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.
Just like that, she did, crying out, the sound like a stab of need in his cock.
He ended the call a moment later, standing up, raking a hand through his hair, hoping a little distance from the call might ease the need for release.
But when his cock stayed stubbornly upright, he put the away message on the phone for a couple minutes, making his way through the deserted office, closing himself in the bathroom.
He felt like some out of control, hormonal teenager as he reached into his pants, pulling out his cock.
But he was never going to be able to get through his shift with the sexual frustration like a live wire in his system.
Leaning back against the wall, he stroked himself with the sound of her in his ears, the idea of her in his mind, coming so hard that his vision blanked out for a long moment.
He cleaned up and went back to work, nervous about taking the next call.
But when it came, nothing happened.
Not on the next one, either.
Or the one after that.
In fact, it never happened.
Until it was her name on the call log again.
Whatever the fuck that meant.
ONE
Kate
You know what was pretty pathetic? The pile of self-help books on my nightstand.
Don't get me wrong; I was a firm believer in improving yourself, working through trauma, changing negative coping mechanisms, all that jazz.
What was embarrassing was the titles.
Things like—The Shy Girl's Guide to Social Confidence, and Small Talk for the Quiet Person. Worse yet were the few toward the top of the pile with titles like: Untangling Yourself After Divorce, Starting Over Again, and How To Have A Good First Date.
I don't know why I bothered buying those books. My issues with men started well before my eventual, idiotic, waste-of-time marriage that had been over for two solid years now. It wasn't like I was hung up on my ex or too wounded to move on.
I was just awkward.
Always had been.
Always, it seemed, would be.
No matter how many books I read on how to fix it. Or how many videos I watched. How many fake conversations I'd had in the mirror or the shower, coming up with sharp, witty, even funny responses to a multitude of things someone might say to me.
The problem was, when they actually did say something to me, I swear my tongue got fat and paralyzed in my mouth. The words refused to come out.
My childhood therapist called it a confidence issue. But even armed with that knowledge, I never seemed capable of shaking the problem. Not through school, my various attempts at college courses, only to realize not long after that I would never be able to do the career I was going to school for if I couldn't get a hold of the issue.
Not even working at "For A Good Time, Call..." where actual grandmothers would take phone calls and talk all sorts of nasty things could help bolster up my stumbling self-confidence.
At first blush, my job seemed ill-fitting. Not just because of the nature of the work taking place in the building, but because, as the front desk person, I was the "Face" of the company. I was who people saw when they came in the doors.
That said, though, it wasn't like we were an office building, a doctor's office, somewhere I would be seeing dozens of new faces every single day.
The office was a pretty closed-shop operation by design. Which meant I typically saw employees themselves, sometimes the close relatives of said employees if they stopped by to pick someone up for lunch or to drop something off, the mail carriers and delivery people, and the occasional woman who stopped by to see if we were hiring.
Most of the day, I was left to my own devices, filing things, ordering supplies, working out the payroll. It wasn't the typical task done by a receptionist, but Fiona had put a lot of faith in my unfinished accounting degree.
It was a good job. It allowed me to be in my own little world most of the time, but also have some people around to talk to, to share lunch with on occasion. Plus, Fiona was a generous employer, paying a more than fair salary as well as benefits.
She offered paid vacation as well, but I never took it. The idea of going to strange places with strange people didn't sound like a good time to me.
I hadn't taken vacation in over a decade, when I'd first started working there as a college student.
Until now, of course.
I mean they were calling it a "wilderness retreat" and it was, technically, a work trip. But it was reminiscent of a vacation.
Which was what had me staring at my stack of books on my nightstand.
Because it was a long flight.
And I wanted to avoid having to speak to any seat-mates if possible.
But I also couldn't handle the embarrassment of someone seeing me reading books with those types of titles.