Soon her hands were moving with a life of their own. It seemed only natural to take matters in hand, to relieve the terrible itch, to savor the pleasure of her touch while she engaged in some erotic interplay with the voice of an unknown male in a city far away. When the phone rang, Jo, would push back the sleeves of her sweatsuit, ease back on the pillows of the small chaise lounge kept by the phone in the den, and cradle the receiver in the crook of her neck. Then she'd begin her spiel in the husky whisper she had adopted as her "phone voice," while slipping a hand up the oatmeal sweater to cradle a small taut breast, or sending a free hand under the elastic waistband, plunging down the front of her pants, there to leisurely fondle herself in a slow, dreamy caress while she spun the words of fantasy.
In this way Jo spent some very pleasant, and very profitable, afternoons; but there were the lingering after-effects. The inevitable consequences of several hours of dirty talk meant that she was so excited that, by the time Ben got home, she had to restrain herself from jumping on the poor guy the minute he walked through the door. She barely managed to hold off till they went to bed, when Ben was taken aback by the intensity of the sexual hunger of the voracious woman who attacked him so ferociously. Ben, who at first was mildly skeptical of his wife's new day job, quickly became intrigued. After Jo had satisfied her lustful hunger on her more-than-willing, although increasingly exhausted, husband, they would snuggle together. Then one night, as she lay with her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, he asked her to tell him all about her day.
Laying there, basking in the afterglow of a bout of hot and heavy sex, she told her husband about the young guy that had called that day, a college boy, he said. What he wanted was a dominatrix, a stern woman, leather-clad and booted, who would tie him down, naked and spread-eagled on a bed. Though this was a new one for Jo, she happily plunged into the role; told him she was lean, hard-bodied brunette, who had on a wicked bustier of gleaming black leather that left her naked from her hips to the tops of her black thigh-high stockings. The lad was thrilled, and asked in a pleading voice if she didn't also have on a pair of gloves, long satin gloves. She assured him on that count, instantly realizing that what he craved was the feel of cool silk sliding over his naked body.
She obliged by syrupy words that fell like a light caress teasing all over his outstretched, young body. She told him how she would place her palms on his chest muscles, rubbing in a circular massage; how she would pluck his little nipples with her silk-clad fingers, rolling the little nubs, tugging on them. Men's nipple could be very sensitive, she assured him in a teasing purr. She described how she would move her slow hands up and down, exploring every inch of his tense body all the while carefully avoiding his upright cock. And finally, when he was pleading with her for relief from the exquisite torture, arching his hips high off the bed, as far as his restraints would allow; twisting to offer his begging sex to the tantalizing caress of her gloved hands -- only then would she place two flattened fingers right on the underside of his throbbing, pulsating prick, and slowly draw them up that quivering length, inciting a delicious shiver that brought with it a powerful paroxysm of pure pleasure.
As she described how she had masturbated that young man over the phone, Ben reached under the covers to find her hand and placed it on his penis, which she found, somewhat to her surprise (given their still-recent depletions) was once again standing at rigid attention. She giggled, and slowly stroking Ben's aroused manhood, she told him how she next had a wicked thought: to take advantage of the helplessness of the boy. Squatting over him, she would sit on his face; force the tied-down boy to service her. She told him she would straddle him, move up till her needy cunt was over his face, then squat down, bringing her gaping sex right down on the boy's nose and mouth. She began to rock back and forth over the ridge of his nose even as she grabbed his ears and mashed his face into her opened squirming crotch. She told the whimpering, panting lad how her juices would run down all over his face; how she would grind her pussy against his nose and lips forcing him to lick her cuntlips, and stab her depths with his stiffened tongue; how he'd be forced to pleasure her, lapping at her wet, smothering, all-engulfing sex, till her thigh muscles clenched on his face as an incredible orgasm wracked her body.
Under the blankets, Jo's loosely wrapped fingers tightened on her husband's turgid cock, as she confessed in a whisper what it a powerful turn on it had been for her -- to have a man tied up and helpless beneath her. Slowly, dreamily, she began pumping her fist up and down, till her man came out with a throaty growl of pleasure, as she yanked hard sending him into a thundering climax...yet again
*****
These stories of her phone dates inevitably turned Ben on; he was hungry for details, all the details. He wanted to know everything, what she said and did; how the guy reacted. And Jo had plenty of tales to tell, for over the next several weeks she had found herself pretending to be: a strict schoolteacher, a crisply-efficient nurse, a perky teenaged cheerleader, a classy older lady, a naughty schoolgirl, a snooty lady boss, an elegant princess, and a painted whore. She had even done a girl scout for an immensely grateful John who did nothing but whimper with pleasure the minute she began describing her "uniform" to him.
*****
It wasn't long before the sexual experiences of her afternoon became so intense that the phone sex worker was squirming on the chaise lounge, burning up with heat; no longer able to wait for relief that Ben would provide that night. She found there were guys who got turned on by the very thought that she was pleasuring herself as they talked; asked her to play with herself, and of course, Jo eagerly complied, describing in detail her autoerotic activities. Soon she found her hands were moving with a life of their own, seeking to fulfill the fantasies of a man on the other end of the phone. After a couple of hours of this sort of thing, Jo was exhausted, having brought herself to climax three or four times.
One day, after a series of hot calls, still sweating, with her inner thighs already damp, and a pussy that was sopping wet, Jo got herself heated up all over again by playing with a guy who wanted to spank her.
She painted the picture he wanted: a bratty teenager, a pony-tailed school girl in kneesocks, white blouse, and plaid jumper with a loose pleated-wool skirt. She told him how she'd come to him to be punished for being naughty, how she's drape herself over his knee, and, at his command, reach back and lift up her short skirt for him, exposing her pantied behind. The guy on the other end of the phone hissed his encouragement, begging her to go on. And Jo shoved a hand down the front of her sweat pants, lifting her ass, at the same time and pushing the bunched pants down her legs, so she might more freely grab and palm her pubic mound.
She described laying folded over his lap, waiting for her spanking to begin. She described the feel of the guy's masculine hand caressing the seat of her thin cotton panties as he slid the thin fabric up and over the rounded mounds of her tight little ass. She told him all about the exciting anticipation; the sharp delight mingled with dread, when she felt those same panties being drawn down over her upturned bottom. She told him of the electric thrill that came with the full realized that she was stretched out over a man's lap, her naked bottom served up for his pleasure.
In a heated rush, the phone sex worker shoved her baggy pants down to her ankles, kicked them free.
She told him in a breathless whisper how she lay tensed up, eyes closed, clenching her rearcheeks in tingling expectation. She vividly described the slap of his fattened hand as it came crashing down on her bare butt. And when she described how she screeched and twisted on his lap, kicking up her heels as he spanked her relentlessly, a surge of lust raced through her and she bore down on the hand that had burrowed between her clenching thighs.
Jo was bent over, humping her hand, her bare ass pointed towards the open door of the den, when Ben walked in on her. He stood entranced in the doorway, watching his half-naked wife, kneeling on the chaise lounge with her rump raised so invitingly, breathing heavily into the cradled phone, moaning, and pleading to be spanked!
It was an invitation no red-blooded male could possibly refuse!
The End
Copyright 2003, Don Winslow
