Phone Tig, 1/7
Phone Tig, Chapter One
Authors: lord_alexander and app1e_pi
Pairing: Monaboyd.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary:
Warnings: Crack!fic. AU. Complete and utter madness and pretty boys in compromising positions, with special guest appearances that are, frankly, silly.
Disclaimer: If this was true, we'd both be quite busy running up astronomical telephone bills. And so would you. And since we're not and you're not, it's not, and that's that. Got it?
Feedback: Might earn you a steamy phone call.
A/N: Sal and Pi have a bit of a crack!fic addiction, and this is the sad result. They're both in therapy now, trying to convince the doctors that really, they are totally normal, you should read what other people write! But until they come back, entertain yourselves in this little AU, where Billy and Dom are phone-sex tarts. Yes, you read right. Phonesex!Billy (written by app1e_pi) and Phonesex!Dom (written by lord_alexander). The Tig is complete, and we'll post a new chapter every two days.
Phone Tig, Chapter One
"Hi, this is Billy."
I usually use my real name. It's easier that way, I think. Besides, I have the whole young-voice thing going for me, and Billy fits that. Just as well the blokes at the other end don't know I'm a 35-year-old with thicker hair between my legs than on my head, and lines around my eyes, and sometimes my knees creak when I stand up, after I've been sitting down for a while…
"Hi, uh, Billy. This is Elijah. I mean--shit! Uh--is that okay? Can I change that?"
"I think you have to call someone else to do that, lad, but Elijah is a lovely name and you needn't change it on my account. I'm no' going to be turning your name in anywhere, you know."
This one is young. He's American, which is a nice change from the pissed-as-a-newt Londoners I usually get. Might even be under the legal age, but I never ask, even though we're supposed to. Why should I be arsed? So maybe he's a sixteen-year-old who got his hands on his Mum's credit cards--isn't he still entitled to a decent wank?
"Okay. Uh, Billy. That's nice. Where are you from? I'm living in Reading, but I'm from the States…"
"I could tell. I'm from Glasgae, actually."
Thicken up the accent if they like it… smooth it away if they don't. We get calls from all over, it's a national line.
"Wow, cool, Scotland, right? I wanna go up there while I'm here, I've always wanted to visit there--"
"Elijah, was it?"
I should probably let him natter on for hours--pay-by-the-minute and all that--but Christ. He'll be wanting to know the best tourist attractions and what time the pipers play at feckin' Edinburgh Castle (and me from Glasgow as I believe I said) if I don't shut him up.
"Um, yeah."
"Ye've got quite a sexy voice, there, Elijah. I don't get to talk to many Americans. It kind of… y'know. Turns me on."
If they sound shy, try sounding shyer. Gives 'em a boost of confidence, I suppose. Dom could tell you the psychology behind it all, go on a mile a minute about it, probably, all the while zapping things on his Gameboy and drinking coffee and instant-messaging someone. Dom is my next-door neighbor, busy in the cubicle beside mine and I can hear his fucking sexy voice murmuring on and on, low and dark and hot and damn, I'd call him if I thought he wouldn’t recognize my voice… Whoops. Elijah, yeah. That's his name.
"Really? Wow, I guess I just thought… it's so ordinary to me…"
"Not to me." Turn it on, Billy-boy, let the voice get all husky after your sweet high-pitched intro. Dom calls it the Cock-hardener, that moment where I shift from lad-next-door to meaning business… Nice to know he likes my voice. I suppose.
"I've been turned on since I got on the fucking plane to come here, man, every single fucking guy I meet has a voice that makes me wanna cream my pants."
"Mmm, puir lad. Ye sound quite attractive. Tell me about yerself. What're y'wearing?"
And, we're off. Or I should say, he's off, getting off. He's quick and uncomplicated--once I convince him that it's okay to touch himself (which means convincing him that I'm doing the same thing, as it usually does, and I can fake it so well I scare myself sometimes) he takes about six minutes to talk to completion. The happy enders, as Dom refers to the quick ones, and although they pay the least, we like them best.
