eager,” he teased.
“And you seem very lax.”
“Fine. If the lady wants to have fun, let’s have it. What are you wearing?
“T-shirt and shorts.” I always told the truth. Driving imagination of undressing a woman with normal attire was better than any lingerie. Trust me.
“Take off your shorts,” his commanding voice floated across.
“Do it. I know when someone is lying. A soft chuckle later he said, “Even on a call.”
“Fine... let me... just get it... off... Ahh, fine, done.”
“Babydollll. Lies again huh!” He admonished. My lungs held in the air, surrendering to his words.
How did he know?
There laid two options. Go again or give up. There was something about his commanding yet soft voice that nudged me to adhere. That, mixed with my tiredness from work acted in his favour.
“Done.” My heart thumped into my ribcage for this was somehow my first time, playing according to my caller’s instructions.
“Now run your fingers inside your panty.”
“I’m not wearing any, Master!” He didn’t get an upper hand in my turf.
“Babyyydollll, don’t lie,” his command was stern. After a long exhale, he calmed his voice. “Fine. I believe you.” Releasing softer puffs of air onto the speaker, he continued. “Take your fingers over your clit and play with it.”
“Master, I’m the one to play...”
“Do it for me, woman.” His voice came out as an airy whisper. I fell back onto the couch, sliding my hand inside the fabric. An unarrested moan floated. “Good girl, now, tell me how do you feel?”
Words refused to emerge. Chocked at inception, what flowed were moans. Chants, of how I felt. Of crescendo to music and apogee to prayers.
The caller’s breath paced up, running in parallel to mine. “Go on, play with yourself.”
I could hear his belt buckle drop onto the wooden floor with a soft thud. His voice hitched as he instructed me further. My moans echoed in my room as I ran my fingers down to the part that lured me to sin.
“No, babydoll. Not now... Play with what you’re asked of, for now...” I massaged my aching bud and widened my legs. Stifled words escaped from his end. “Good girl. Now imagine I’m there with you. I want to suck you. Will you let me?”
“Yesss,” I roared. The pleasure was mounting, coursing its way through each cell in my existence.
“Then take your fingers to your mouth. Wet them. Let them drip and bring it back.” I felt like a puppet, playing according to his wishes, not resisting anything and throwing caution to the wind. I felt wetter, doing his deed for him. “Insert it inside you, babydoll. Let me feel you. In you.” After a brief pause, his airy words emerged, “How many fingers are there...”
“Make them three.” My back arched up, floating into the warmth of the room. “Tell me, what you want to do to me.”
The pleasure was mounting. I could feel the pulsating sensation between my legs. My eyes closed, imagining the silhouette of the man who commanded me.
“I want to fuck you, sit on your face and make you suck me. I want you to ram me so hard, I’d see the stars in the morning,”
My vision displayed black dots as I floated off the cliff I stood. I released. My voice escaped raspy and shaky while my legs trembled under the intensity. He might have released alongside. I could hear him panting.
That was the moment I realized what I did. Even with clothes on, I had phone sex with a stranger. As the curse befell, guilt took over.
Although we continued talking about weather, nightlife and a thousand different things, my mind replayed the whole scenario, making me agitated. My chewed-up cuticles were the proof. I didn’t realize how I landed on the couch or when sleep took over.
It was the alarm alert that broke my sleep spell. As I picked up the phone which was now laying on the ground, I saw the call duration. Seven hours.
I must have slept off while he stayed on call.
I pushed off the comfortable hold of my quilt and got ready for another day of work. On my way, I dialled the operator.
“Hey, it’s me Arin. Any chance you came to know who it was that called me last night.”
“Nope, Arin. But I saw the call log. Someone was really into you, girl...”
“Seems like that.”
With no success in knowing the caller’s identity, I ended the call and enter the beautiful, tall, Murphy towers. From the outside, it looked like any normal glass-walled building, reflecting the sky.
Going up the lift, I continued scanning my second phone for messages from the caller. The anticipation made me giddy. I was acting like a teenager, hoping for something.
Sure, it was a one-time thing but a girl could dream, right?
Although I tried hard to concentrate on the computer screen, my mind kept running back to the man who called me last night. Crashing my reverie, a message chime on my phone.
I grabbed it, assuming it was from the mystery man.
Your account number ending ****4962 has been credited with £1000 from Naughty nights phone play.
The number of zeros tossed my heart into my mouth. It was a mistake, an extra digit added by accident. Dialling the operator, I walked into the confines of a deserted meeting room.
“I think there was a mistake with the payment. It’s showing a credit of 1000 bucks.”
The operator’s voice remained elated like before. “He paid knowingly. We called to confirm the payment. He said it’s for the good time with you.”
I didn’t hear the rest. Ending the call, I walked back to my cubicle. Questions about the mystery man rose in my mind like mist, dancing and clouding my rational senses from working.
Why did he overpay? What was he thinking?
Why did he not end the call for seven hours?
Whether you came here for judging the book or as a reader..
Whatever it may be, I hope you like what you read. Going forward, chapters won’t be this lengthy. The next few chapters are a combination of call conversions and Protagonist’s point of view and her life.
And what she discovers about the caller’s identity.
Do let me know if you like the concept :)
❤️ Happy reading ❤️
Going forward, chapters won’t be this lengthy. The next few chapters are a combination of call conversions and Protagonist’s point of view and her life.
And what she discovers about the caller’s identity.
Do let me know if you like the concept :)