I HAVE DECIDED to give Late Night Calls a go, and I informed a delighted Mags that I would take my first call on Monday. Although I am apprehensive, I like the flexibility, and the money is really good. You would have to be an alien to not be aware of the recent interest in erotic literature, but I was a little vague on the specific nature of submission and, given my chosen medium, I felt I was going to need specifics. So I spent a flushed and fevered Sunday researching all things D/s. My misunderstanding and subsequent offense at Mags’ assessment of me was a result of my perception of weakness in relation to submission. As with many things, there’s a spectrum, and although I’m not sure how I would handle a call with a guy set on demeaning, humiliating, or ordering me around like a pet, the notion of consensual ‘total power exchange’ I found, frankly, hot.
I had been offended when Mags first declared that I was a ‘natural submissive’, but it did go a long way in explaining my reaction to Daniel. He is definitely a Dominant, and I react strongly to him. On paper, it’s simple; in real life, it’s a different story. It’s not that I am not surrounded by strong male characters all day, every day, but he just presses some seriously erotic buttons that have me trembling with pent-up desire.
So with a play on my name ’Bets’ and gambling, all things Vegas and showgirls, I decide that, for one hour each night, I will become Lola; not hugely original, but it works. Mags is thrilled and extremely enthusiastic. I don’t share her optimism. We discuss the obvious limitations and safety awareness, like I’d be giving anyone my personal details. But Mags was very clear that my identity would be entirely safe. Monday night I was set to take my first call. I found myself closing my eyes, and, all too quickly, Daniel’s face fills my imagination. It is his face I see, his eyes on me as I mentally step into Lola’s world.
“My hands are tied together, the thin soft black leather strip is bound and wound in an intricate bond. Looped between the silky soft skin of my wrists. You can see the blood pumping through the veins in my wrists, and the straps tighten as you pull my arms above my head and secure them high on a hook. My smooth skin is flushing.” Everything I describe is slow and breathy, and I pause to moan. I take some encouragement from the caller’s mirrored moan. “You are holding a black riding crop, which has a hard chrome handle and is woven with fibers in a crisscross pattern down its length to the end where there is an elongated loop of soft black leather. You hold the loop up to my cheek and gently trace a pattern along my jaw and over the swell of my bottom lip. My tongue reaches for a taste…Mmmm.” I sigh and pause. “You are going to take the tip of that crop and trace it down the curve of my breast and pull back slightly to catch the tip against my tight peaked nipple, Arhh… I ache for some release, Sir.” I draw in a deep, satisfying breath. “Taking the crop loop down, down, with long leisurely strokes across my stomach, catching the top of my panties.” I’m in no hurry, the threat of punishment implicit. “You push the tip further into my panties and you can feel the rush of heat flash across my body and see the sheen of perspiration which covers my pale skin, you are going to have to slide your fingers between my legs to see if I am really as wet as you think I am, and I am desperate for that touch, Sir. I am desperate for the relief you can give me, Sir.”
“Thank you.” A hushed breathless voice breaks my flow, followed by a click, and the line goes dead.
I open my eyes and look at my phone only to be faced with the screen save of the picture I got caught taking a few weeks ago. I fall back into my bed and throw my hand over my eyes, trying to slow my own breathing. That was fun. I feel a little flustered, and, if I’m honest, wasn’t expecting it to last that long, but I got a ‘thank you!’ That was my only call on the first night and I wasn’t surprised. I think perhaps my lack of experience will make my calls a little tame. However, the following night was a full hour, much of the same, but with one guy who wanted a full description of my oral skills. Part of me did want to say that there’s not going to be much of a description if your dick’s in my throat, but I refrained. By Thursday, I have fallen into a comfortable routine, PJ’s, warm milk, and some D/s before lights out.
Mr. Wilson had sent an email requesting I hand my work in directly to him as he wanted to check my progress personally, and, after my rocky start courtesy of Mr. Stone, I have welcomed his support and encouragement. I am back to my normal confident, if somewhat quiet, self. I knock and wait outside his office.
