Global Human Fund

Carina Marie Delvecchio ain't donatin' shit.

Priya's voice had that trained, professional brightness to it--the kind of cheer that came from either years of experience or a solid caffeine addiction.

"Good evening, ma'am! My name is Priya, and I'm reaching out on behalf of the Global Human Fund. We're collecting donations to--"

Carrie cut in immediately.

"Global Human Fund?" she echoed, grinning. "Babe, that's not a thing."

A pause. A slight hesitation.

"...Excuse me?"

"The Global Human Fund," Carrie repeated, stretching her legs out, kicking her feet up on the table. "That name don't even mean anything. That's just a grab-bag of random-ass words. 'Global.' 'Human.' 'Fund.' You might as well call it the Big Important Money Charity Fund of the Whole Damn Earth."

Silence.

Then--**to Carrie's absolute delight--**Priya snorted.

Not loud. But enough.

"We do very important work, ma'am," she tried again, but Carrie wasn't letting go.

"Yeah? What do you fund? Humans? Like, are y'all just buying some guy in Idaho a sandwich? 'Cause I could be down for that."

Another pause. Another barely-contained laugh.

"Ma'am, we--"

"Nah, don't 'ma'am' me. Say my name." Carrie smirked, letting her voice drop. "Carrie."

Priya exhaled, the first real break in her composure.

"...Carrie."

Carrie grinned.

"That's better. Now tell me, Priya, what exactly do I get if I donate to your very legitimate human-funding operations?"

"Well--" Priya started, clearly trying to regain control. "Your contribution would go toward--"

"Lemme stop you right there, babe." Carrie interrupted, voice dropping into something lower, warmer. "You ever get a call like this? Just some stranger trying to talk you into somethin'?"

"...Yes?"

Carrie leaned forward, grin widening.

"You ever let 'em talk you into it?"

Another pause.

Then--a shift.

"Depends on what they're offering," Priya murmured, voice a little lower now.

Carrie exhaled slow, deliberate.

"Ohhh, you're gonna be fun."

Priya laughed.

And just like that--

The script was out the window.

The real conversation had begun.

She stretches, rolling her shoulders like a fighter getting ready for a round, grinning like the devil waiting at the crossroads.

Then--

Carrie delivers the most cliché, low-effort phone sex opener in history.

"So... what ya wearin'?"

A beat of silence.

Then--Priya laughs.

Not the polite, customer-service chuckle. A real, actual, caught-off-guard laugh. The kind that breaks through the bullshit, the professionalism, the script.

"Carrie, are you serious?"

"Dead serious, babe." Carrie leans back, smirking. "C'mon. Paint me a picture."

Priya exhales through her nose, like she's pretending to be exasperated, but Carrie knows better.

"Well," Priya hums, adopting a mock-serious tone. "I am wearing the most stunning beige polo shirt you've ever seen, with a name tag that says 'Priya, Global Human Fund.' You'd love it."

Carrie groans dramatically.

"Oof. That's hot."

"I know."

"Priya, you got me sweatin'. I'm picturing that stiff-ass corporate fabric clingin' to you in all the wrong places. That polyester blend? Filthy."

Priya snickers.

"Oh, it's even worse," she teases. "I've been at this call center for six hours. I'm probably a little--"

"Sweaty?"

Carrie hears the smallest intake of breath.

Priya doesn't answer right away.

Carrie's grin widens.

"Ohhh, babe," she purrs, lowering her voice, letting it get deep, sultry, warm. "Don't stop now. I was just gettin' into it."

Priya exhales. Barely a sound, but Carrie catches it.

"You are something else," Priya mutters, half-laughing, half-breathless.

"Yeah?" Carrie smirks. Time to push. "You got a problem with that?"

"No," Priya says, a little too quickly.

Carrie leans in.

"Then keep talkin', babe."

She can hear it in the little shifts of breath, the tiny pauses where Priya's body betrays her before her words do.

That hesitation? That's the sweet spot.

"Alright, babe," Carrie purrs, stretching her legs out, getting comfortable. "Let's cut the bullshit. You wanna hear what I'd do to you, or you wanna keep talkin' about your sexy little name tag?"

Priya inhales sharply.

Carrie grins.

"Thought so."

She doesn't ease into it. That's not her style.

"First thing I'd do?" Carrie drops her voice into something slow, dangerous.

"I'd get you the fuck outta that stupid-ass polo. Strip you down, toss you back on somethin' soft. Get my mouth on you before you even had time to think about how fuckin' wet you already were."

Priya lets out a tiny, wrecked noise.

Bingo.

Carrie presses in.

"And God, babe, I bet you taste good. Bet you're all smooth, soft, fuckin' perfect."

Priya makes a small sound like she's about to speak--but she doesn't.

"You still there, sweetheart?"

Carrie smirks.

"Babe, I wouldn't even let you fuckin' catch your breath. I'd have you pinned down, legs up, face buried between your thighs like I was trying to solve the fuckin' Fermi Paradox with my tongue. No breaks. No escape. Just me. And when you cum? Oh, babe. You ain't cummin' once. I'd keep goin' 'til you're a puddle on the mattress, 'til you can't even form a coherent sentence--just a fucked-out mess, shaking, dripping, whimpering my fuckin' name."

Nothing but heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

"Yeah," Carrie purrs, grinning like the devil. "I know."

The pause on the line is long enough that Carrie wonders if Priya actually passed out.

Then--

"Oh my fucking GOD," Priya whimpers, and Carrie's grin turns savage.

"Jesus, babe," Carrie purrs, all silk and sin. "You breathin' over there?"

Priya inhales, sharp and shaky, like she's trying to remember how lungs work.

"I--I hate you."

"Nah, babe," Carrie smirks. "You fuckin' love me."

Priya makes a noise so wrecked it could be a whimper, a moan, or a prayer.

Carrie stretches, all smug satisfaction, like a cat that just knocked a wine glass off the table.

"Damn, babe. That was practically a charity fuckin' event."

Priya makes a wrecked little sound, the kind of breathless, post-orgasmic whimper that makes Carrie's grin turn shark-like.

Perfect.

Carrie waits, lets it hang, then--

"So that means I get a tax receipt, right?"

Silence.

Then--

A wheezy, broken, devastated laugh.

"Carrie," Priya gasps, still trying to put herself back together. "I swear to fucking God--"

A loud thunk. Like Priya just slammed her forehead against her desk.

Carrie leans back, stretching, thoroughly pleased with herself.

"I mean, not that I'd use it. I don't pay my fuckin' taxes."

Silence.

"Jesus Christ," Priya mutters. "You're an actual criminal."

Carrie just shrugs, smirking.

"Nah, babe. I'm an inspiration."

Carrie hangs up the phone, smiles to the parish council.

"Sorry, Father Enzo," Carrie says, voice sweet as sin, crossing herself like she's at confession.

"Where were we? The bake sale on Sunday, of course..."