A few moments of post-wank chat and I hang up on another satisfied customer. I can hear Dom still going, his voice hard and low and rough (he's a good actor, too)--near the end now. I can hear his hand rasping up and down his leg, making it sound as though he's really getting off over there. (We mostly wear rugger shorts around the office--makes the sound effects easier.) A fake o. that sounds good enough to eat and then Dom is finished.
I wait and sure enough, he pushes his chair backward, rolling into the aisle and then pulling himself round to intrude on my space. We all have our own little well-padded cells here, see, with four-foot walls and permission to decorate them however we want. Not because management is so devoted to us, but because you can't have the sounds from one client bothering another, now can you? Puts John Q. Public right off his knob if Joe Q's good time bleeds over to him. (And yes, the "Q" does stand for Queer--at least here it does.) Muddles up the fantasy, you could say.
So anyhow, here's Dom, come for his usual chat-up. I don't take him seriously, though I'd love to, Christ knows. But he's better things to do than aging Scotsmen, I expect. Still. I like the flirting. Makes the hours pass.
"How's tricks, Billy-boy?" Thing about Dom is, he's funny-looking. Jaw that's as bent as, well, me, and a squashed-tomato nose, and ears like the geekiest neighbor kid you ever saw in your life, sticking out at 90-degree angles from his hair, which is on-end most of the time… And you put it all together, with that fucking sexy mouth and amazing eyes that can't decide if they're blue or grey or green, and somehow you end up with a man you want to fuck up against the wall, or get fucked by up against a wall (either/or, both if I had my way and two hours to kill); I can’t quite figure out how it works, but it does. And of course it's all helped along by a body like a swimmer's, all broad shoulders and narrow hips and a mouth-watering arse…
"Just had an American," I tell him, pulling the headset off and rubbing that little spot behind my ear where it always gives me an ache. "Sweet kid. Had a thing for the accent."
"Who doesn't?" Dom smirks. "Wanna have some tea?"
I look at the clock on my computer. Three a.m. "Sure, why not? Let me sign out." When we take breaks we have to log off on the system, so they route calls elsewhere. There are only two other fellows on this shift, both on the other side of the room. Management wanted Dom and me to be farther apart, but he complained that he couldn't work as well unless he had me to joke with between calls, so they left us alone.
As I tap my name and password in, I hear Dom's system beep him. "Damn, let me just take care of this and then I'll be with you," he says. I nod and call up another game of solitaire.
"Hi, this is Dom. What's your name?" He really does have a beautiful voice. "Oh really? Okay. Hmmm. Well, I think I'll call you Billy then." Sort of a purr--what? My hand stops moving on the mouse, just lies there like a dead thing as I suddenly pay closer attention. "So that's how you want it, hmmm? Alright then, Billy." I swivel my chair around and--oh shite--he's still there behind me, grinning like a loon. The headsets are wireless, he can perfectly well sit here in my cubicle and handle this call. In fact he could wander quite a distance around the building if he wanted to--we've tested the theory. "So just you be still, mate, and we'll get to work." His voice has gone low and predatory, and I have to make a face at him, pretend to go along with this prank.
We get them, sometimes, the real subs, who want you to tell them everything, from what they're wearing to what their names are. In a way, they're the easiest, because they don’t generally talk at all--you just blather on with some script or other. We've got a dozen in the computers, all memorized about a year ago and long since improved upon, twisted, and made bearable by a dozen huddled story conferences with Dom--usually helped along by whisky.
Speaking of which… I roll my eyes at Dom and turn back around to my desk. I can hear him going on back there: "We're behind a boozer, in an alley. Yeah, it stinks, so what? Who gives a fuck? Not me and not you. You've been eying me up for hours and it's time to pay the piper, Billy."
I'm going to need help here. I open the bottom drawer of my desk. "I've got you pinned against the wall with my hips. I'm grinding you so hard, you can feel my hard-on and I can certainly feel yours, oh, you've been playing it cool all night but you can't play this cool, I can feel you starting to sweat, Billy. I'm licking the sweat off your neck, don't try to get away you fucking slut--" Dom's growl is fairly convincing, it does feel warm in here. I pour myself a tot with hands that are just a little shaky. Shite. Can't let him see it get to me, can I? Would ruin the whole joke if he thought I might be turned on.