“Come in!” The identity of the voice is masked by the acoustics of the closed door.
“Oh!” I stop on the threshold, not who I was expecting. “Sorry, Sir, I have an appointment with Mr. Wilson. I’ll just wait outside.” The vision of a darkly intense Mr. Stone sitting behind Mr. Wilson’s desk has me frozen to the spot.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Mr. Stone grins at the flush to my face. I have got to stop wearing every reaction on my face. “Please come in, make yourself comfortable.” He smoothly invites me in.
“Not sure that’s even possible,” I mutter under my breath.
“There are pigeon holes for that, you know?” He stands and moves silently around the desk continuing to step my way. I swallow loudly. Thinking he is some sort of mind reader, I glance down at my boldly titled course work pressed against my chest as a shield.
“Yes, I do, but Mr. Wilson wanted to see me.” He is standing so close I have to tilt my head to look into his eyes, which are smouldering and his mouth is curved into a knowing grin.
“Mmmm. Well, I can’t blame him for that.” He hums. “Tell me, Miss Thorne, why are you trying to study a part-time degree in record time?” I take a sharp breath at this. He is leaning so the last words are whispered breaths against my ear. I am hoping the full body shiver I feel isn’t visible.
“I, umm.” I let out a short puff of air. “You are mistaken, my timetable is part-time… Plus your lectures, of course.” I am a terrible liar and my hand reaches for the hairs on my neck to tug indicating as much, blatant as if my nose had started to grow.
“I thought we talked about lying. I know you are lying, but I want to know why?” He touches my chin with the tip of his finger, and I can feel the intensity of the heat from that tiny connection like a branding iron.
“How?” It’s all I can manage and his lips curl in to a sinful grin.
“I know you, Miss Thorne. I know you better than you know yourself.” He pushes my jacket open, and I gulp for the air that won’t stay in my mouth. His strong hands hold my waist, his thumbs tracing circles over my hips, and his fingers hook over the waist band of my jeans and follow the band to the middle. “I know what you need.” He slowly pops the buttons and I let out a small moan, his eyes darken from brilliant blue to almost black. I jump at the sound of the door handle. It’s unlocked.
“Don’t move.” I barely hear his low growl as he takes one step to my side but remains flush against my body, his fingers gently stroking the top of my panties.
“Ah, Daniel.” I recognise Mr. Wilson’s cheerful voice.
“Jack, if you don’t mind I just need a moment with Miss Thorne.” His voice is soft but commanding, and with that he sinks his hand down the front of my panties and begins to leisurely move his index finger up and down my soft folds. I try to suppress a full on erotic cry at the intimate intrusion, and all that escapes is a strained squeak from the back of my throat. I begin to tremble. My legs are feeling weak, and my blood is rushing, deciding whether to flee to my head or my crotch.
“Yes, of course. Bethany, I hope you are well. You have my assignment completed, yes? Are you enjoying the course?” Oh, crap! I’ve got to answer. Daniel looks like he is asking for directions. I dread to think what my face looks like as perspiration forms a sheen across my skin, and I struggle to breathe.
“Yes, and yes, I am, thank you, Mr. Wilson.” I manage to speak in a level but strained tone.
“How much?” Daniel says under his breath and sinks a finger further into me. I clench around him and squeeze my legs together. My hips want to grind, but I’m guessing the movement wouldn’t go undetected.
“Oh, actually, Bethany, you’ve saved me an email.” I whimper, as the pressure building is becoming more than a distraction. “We have a drinks reception, selected few, blah blah, but as a representative Mature student on my course, I would be grateful if you would come.” His offer is kind but barely registering with me as Daniel continues his deep rhythmical movement, slowly in and out, in and out.
