Don’t worry, I’m not going there. Irefuseto go there, actually.
“What do you want me to do, Randy?” I ask, hoping to move this conversation straight to the part where he climaxes so I can hang up.
“Put my dick between your feet and rub your toes up and down it.”
“You got it, dude.” I shrug and lean back in my chair. “Up and down and up and down they go, Randy. My toes are tiptoeing all over your big ol’ cock-a-doodle-do.”
“Yesss,” he groans, and I quietly gag. “Rub your feet all over me.”
“Oh, I’m rubbin’. Rubbin’, rubbin’, rubbin’. I’m rubbing so hard I hope you don’t get foot burn.”
But seriously, can feet create that much friction on a penis?
“Are you playing with yourself, Ruby?” he asks, his excitement enough to make my stomach lurch. I swear, much more of this deep dive into the sex pool, and I’m going to start feeling like being a mid-twenties virgin isn’t such a bad thing.
Up until now, it’s been solely an issue of time and motivation and partnership—but there’s a whole other disturbing layer building within the walls of my sex cubicle, and from what I hear, PTSD can be difficult to reverse.
My cubby mate, Miss Diamond herself, peeks her head over my wall and waves, and I pray to the gods of sex phone lines that this call with Randy will end soon so I can talk to someone who isn’t wanting me to play footsie with a dick.
“Ruby?” Randy asks between disturbing pants. “Tell me you’re touching yourself, baby. Tell me you’re rubbing your big cunt while you think about my dick and balls inside you.”
“Yep. You betcha.” I roll my eyes and make Diamond, a.k.a. Monica, giggle. She covers her mouth to keep herself quiet. “I’m touching my cookie right now. And it’s so warm and ...ooey-gooey ...just for you.”
“Oh baby, I love that so much,” Randy says, his voice far past simply excitable. He’s out of breath, and I’m sure if I listened closely enough, I’d actually be able tohearhim jerking it.Don’t think about it. Don’t you dare think about it!
I grab a sticky note from my desk and scribble a message to Monica—Are you taking a break?—as Randy continues to talk sex stuff into my ear.
“What are your feet doing, Ruby?”
“Uh ... my feet are still rubbing up and down ...” I pause and lean over my desk to look at my notebook. “Your big schlong.”
“My schlong loves your feet, baby. God, it loves your feet,” he whispers. “Slide one of those perfect feet up my chest so I can suck on your toes.”
Monica passes the note back, her message scribbled just below mine.
Yeah. Want to get lunch?
I glance at my cell phone for the time before giving a thumbs-up that makes Monica jump up and down and clap in a cute fit of joy. I never expected to find a friend here, but from what I’ve seen so far, my cubby mate is actually fairly normal. Over the past couple of days, she’s shared pieces of her life that make me see her in a whole new light. Monica is a premed student at Belmont University, driven and laser focused on her goals. She’s been saving every penny she can to graduate debt-free and set herself up for success in med school—a plan that shows just how resourceful and determined she is.
She’s got a sweet face and a tiny little button nose, and I wish more than anything neither one of us was desperate enough to be working here.
Monica takes her seat across the aisle, and I focus my energy on getting through the rest of Randy’s needs. Busy is good, seeing as it means money, but a little break from all the rubbing and jerking and sucking is needed after the twenty calls I’ve already taken today.
My well of sex creativity is really starting to dry up. Pretty sure I need some carbs or something.
“Randy, I don’t think my toes want to leave your big juicy sausage,” I whisper, scanning my notes again. “My feet are total sluts for your thick banana hammock.”
“My what?”
Maybe don’t use food metaphors for penis until you actually understand them ...
“Your big cock,” I quickly correct myself, wincing as I spot Margo Mavis walking through the aisle between cubicles, her eyes pointed my way. “My feet just love your big cock so much, Randy. They can’t stop rubbing all over it. If they could talk, they’d be saying, ‘Yes, Big Cock Daddy.’”
The line goes silent for a beat longer than I expected, but in a twist of luck, despite how out of my depth I truly am, Randy leans into the suggestion.
“What else would your feet say if they could talk?” Randy questions, his voice rushed with excitement all over again.
“They’d say, ‘More, Big Cock Daddy,’” I whisper in the most seductive voice I can manage with Margo standing directly over me and waiting. “‘More. More. More.’”
