For A Good Time, Call... (8 page)

I
believed him.

And
then I slept.

Ten

I
woke up alone. I blinked at the sun shining brightly through my
balcony doors, moving to a sitting position. I glanced at the clock
with a sense of utter disbelief. It was after seven in the morning. I
had slept through the darkest part of the night. I sat there for a
moment, half expecting to hear Hunter shuffling around. To smell
coffee brewing or breakfast cooking. But there was nothing.

He
was gone.

Taking
a deep breath, I stood up, cringing at all the aches in strange
places from sleeping on the couch. I made my way to the kitchen and
made coffee, heading back toward my bedroom. And that's when I heard
him. Not in my apartment, but in his own. Steadily hammering as
loudly as he pleased.

I
stared at the wall between us, smiling a little. But only because he
couldn't see me. Because he couldn't know there was a feeling of
victory in me. A feeling of relaxation. It was the closest to at-ease
I could ever remember feeling. Because I had let him touch me, and I
hadn't felt like I was going to melt into a pool of anxiety. I had
touched him without a fear that he would ask for more. And then I had
slept. I had friggen slept. In my own apartment. At night.

This
was as close to happiness I might have ever felt.

I
showered, packaged panties, and starting taking calls in my
ridiculous criss cross black panties and a black wifebeater.

“I've
been a very bad girl,” I teased into the phone, laying on my
bed and staring at the ceiling. “Yes, sir,” I agreed.

“I
am going to take off these ropes and you are not going to go
anywhere. Because I own you now,” he growled at me. “Say
it.”

“You
own me now,” I repeated.

“Good
girl. Now take off your panties and lay over my lap.”

“Yes
sir,” I agree, grabbing the wooden ruler off of my nightstand.
It would give the closest possible sound to hands on flesh I could
manage.

“I
am going to hit you four times and you are going to tell me each
time that I own you. Understood?”

“Yes,
sir,” I said, switching the phone onto speaker. Dominants were
the easiest to please. Well, in the realm of phone sex that is. It
was all agreeing and yes sirs. A few bright red marks on my skin for
a day or two. All in all, it was easy work. I didn't have to think of
dirtier and dirtier things to say. He told me what to say.

“One,”
he instructed and I slapped the ruler against my thigh, starting slow
to create a build up, perhaps enjoying the smiting a bit more than
was normal.

“You
own me,” I said, sure. Confident.

“Two.”

Harder.
Making me a little hotter than I expected. I pushed my thighs
together

against
the rush of wetness. “You own me,” I said again, sounding
more breathy.

“Three,”
he instructed, his voice strained. He was close. I had to make the
next two count.

I
took a deep breath and swung. My hips thrust upward and my breath
caught. “You own me.” This time, barely more than a
whisper.

“Four,”
he said through clenched teeth and I knew the second the ruler landed
he was going to come.

I
cocked the ruler back further, slamming it down with a whimper. “You
own me,” I strangled out, too caught up in my own feelings for
a work call.

I
heard his breath catch and then exhale in a harsh whoosh, followed by
some shuffling. “Be a good girl and send me those panties,”
he said after a minute. Still demanding. Still dom. He wasn't a part
time dominant. This man was the real deal. I was just one of his subs
when his real subs weren't within reach.

“Yes,
sir,” I said, hanging up.

There
was silence in the wall between us and I shifted, turning so my feet
were on the headboard. Turning so I could stare at the wall. As if I
could see through it. See him bent over his work, his biceps
twitching with each swing of his arm. But instead, I was imagining me
laying there, my ass in the air and getting the spanking I had been
pretending to a moment ago.

My
hand slid down my body, touching the material of my panties and
finding my clit quickly. It was all his fault. His fault that I was
feeling so insatiable. Normally a good session with myself would last
me at least a day or two.

I
grabbed the ruler from where I had dropped it after the call. Each
time I heard the hammer land, I swung while working slow circles over
my clit. I closed my eyes, sinking into the sensations. Sinking into
the fantasy. Before long I was moaning. Which wasn't something I
usually did while alone. A few small whimpers, some heavy breathing,
but never out and out moaning. But this time it came from somewhere
deep inside as I built slowly up toward my orgasm.

On
the other end of the wall, the hammer stopped and my ruler dropped,
forgotten, to the mattress. My hand went to my breast, teasing over
the nipple as I arched up off the bed. An image of Hunter above me,
naked, looking down at my bare skin like there was nothing wrong with
it as his hand reached between my legs... and then I came, hard,
crying out, as I rolled to my side, still stroking my clit until I
was completely spent.

I
laid there for a long time after, curled up into myself, staring at
my wall. In a matter of two days, so much had changed. Small things
by most people's standards, but huge for me. Life changing for me.
Things that I had learned to accept as basic facts of my life had
changed. I could have someone in my apartment without a holy heart
attack. I could spend a night in my apartment without cutting myself.
I could be touched. I could maybe have some sort of friendship with
someone.

They
were big deals.

I
climbed out of my bed, changing into a suitable outfit for a Sunday.
I decided on burnt orange tight tunic dress, brown tights, and low
brown heels. Sunday was the day I called my grandmother. Sunday was
the worst day of the week. I swear she could tell what I was wearing
through the phone. If I had on too much lipstick. If my skirt was too
short.

I
didn't stay home at all after noon on Sundays. I wore low heels and
comfortable clothing because I knew I would be out and about for the
better part of sixteen hours. I wouldn't be in any kind of shape to
be home with a house full of sharp instruments.