“She’ll come, I’m sure of it.” Daniel answers on my behalf but not for my benefit. I look at him with heated, pleading eyes. He grins but continues to look at Mr. Wilson, his glance the picture of calm whilst sinking a second finger deep inside me.
“Oh good, the details are on my desk, I’ll just…” I hear him step further into the room. I freeze. Daniel interrupts him.
“I’ll make sure she gets them, but if you wouldn’t mind, I need to finish with Miss Thorne.” He barely whispers the word with, but the deep timbre of the rest of his commanding dismissal weakens not just my resolve, but my knees, too. Mr. Wilson closes the door. My eyes are so wide and my body quakes as I am stepped forcefully back towards the door.
“I can’t believe, -arhhhh” Daniel strokes a sweet spot inside me, and I feel my knees give way. He holds me up with his frame and continues to move his finger deep inside. His thumb puts light pressure in tiny circles on my clit. My hips move of their own volition, grinding against his hand, riding him, needing release.
“You’re so wet, and I’m so fucking hard.” He growls into my neck as he flicks the door locked. “No interruptions, I want you to come for me.” Like I could stop. “Now!” He demands through gritted teeth.
“Oh God, Sir. What? Oh God!” The most amazing climax rips through me the instant he said that word, pulling wave after wave of intense pulsing heat through my body, contracting my innermost muscles around his fingers. The tightness and the slow rhythm of his fingers seem to keep this heightened state of arousal at its peak, forever. Minutes, maybe hours later, still trembling, I finally give in to my weakened knees and slide down the door sinking to the floor. He gives me a few minutes to regulate my breathing, and he gently lifts me from the floor and begins to carefully tuck my clothes back in neatly and does the button up on my jeans.
“You’re so fucking responsive, Bethany.” He slowly sucks on his fingers, and I can see the raw desire still in his eyes. That’s maybe the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen and certainly the most erotic act I’ve ever experienced, but even so, I realize I am seriously out of my depth with this man. He returns to the desk, picks up the details of the drinks reception, and hands me the information. He is unaffected, and I’m a wreck.
“Until Friday, then?” His casual dismissal has me gawping like an idiot.
“It’s Saturday; the reception, Mr. Wilson said Saturday.” I can’t even construct full sentences. I’m in so much trouble. I turn to leave.
“Yes…Saturday, too.” I close the door, and I swear I can hear him laugh. Well, I am glad he has something to laugh about. I don’t know whether to scream with frustration or sigh with satisfaction, but I definitely don’t find it remotely funny.
That evening I manage to pick the saucepan from my single ring hob just before the milk boils over, and I stink the apartment out with the smell of burnt milk. I make myself a decaf milky coffee; I like the flavour, but I don’t need the buzz from caffeine this late. I wriggle to get comfy, not an easy task on a futon, but it helps that I have a ridiculous number of throw pillows. I place Mags’s phone next to my coffee, sit back and wait. It’s literally a second after one a.m. when I get my first call. I pick it up instantly.
“You kept me waiting,” A low stern voice informs me. The call has a slight echo, and I strain to hear through the muffled connection. This is new. I get a strange prickle over my body like an instant chill, but I’m toasty warm in my fluffy pj’s. I reach down to pull the covers up to my neck.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I reply with a deep exhale of breath. “It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t!” His curt reply makes my breath hitch and core clench. “Tell me what you are wearing.” He practically growls.
“Yes, Sir.” I pause as my mouth feels suddenly dry. Maybe this is just a follow-up reaction to events this afternoon. I’m probably just hypersensitive right now. “I’m wearing tiny black lace panties and I’m wearing my six inch black leather thigh high boots… and nothing else.” My response is slow, not to extend the length of the call; I’m just having a little more trouble breathing tonight.
“You are lying,” he replies, his voice is deep without inflection.
“I-” I try to speak but he interrupts.
“It doesn’t require a response, you are lying, and I will allow it tonight, but next time there will be no lying, understand, Lola?” His stern command brooks no opposition.