So I take a little sip, force myself to play computer solitaire and let the alcohol burn its way down. "God, you're so ready, it's pathetic. Gonna fuck you so hard, Billy--I've got you, now, turning you around and pushing you up against the wall, sliding my hand down into your pants--" I turn around and offer my teacup to Dom. We're not supposed to drink on the job, but this one? Jaysus. You have to, just to survive. We tried toking up one night but it made everything too funny, and one thing you can't do is laugh at the callers. Nothing ruins a good hard-on like laughter, ask any poorly endowed bloke. Not that I'm one of them, small men aren't usually small, so they say and it's true by me…
Dom shakes his head, the grin on his face bizarrely contrasted to his voice, which is all profane edges and raspy threats. He's good, Dom is. "Goddamn you're tight, like a fucking cherry, I can feel every fucking inch of me buried in your sweet little arse. Fucking you good and hard now, Billy, one hand twisting your arm up behind your back, the other sliding around to the front to get ahold of your cock, fuck, that's nice--" he waggles his eyebrows at me, goddamn tease, and I shake my head in mock disgust and turn back to the computer screen-- "you're close, aren't you, sweetheart? Don't come till I say you can, Billy. Don't you fucking do it. Getting there… getting there…"
Oh look. I can put this black ten on that red jack… Shite. Hand slipped off the mouse, just a wee bit sweaty is all, they keep it warm, we told them we need it warm so we can wear our shorts-- "alright now mate, now you can come, come for me, Billy, come on, do it, do it, do it--yeah, that's it, yeah, oh Christ yeah, yeah, yeah, coming in you, oooohhhh…" Can I feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my head? Bollocks. Hallucinations now. More whisky's what I need, and I take a good swig. Dom's almost done, time for tea, time to tell Billy Junior down there to calm the fuck down so I can walk at some point in the near future. "Whew! Yeah. Mmmm. ... Well, thanks, mate, you were fine yourself. Call back anytime. Just press star-five-four to get me again." I turn around and offer Dom a sardonic toast; he winks at me and natters his way to a close. Faintly, through his headset, I hear the beep that means the call has ended. Dom sweeps the gear off his hair and bows in his chair, grinning like a fool. "Always keep 'em coming back for more," he says grandly. "And it doesn't hurt if you use your favorite name when you can."
I pour more whiskey and hand him the glass. "I fucking hate when you do that," is all I can manage, with a weak grin.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Ah, shut up you daft bugger, you love it really."
I'm still grinning at him. Aw, fuck it, Billy-boy's cute when he's pissed off and getting pissed, no fucking doubt about it. He's got that look in his eye that's trying to be so disapproving but he loves it, he adores it, don't you, Bills, hmm? You love it when I use your name, bet it gets right down in your gut and makes you want to shove me and my swivelly chair against your desk and do things to both of us. Want me to straddle it, mate? I can do that, yeah. Ha, you're so getting off on me.
Yeah, right, in your dreams, Monaghan. Always in your bloody dreams.
Thing is, being in the next cubicle to a Scottish voice like liquid sex? That's hard, right? Because Billy's a fucking pocket Venus if he was a girl. Pocket Apollo? Nah, too sunny. Pocket, let's see. Pocket Zeus? Not enough fucking women while pretending to be a cow, and no kids hacking out of his head. Hades? Yeah, fuck it, he's Hades. Someone I'd go down for, in both Hellish and every other sense of the word. And right, he might not be James Woods with the flame on his head and the annoying little cunts as sidekicks... unless you count me because, frankly, I am your number one annoying cunt, dial star-five-four for that. Studio Fifty-four, it's after. How fucking sad and child of the eighties am I, right?
So, he pulled a Yank. Lucky bastard. The one I got was alright, bit subby, like 'em to fight back a bit but then it's easy cash. Lots of sighing and giving the old let's get dom on you, and they like that if they find I'm called Dom, get a line of subs out my ears if they got that, sad buggers. Why can't I pull a Yank? Never get Yanks, always some talkative bastards from Slough and stuff, the usual let's go home from our shit nine-to-five jobs and jerk off to the Mancunian pervert on the other end of the phone.