I
grabbed a huge oversize, heavy brown cardigan sweater, my wallet, and
my extra cell phone and left my apartment . I didn't take the calls
at home. I felt like they would taint my perfect little sanctuary
with their awfulness.

I
walked down the street, grabbing a coffee, and finding the ugliest
back alley I could find. That was the place for this kind of call.
This call that I made every week because I had been blackmailed into
it two years before. Because if I didn't make the call every Sunday,
on time, no matter what... she would give them my address.

And
then my very carefully constructed life would fall to pieces.

I
paid the homeless guy who lived between the two restaurants twenty
bucks to get lost and come back in exactly twenty minutes screaming
like a bloody lunatic. Because I always needed an escape. Because we
didn't have an agreement on how long I had to listen to her, but I
could never bring myself to hang up without an excuse.

That
was how weak a voice from my past made me.

I
inspected an egg crate in the back and sat down on it, dialing the
number. I set my coffee on the ground, bringing my hand to my mouth
as if it could block the sickness I felt rising in my throat.

“May
God be with you,” she answered the phone, her voice sharp and I
swear I could feel it reverberate through every cell in my body.

“And
also with you,” I mumbled, moving my hand from my mouth to my
eyes.

“Fiona
Mary,” she said, sounding surprised though I knew she had been
expecting me. Of course she was. She didn't really give me any kind
of choice. “How are you on this fine Sunday?”

Dying.
Literally just dying slowly. “Fine, Grandma. How are you?”

“Swell.
Just swell. I just got back from service with John and Isaiah.”
Also known as your father and brother. In case you forgot. That was
the tone she used. Like I was the bad guy. “How was your
service?”

Yeah.
Right. “I don't go to church, Gram,” I said, my voice
strained. Because I wasn't thinking about her and religion. I was
thinking about my father and brother. I was wondering if they were
still at her house. If they were listening in. The thought made the
bile rise up far enough for me to almost choke on it.

“'For
God so loved the world, that he gave us his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in him shall not perish, but have everlasting
life.'”

“I
know I am not going to Heaven, Gram.” And I don't want to be
there if you three get in anyway. What kind of God would allow that?

“It's
never too late to fix that,” she said, no hope in her voice. I
was doomed for hell and she knew it. There was no saving me. But she
was a good, faithful woman. She had to at least pretend to try to
help me find my way to the so-called light.

“How
is the weather there?” I asked, changing subjects. If I didn't
steer the conversation, it would go places I couldn't deal with.

“It's
beautiful here. The foliage is lovely. Unfortunately the whole town
is putting up those god-forsaken Halloween decorations.”

I
definitely didn't want to get her started on Halloween. “And
how are the ladies in your book club?”

“Wonderful.
We are working on organizing a bonfire for those lustful romance
novels they are always filling the shelves with at the library.”

“That's
great, Gram,” I say, my voice hollow. She was in a good mood.
This wouldn't be as bad as I had been expecting. I think a part of me
was certain that because a few good things happened to me, something
big and ugly needed to follow. That seemed to be the usual pattern.

“And
how is work, Fiona Mary?”

Work.
Ha. How gratifying would it be to tell her I had masturbated after
taking a phone call from a man who jerked off while he listened to me
slap myself? But that wasn't an option anymore. I was screwed ever
since that one dinner at her table.

Since
then, I had racked my brain to think of a job she would think was
respectable enough. I couldn't work at a bank because greed was a
sin. I couldn't wait tables because I wasn't allowed to work on
Sundays (never mind that she frequently went out to eat on Sundays
and made people work to feed her). Eventually I had decided that I
work at reception at a dentist's office. Doctors was too risque. Too
much chance of seeing or hearing about something that would be
damaging to my soul. But there was nothing even remotely sexy about
teeth. So I worked with teeth.

“Things
get busy now that the kids are back in school. Lots of check-ups,”
I said, taking a deep breath.

“Well
that's good. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
Especially with the teeth God gave you. You only get one set so you
better take good care of them.”

“Right,”
I agreed. Seven minutes down. Thirteen more. I could do it. I could
get through it. You could tolerate anything for thirteen minutes.

“And
are there any suitable young gentlemen in your life?”

This
was a trick question that I had screwed up answering at least four
times in the past. The trick was knowing that my grandmother did, in
fact, want me to have a young, respectable gentlemen in my life.
Because I was too old to be unmarried. Because sin was just waiting
for susceptible women like me. The devil and his orgies just waiting
for me to fall victim to my lust. So I needed to get married. Right
way. A virgin in a white dress in a big church. And then I needed to
lay like a dead fish on the wedding night and let my husband screw me
with his half-erect penis and come inside me so I could get pregnant
quickly.

But...
I couldn't be dating him for too long. We couldn't go out alone. Be
alone. And he had to have a job that she would find acceptable. And
he had to be a good, god-fearing virgin himself.

So
far, I have dated three of these such men. But it always ended
because...

One
went into the ministry (HA that had been a fun lie).

One
had given into sin and I had to break up with him.

And
the last one went on missionary work in Africa.

I
was half-tempted to tell her that my sweet little missionary died of
ebola and I was grieving. She would like that. It was good to have
heartbreak in your life. Something about strengthening your faith or
some nonsense like that.

“No
not right now, Gram,” I said instead, tapping my head on the
brick to the side of my head. “I haven't been going out and
socializing much.”

“Idle
hands are the devil's workshop,” she warned.

“I
know, Grams.”