“Yes, Sir.” Why do I suddenly feel guilty for lying?
“Now, what are you doing?” He continues smoothly.
I shift a little. “Sir, I am kneeling with my head lowered, waiting for your instruction, Sir.” My hand is tugging at my hair at the nape.
“Mmmm.” He grumbles. “You are a dreadfully poor liar. Should I allow that, Lola?” I sigh, Christ, what am I supposed to do if he is just going to call me a liar every time I open my mouth?
“Sorry, am I boring you?” His tone is angrier now.
“No, Sir. Sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean…” I am really struggling and feel flushed. Maybe I should hang up. I wonder if Mags gives refunds.
“Lola.” His firm tone interrupts my panic.
“Yes, Sir.” My response is quiet and utterly submissive.
“I want you to do exactly what I say, do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.” His tone is captivating.
“You’ve lied to me? “ He waits for a response, the silence is excruciating.
“Yes, Sir.” I am tentative and expectant. I can feel the heat building in my body.
“Do you think that is appropriate?”
“No, Sir,” I respond immediately.
“Do you think it is acceptable?”
“No, Sir.”
“Do you think you should be punished?” I’m sure he heard my intake of breath, and I push the covers back away from my body as a heat surges through me from my core.
“Yes, Sir.” I suck in my bottom lip to prevent any involuntary sounds escaping.
“Good girl.” A pool of molten liquid burns between my legs, and I start to wiggle to get some relief.
“Did I say you can move?” I freeze. “Good. Now, Lola, you don’t know what I look like, but for this I think you might need some help. You have a picture, perhaps? Something that you can look at while I am instructing you?” His voice is seductive and encouraging, and I know exactly the picture I would like to use.
“Yes, Sir, I do.”
“Good girl. Now, I want you to stand up and remove whatever it is you are wearing.” My mind is racing. Does he expect me to actually do what he says? How will he know? He can’t possibly know. I make a snap decision and stand.
“Good girl.” His deep voice rumbles through me. “Put me on speaker so you can move freely.”
“Yes, Sir.” I start to remove my pj’s when I stop. “Sir, would you like me to remove my clothes slowly?” I can’t believe I am actually doing this, but I might as well go all out. He laughs
“Really, Lola, there is nothing seductive about peeling layers of pj’s. I just want you naked so we can begin.” I don’t know whether to laugh or be creeped out at this point, so I remain silent, my heart pumping with the speed of a frightened rabbit. I finish stripping.
“I’m naked, Sir.” I exhale, trying to push the mounting nerves out through my breath.
“Good girl. Isn’t it better when you don’t lie? When you do as you are told?” I am not going to analyse this now, but I do feel better. “Now, I want you to lie down.” He waits as I crawl onto the bed. I am guessing he can hear the creak of the wooden slats, because when I am still, he continues. “I want you to tie your hands tight above your head and tie your legs wide apart so you are completely open for me… but as I am going to need your hands you are going to have to pretend for me. Can you do that, Lola?” I can hear the gruffness in his voice, and I wonder if this is having the same effect on him as it is on me.
I make to swallow and take a steadying breath. “Is that not like lying?” I venture.
“Lola.” He rumbles his angry response.
“Sorry, Sir. Yes, of course, Sir.” Jeeze, it’s hard to gauge him, he should add ‘frowny face’ to his commands, so I can respond appropriately.
“Your hands are my hands, yes? Picture me, picture my hands.” He instructs with such clarity, my hands no longer feel like my own.
“Mmmm,” I am right with him now. “Yes, Sir.”
“I am holding your face lightly, and I’m going to kiss you just below your ear. Can you feel that, Lola? My hand is tracing the edge of your jaw, down your throat along your collar bone.” He croons, and I mirror his description with the tip of my finger. It sends shivers and racing heat all over my body. I want to press between my legs to relieve the ache that’s building. If I’m honest, I’m seriously turned on and confused. Shouldn’t I be the one talking?