Oh, whisky!
Alright, alright, so I go and nab a drop or two. Keeps the home fires stoked, anyway, and I get to be near Billy and his Amazing Arse of Amazingness. Alright, it's not the most original name, but fucking hell, look at it and then try and form some coherent idea, will you? Because that's the Arse to End All Arses, the Arse that Launched a Thousand Cocks, The Twin Hills of Fairest Illium. Fuck knows if Illium had twin hills--if it didn't, then it should have. Nice rounded hills, maybe in denim. Yeah, we'll go for denim. Nice, tight denim. Little short sleeved shirt, blue to bring out his... Rear of the Fucking Year that arse is. You know you get awards like that? Rear of the Year? They tend to be won by some saggy-cheeked C-List celeb who wouldn't know a decent arse if it came up in front of them and begged to be tongue-fucked.
Oh shit, why the fuck...ah, forgot to sign out, you cheeky cunt.
Beep. Beep.
"Hey, I'm Dominic."
"Alright mate?"
Londoner. Billy gets bored of them, but they are kind of cool, yeah? The ones we get tend to be City boys, come in from being up the West End (and not each others' arses) and wanting a nice jerk-off session before they retire to beddy-byes. Nice voice. Sounds a bit older, I like older men--Billy, you hear that you silver-tongued Pict? Older men know what they want, they're confident, you get banter. Bills likes the kids, nurses them along, but then he's a lot fucking nicer than me, isn't he? With his pretty voice and kind words. Bet he wouldn't half-rape someone in an alley because they begged for it. Love to see him have a go, mind. Yeah. Londoner. Speak to the Londoner.
"Aye, not bad, better you've rung up, of course. Things seem to have taken a massive turn for the better."
There's a chuckle, and it's low and warm and a bit whisky-and-fags like I like, and yeah, alright, sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to set up a meeting with some bloke and do him. Losing my job would be a fucker though, because the cash is always good, and the lack of Billy would make me jerk-off sessions far less appealing. Some people are built for normal jobs. Not me. But then I'm not normal.
"I'm Andy. What you wearing, babe?"
Babe... ah, I'm sensing domming Dom at the mo, so I go into that mode we all do. It's called lying.
"Nothing much, it's really warm here, I've had to strip."
In front of me Billy kind of twitches, which must be suppressed laughter at me being fucking blatant, but then it's best to be professional. Alright, some of the men I've chatted to have got into footie results and then we've had a decent bicker, and then one of them got screwed while watching Match of the Day, and I did the commentary and Man U won, of course, but then that's kind of different. Not usual, kind of nice.
"Bet you're fucking gorgeous, love. I can tell by your voice... Dominic... that you're a sexy little cunt."
Ah, a professional sex-line caller. On goes the old flirtatious streak, and out comes the sexy phrases. These blokes tend to go on for hours. Poor cunts, never know everything I say is said sarcastic.
"I try... and then ten minutes later, when I got my breath back, I try again..."
Alright, there's Billy's gorgeous green eyes giving me the Look, and suddenly I'm wheeling over, because I'm a cheeky fucker, hooking a leg over his so there's no escape! Clicking his cards because the bastard doesn't seem to be able to click the cards fast enough. And me? Multitasker, me, and talkative to the end, and alright I'm not the cleverest or prettiest or the best in bed, but by Christ I'll fucking laugh you into bed, yeah? And this Andy really seems to dig the accent, so I make it a bit less Manchester, a bit more Lancastrian, bit softer. Apparently people like accents, well, my accent, and that's just weird because I'm used to it. I can get where they're coming from with Billy, because it's that cute little lilt and the Glaswegian, and the way it trickles from his throat. I'd love to fuck his throat and hear him talk around my cock.
I nudge Billy with my elbow while still talking to Andy, who's currently got me up against the wall in a shower and is doing nefarious and possibly unhygienic things with the shower head, and it is going to be a long one. Probably like Billy, really. Yeah, Billy. Shit, listen to the call, you stupid bugger. Anyway, distracting myself from the hotness that is Billy, and who I got my leg over, I sign at him for tea and send him off. Can't resist watching him go from the cubicle though, because his arse...
