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It was a job.
He'd taken a bunch of calls since starting.
Even when things got heated, it had always been what it was.
A job.
There was detachment.
But, he found as this client's ragged breathing became little whimpers, he could feel a telltale tightening in his chest, his own breathing getting more ragged.
Turned on.
But no.
That didn't seem possible.
She wasn't even saying anything, wasn't filling his ear—and mind—with some filthy-ass shit he hadn't even thought of before like some of the callers did.
He was probably just hot, he tried to tell himself, fanning himself with his book. Whoever was in charge of the thermostat at the office kept it at like seventy-five degrees.
"Are you wet for me?" he asked a moment later, hearing a throaty mewling noise. "What was that, baby?" he asked. Not usually one for nagging, he wanted—needed—to hear it.
"Y-yes," she whimpered.
There was no use denying it after that, though.
His cock was thick and straining in his jeans at her little admission.
"Fuck," he hissed to himself, then remembered where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. "Are you going to work your clit for me?" he asked, taking slow, deliberate breaths, trying to ease the aching need.
This wasn't about him.
This was about her.
The caller.
The fucking client.
If he was going to start getting hard on the job, he might as well get a job as an escort instead of a phone sex worker.
His gaze moved to the clock on the wall, trying to listen to the irritating ticking instead of the whimpers on the other end of the phone.
"Yes," she whispered in response.
"Are you thinking about my hand?" he asked, voice getting thicker. "My tongue?" he pressed. The response to that was louder, throatier. "Yeah," he agreed. "How do you like it? Slow, fast?" he asked, trying not to let his mind go there, create a scene as well. His cock was already straining. It didn't need any more ammunition.
Still, he couldn't seem to stop himself from wondering about her.
She sounded younger, but plenty of older women had sweet, small voices too.
Was she blonde? Brunette? Long-haired? What did her eyes look like when she was turned on? Did she arch her back, writhe her hips? Was she the type to run her hands up and down her body, feed into the fantasy, roll her nipples, squeeze her breasts? Or did she close her eyes, grip the sheets, get completely wrapped up in the moment, in the sensations?
It wasn't long until her low whimpers were getting louder, more frantic.
She would come.
He could have left it exactly how it was, her fingers working her clit. It probably would have been better for return business if he kept some other fantasies for future calls if they came.
But he couldn't seem to stop his mind from wandering, his mouth from making other demands.
"You want my cock inside you now, don't you?" he asked, feeling the need for that sensation stronger than he had in a long time. Tight walls pulling him in, holding on, pulsating as she came, milking his orgasm from him as well.
"Yes," she whimpered, voice even smaller than before. Turned on, yes. But also, he thought, because she was shy, because this wasn't something that came naturally to her, having a man talk to her during sex, needing to respond.
That was something he was coming to find with his work. How many women kept their fantasies close to their vest, too insecure to demand what they want from their partners. Whether that was a societal problem, always making women feel like enjoying sex was sinful and unladylike, that it made her a slut, or if it was because they were stuck with insecure men who would take any suggestions in bed as criticism for his sex game, was anyone's guess.
But, in Rush's opinion, it was a fucking shame.
No woman should spend her whole life aching to have her ass smacked and her hair pulled by her man, and never feeling like she could ask for it, never getting to experience it.
Maybe this Katherine was quiet because she was unsure, because she was out of her element, because her unsatisfying man was in the next room.
It wasn't his place to judge.
It was his place to make sure he got her off.
Customer satisfaction and all that.
Not to mention what this job was doing for his ego. True, it didn't need much help to begin with, but it never hurt to get your ego stroked.
He certainly hadn't been getting anything else stroked lately.
What could he say?
The demand for his particular skill set took place at night. It put a crimp in his social life. But that was alright.
He was enjoying having a steady job in a consistent town.
"Are you thinking about my thick cock while you're fucking your pussy, baby?" he asked, shifting his legs off his desk, the friction the movement caused damn near enough to make him come too. "Turn your fingers around," he demanded. "Stroke over your top wall for me," he told her, hearing the catch in her breath when her fingertips grazed her G-spot. "Faster," he demanded as she got louder. "Come for me, baby. Come for me," he told her.