“I’m kissing along your collarbone, my hot tongue rough and wet, my teeth nipping at your flesh. I move down your delicious body, your skin feels like silk, warm and fevered.” He is right about that. “I squeeze your heavy breasts; they ache for my touch, your nipples hard and taut, begging for my mouth.” He pauses. “My hands are your hands, Lola, yes?”
“Yes.” I can’t help but let out a heated moan as I squeeze my breasts. I go to pinch my hard, aching nipples.
“No! Don’t pinch, I want to suck. I want to run my tongue all around that tight peak and place my hot wet mouth over it and suck, pull the hard nub into my mouth, and scrape the sensitive flesh with my teeth. I want to make you moan.” His voice is so deep with desire, I think he could be reciting a grocery list and I would still melt to hear his voice, but the words he is saying have me on fire, wanton and helpless.
“Arghhh.” I can feel his warm mouth around me, sucking, pulling, grazing my puckered nipple. My back arches from the bed and I squeeze and pinch to get some relief. I let out an agonizing moan.
“My hand is holding your hips steady, and I’m putting slight pressure on the indents above the bone. Do you feel that?”
I jump a little. “Yes, Sir.” I manage to reply, frankly I’m surprised I can respond at all, I’m so hot. The throb between my legs is unbearable.
“Your legs are wide, you are open wide for me, you’re so responsive, you’re so fucking wet.” I hear him moan, but I jolt at this sharp reminder of this afternoon, the exact words Daniel used, but maybe I’m over-sensitive, pretty standard words in this type of situation I’m sure.
“Lola?” I’m back with him. “Take my fingers, run them down between your breasts, and I want you to take your index finger and sweep it down between your velvet folds. I want you to see how wet you are, how wet you are just for me.” I hear him moan and his breathing is more laboured. It makes me smile, but then I gasp as my finger trails through my slick sex. Fuck, I’m going to come.
“Hold it, Lola! You don’t get to come until I say you can come.” His demanding tone leaves no room for discussion.
What? Really? Luckily my outrage at this new information was only in my head. I don’t want to voice this, and I don’t want him to stop.
“My fingers are stroking the depths of you, and I want you to sink two fingers inside yourself. Can you feel how tight you are? How you grip and squeeze? You’re so greedy.” An audible moan softly escapes my mouth.
I do what he asks, the build-up in me is intense, I start to tremble, and my breathing is rapid and shallow. I can’t help but release a deep needful moan. I am panting, waiting for my next instruction, desperate to hear him tell me what to do to take me over the edge.
Nothing. My heartbeat is hammering. I have sweat gathered in droplets on my forehead. I crawl up from the sprawled position I had found myself in and grab the phone. I check to see if I still have a connection. Looking at the screen, I can see the seconds continue to tick, and the call that has lasted an excruciatingly delicious thirty minutes continues in silence.
“Sir?” I am more than a little breathless, but my imminent climax has retreated.
“Lola?” His steady reply is followed by silence. I am instantly cooled. “Did you come, Lola?”
“No, Sir.” I can’t hide the frustration in my voice.
“Good.” He laughs lightly. “Be sure you don’t. I want you to remain frustrated. Consider it your punishment”.
“What the…” I snap my mouth shut before he interrupts.
“Something you want to say?” His voice is seductive again as he interrupts me from crying out what would’ve been something more than impolite.
I’m fuming, but petulantly reply, “No, Sir.”
“Good girl. Until tomorrow night.” The line goes dead.
I repeat, “What the Fuck!” to myself, safe in the knowledge that I won’t be punished this time. I am hot, frustrated, and exhausted, but even so I can’t bring myself to finish the deed. I am thankful for the small mercy that I receive no more calIs for the remainder of my thirty minutes on duty. Once my time is up, I slump angrily into the plethora of pillows and settle down to a restless night.