"I'm on my knees in front of you, hands cuffed behind my back, collar keeping me head up nice and high so you can just fuck my mouth with your cock. Feel that? My throat around it, swallowing, wanting you to come, Sir..."
Adding in sir makes Andy squeak faintly, breathing accelerating, and so I close my eyes, fingers doing the old fake five-finger shuffle on my shorts.
"You love that, don't you? Me, all helpless and bound before you, just yours to pleasure you when you want me. You don't even let me come sometimes, unless you tell me to. My Master, and I'm your slut to play with and use and abuse as you want. Your hands are in my hair now, tugging my face against your prick and balls, and I'm groaning because I need to come and you've not let me at all. But then you drag me over onto my hands and knees, and I can't resist wiggling my arse at you. I'm a cheeky little sub, you like that..."
Got to get the personality in there somewhere, because people know, you see? They tend to know I'm the funny one, I'll do the food fetish stuff, or the tickling, or the more weird stuff with them because I'm game for anything, me. It's like people tend to trust Billy because he's a good bloke, nice with the younger ones, he's pleasant to everyone. Really, I couldn't see Billy backhanding some little tart because they purposely don't suck his cock right. That's in a phonesex way. I wouldn't do it...well, not that hard, and only with consenting adults over the age of sixteen.
"Ohhh... oh fuck... you're so huge..." And I give little sweet cries, like a right little bottom would. Me? Fucking brilliant, I am. Egotistical too? Aye. You should hear Billy pretend to come, though, that's magic. He's like some sex robot, sent to earth to make poofs spend too much money listening to his voice and him coming. Right nearly gets me hard when he does that, but then my shorts are tight for a reason, you know?
Ah, fucking finally. Andy comes. He's a nice bloke, he says thanks and asks for my extension and what sort of stuff I'm into. It's always nice having someone who actually remembers that you're human as well, and he says next time I will wank for him properly, and I have to agree. Dominating rules, OK Master. There's a certain etiquette needed in the whole BDSM communication thing, so I got to give it. Master my arse, though, as if he could. But then get the cash, the company says, get us our thirty pieces of silver, you Mancunian-voiced phone-whore. Get the cash and then you're free to do what the fuck you like in the cubicle. Of course, there's reason and rules on actual behaviour, but then I like stepping beyond that reason. What fun is there if I can't? Yeah, when it's me and Billy I strip down to my shorts and then just go along with that. They keep it warm in here.
Anyway, I've fucking earned my break, of course, so off I log and then wheel back round to where I can expect to get told off for taking over his computer. But then I've got me Gameboy, so he can have a Tetris. Billy, little skiving Scotsman that he is, has had far more break than me, and I'm dead pretty compared to him.
Alright, I'm lying through my pointy teeth.
Billy's cute when I'm sexy. Me? I'm fucking hot, despite the screwed up face. Billy's a bit pretty, a bit delicate, all cute mouth and expressive green eyes and an arse you want to have bouncing on your cock. Alright, the arse is fucking perfect, maybe slightly better than mine. Possibly. Billy's the sort of poof you take home to Mummy and Daddy for tea. Me? I'm the pervert you shag in club toilets or in dark alleyways. Okay, I give Bills his voice being better than mine, and he's funny as well, which means we bounce off each other. Not actually in the way I want which I mentioned which includes pricks, but there we go. Each to their own. But nah, Billy's a cute little package I want to unwrap and have all for my greedy perverted Dom wiles.
It's tempting to phone up Billy and try and have a nice wank, but it wouldn't fly. We're not soundproofed that well. I'm shit at accents apart from Dorset, and that makes everyone piss themselves laughing. I'd rather wank in front of him than over the phone. Maybe I should just take me eyeliner, blond-tipped self over there, sit on his desk naked and hard, and be at it when he comes in with tea.
But then it'd shock him so much he'd probably scald my cock when he drops the tea in shock.
