The Uncalled For Call

Everything seems loud in a room that’s unnaturally quiet. A rogue gust of wind outside the window sounds like a tornado. The ticking of a clock sounds like a never-ending series of tiny exploding bombs. And your own heartbeat thudding in your ears sounds like the background to an eerie horror movie.

My gaze flicks to the clock, then after seeing that it’s almost five minutes to nine, it slides to the calendar. I always worry I’ll get the date wrong, but no. Today is the day. The anniversary of an event that should never have happened the first time, but had been happening at nine o’clock on this exact date for the past five years.

The drumming of my nails on the table is as loud as the thundering of hooves to my ears. I’ve never found anticipation easy to deal with, I’m just too impatient.

The first time he’d called it had been quite accidental. A random series of numbers tapped into a phone that just happened to reach me. Then the second year it happened he’d dialled my number intentionally, taking the chance that I’d be the one to answer. After that, it became a silent agreement that, on this night of the year, he would call, and I would pick up.

While I wait for the clock to strike nine, my mind drifts back to that first time…


Silence on the other end of the phone made me shake the handset. I tapped it, then tried again.

“Hello, is there anyone there?”

There was someone there, but he didn’t speak. The way he breathed into the mouthpiece of the payphone made my skin crawl. It was some creep doing the dirty phone call thing!  I’d heard that this had been prevalent in the 80s and 90s, but it had died off in recent years. But still, it was happening to me, and though I knew that speaking to the guy would only encourage him, I couldn’t hang up. I yelled and called him a filthy bastard instead. I sniggered, said he was a loser and so desperate it was pathetic.

Righteous fury poured from my mouth, right into his ear, but it didn’t deter him. I was as cruel as he was disgusting, taunting him, laughing and accusing him of having a tiny cock that could never please a woman. As much as I hated knowing what he was doing and hearing the noises he was making, everything changed when I said a specific word. I hated the taste of it on my tongue, but it shot from my mouth in a low hiss before I could stop it.

“Horrible cunt.”

That’s what I’d called him. And as soon as I said it, all of my indignation at being subjected to something so vile dried up. Not because my own words had shocked me. No, it wasn’t that. It was the way he’d groaned, then whispered for me to please say it again.

At first, I felt ashamed when I twisted the phone’s cord around my finger, took a deep breath and muttered, “Cunt.”

I felt sullied, as disgusting as he was. But then he moaned again and whispered it back. He called me a cunt. Told me I was a dirty little whore. Said that, if he was in the room with me, he’d bend me over and give my starved little pussy what it craved. He’d shove his cock inside me, as deep as it would go, and he’d pull my hair, slap, and bite me. In a deep voice that grew steadily louder, he told me he’d fuck me until my cunt was raw and my muscles ached from too many orgasms.

“You’re touching yourself, aren’t you? You’re rubbing your pussy because listening to me stroke my cock makes you want to fuck. You want to come, don’t you, you dirty fucking whore?”

I don’t know how he knew, but I did have my back pressed against the wall and my hand down my knickers. My pussy was soaked, and it ached to be filled. Even as he laughed down the phone and turned all of my insults back on me, I slid to the floor and widened my legs so I could push my fingers inside me.

I listened to the stranger gasping, whimpered as he told me how hard my helpless little moans made his cock. The things he described were wild, all of them shocking to a virgin. Ass fucking, cunt licking, cock spurting so hard in my mouth I choked, so much spunk it dripped from my nose because I couldn’t swallow it all.

“Let me hear you come,” he’d begged. “I want to hear the noises that cruel little mouth of yours makes when you finger fuck yourself to orgasm.”

It pained me to ask, but I forced the question, “Will you come with me?” past my lips in a reluctant whisper.

“Yes, I will. I am. I’m coming!”

Everything between my legs felt like it was being drawn inside me, then all of a sudden it all pushed out. Contractions from my belly to my thighs had me panting down the phone, each squeeze forcing a cry from my throat.

The stranger moaned softly, mumbling that he wished he’d shot his load inside me so he could get between my legs to suck it back out again. He’d waited until I tentatively whispered, “Hello?” before laughing at me and hanging up.

The following year, one full year to the day, had seen a repeat of that phone call. And then each year after that had been the same. But this year? I’m sitting by the phone with an ache in my groin and soaking wet knickers, and it’s almost a quarter past nine. For the first time in five years, it looks like the call isn’t coming.

I’m still sitting and pouting when the front room door opens. It’s my husband, back from a business trip an hour early. His smile is so bright it could put lightbulbs out of business, but I can’t bring myself to smile back. I’m too disappointed. However shady its origins might be, I live for the call that only comes once a year.

Jeremy picks up the mobile phone charger from the table and heads for the hall, closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, the landline phone rings. I glare at it, thinking I should definitely ignore it, but I can’t. I need this to be the call I’ve been waiting for.

Sweaty fingers lift the receiver to my ear and I listen. There it is! Heavy breathing, and the two-word greeting that makes my insides quiver with hot horror. “Hello, cunt.”

I gasp, feeling white cotton brushing my knuckles and wet, warm skin slipping against my fingertips.

“I’m sorry I’m late, my mobile died, and you know you can’t find a payphone for love nor money in this town anymore. But anyway, I’m here now, so happy anniversary.”

Closing my eyes, I start to rub my clit, listening to the blissful sounds of my yearly dirty phone call. Before I start spouting off nasty words and cruel names, I say the only nice thing he’ll hear from me for the next hour. “Happy anniversary, Jeremy.”

Prompt #284 – Telephone

Week #166

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