So I just fiddle with his cactus, which tries to stab me, and put my feet up on his desk, and when Billy comes back in with bless'd tea, I stand up and give him the whole 'Hit Me Baby One More Time,' routine. It's complete with spanking movements and tossing of pigtails. Alright, alright, it's the headset, I don't take it off because it's comedy gold.
"Hit me babeee, one more tiiiime!"
So what? I give his cute little arse a little smack? What's the problem there? It's me, it's Dom, I'm safe because no fucker takes me seriously.
~*~
Chapter Two
Authors: lord_alexander and app1e_pi
Pairing: Monaboyd.
Rating: NC-17.
Summary:
Warnings: Crack!fic. AU. Complete and utter madness and pretty boys in compromising positions, with special guest appearances that are, frankly, silly.
Disclaimer: If this was true, we'd both be quite busy running up astronomical telephone bills. And so would you. And since we're not and you're not, it's not, and that's that. Got it?
Feedback: Might earn you a steamy phone call.
A/N: Sal and Pi have a bit of a crack!fic addiction, and this is the sad result. They're both in therapy now, trying to convince the doctors that really, they are totally normal, you should read what other people write! But until they come back, entertain yourselves in this little AU, where Billy and Dom are phone-sex tarts. Yes, you read right. Phonesex!Billy (written by app1e_pi) and Phonesex!Dom (written by lord_alexander). The Tig is complete, and we'll post a new chapter every two days.
Phone Tig, Chapter One
"Hi, this is Billy."
I usually use my real name. It's easier that way, I think. Besides, I have the whole young-voice thing going for me, and Billy fits that. Just as well the blokes at the other end don't know I'm a 35-year-old with thicker hair between my legs than on my head, and lines around my eyes, and sometimes my knees creak when I stand up, after I've been sitting down for a while…
"Hi, uh, Billy. This is Elijah. I mean--shit! Uh--is that okay? Can I change that?"
"I think you have to call someone else to do that, lad, but Elijah is a lovely name and you needn't change it on my account. I'm no' going to be turning your name in anywhere, you know."
This one is young. He's American, which is a nice change from the pissed-as-a-newt Londoners I usually get. Might even be under the legal age, but I never ask, even though we're supposed to. Why should I be arsed? So maybe he's a sixteen-year-old who got his hands on his Mum's credit cards--isn't he still entitled to a decent wank?
"Okay. Uh, Billy. That's nice. Where are you from? I'm living in Reading, but I'm from the States…"
"I could tell. I'm from Glasgae, actually."
Thicken up the accent if they like it… smooth it away if they don't. We get calls from all over, it's a national line.
"Wow, cool, Scotland, right? I wanna go up there while I'm here, I've always wanted to visit there--"
"Elijah, was it?"
I should probably let him natter on for hours--pay-by-the-minute and all that--but Christ. He'll be wanting to know the best tourist attractions and what time the pipers play at feckin' Edinburgh Castle (and me from Glasgow as I believe I said) if I don't shut him up.
"Um, yeah."
"Ye've got quite a sexy voice, there, Elijah. I don't get to talk to many Americans. It kind of… y'know. Turns me on."
If they sound shy, try sounding shyer. Gives 'em a boost of confidence, I suppose. Dom could tell you the psychology behind it all, go on a mile a minute about it, probably, all the while zapping things on his Gameboy and drinking coffee and instant-messaging someone. Dom is my next-door neighbor, busy in the cubicle beside mine and I can hear his fucking sexy voice murmuring on and on, low and dark and hot and damn, I'd call him if I thought he wouldn’t recognize my voice… Whoops. Elijah, yeah. That's his name.
"Really? Wow, I guess I just thought… it's so ordinary to me…"
"Not to me." Turn it on, Billy-boy, let the voice get all husky after your sweet high-pitched intro. Dom calls it the Cock-hardener, that moment where I shift from lad-next-door to meaning business… Nice to know he likes my voice. I suppose.
"I've been turned on since I got on the fucking plane to come here, man, every single fucking guy I meet has a voice that makes me wanna cream my pants."
"Mmm, puir lad. Ye sound quite attractive. Tell me about yerself. What're y'wearing?"
And, we're off. Or I should say, he's off, getting off. He's quick and uncomplicated--once I convince him that it's okay to touch himself (which means convincing him that I'm doing the same thing, as it usually does, and I can fake it so well I scare myself sometimes) he takes about six minutes to talk to completion. The happy enders, as Dom refers to the quick ones, and although they pay the least, we like them best.
A few moments of post-wank chat and I hang up on another satisfied customer. I can hear Dom still going, his voice hard and low and rough (he's a good actor, too)--near the end now. I can hear his hand rasping up and down his leg, making it sound as though he's really getting off over there. (We mostly wear rugger shorts around the office--makes the sound effects easier.) A fake o. that sounds good enough to eat and then Dom is finished.
I wait and sure enough, he pushes his chair backward, rolling into the aisle and then pulling himself round to intrude on my space. We all have our own little well-padded cells here, see, with four-foot walls and permission to decorate them however we want. Not because management is so devoted to us, but because you can't have the sounds from one client bothering another, now can you? Puts John Q. Public right off his knob if Joe Q's good time bleeds over to him. (And yes, the "Q" does stand for Queer--at least here it does.) Muddles up the fantasy, you could say.
So anyhow, here's Dom, come for his usual chat-up. I don't take him seriously, though I'd love to, Christ knows. But he's better things to do than aging Scotsmen, I expect. Still. I like the flirting. Makes the hours pass.
"How's tricks, Billy-boy?" Thing about Dom is, he's funny-looking. Jaw that's as bent as, well, me, and a squashed-tomato nose, and ears like the geekiest neighbor kid you ever saw in your life, sticking out at 90-degree angles from his hair, which is on-end most of the time… And you put it all together, with that fucking sexy mouth and amazing eyes that can't decide if they're blue or grey or green, and somehow you end up with a man you want to fuck up against the wall, or get fucked by up against a wall (either/or, both if I had my way and two hours to kill); I can’t quite figure out how it works, but it does. And of course it's all helped along by a body like a swimmer's, all broad shoulders and narrow hips and a mouth-watering arse…
"Just had an American," I tell him, pulling the headset off and rubbing that little spot behind my ear where it always gives me an ache. "Sweet kid. Had a thing for the accent."
"Who doesn't?" Dom smirks. "Wanna have some tea?"
I look at the clock on my computer. Three a.m. "Sure, why not? Let me sign out." When we take breaks we have to log off on the system, so they route calls elsewhere. There are only two other fellows on this shift, both on the other side of the room. Management wanted Dom and me to be farther apart, but he complained that he couldn't work as well unless he had me to joke with between calls, so they left us alone.
As I tap my name and password in, I hear Dom's system beep him. "Damn, let me just take care of this and then I'll be with you," he says. I nod and call up another game of solitaire.
"Hi, this is Dom. What's your name?" He really does have a beautiful voice. "Oh really? Okay. Hmmm. Well, I think I'll call you Billy then." Sort of a purr--what? My hand stops moving on the mouse, just lies there like a dead thing as I suddenly pay closer attention. "So that's how you want it, hmmm? Alright then, Billy." I swivel my chair around and--oh shite--he's still there behind me, grinning like a loon. The headsets are wireless, he can perfectly well sit here in my cubicle and handle this call. In fact he could wander quite a distance around the building if he wanted to--we've tested the theory. "So just you be still, mate, and we'll get to work." His voice has gone low and predatory, and I have to make a face at him, pretend to go along with this prank.
We get them, sometimes, the real subs, who want you to tell them everything, from what they're wearing to what their names are. In a way, they're the easiest, because they don’t generally talk at all--you just blather on with some script or other. We've got a dozen in the computers, all memorized about a year ago and long since improved upon, twisted, and made bearable by a dozen huddled story conferences with Dom--usually helped along by whisky.
Speaking of which… I roll my eyes at Dom and turn back around to my desk. I can hear him going on back there: "We're behind a boozer, in an alley. Yeah, it stinks, so what? Who gives a fuck? Not me and not you. You've been eying me up for hours and it's time to pay the piper, Billy."
I'm going to need help here. I open the bottom drawer of my desk. "I've got you pinned against the wall with my hips. I'm grinding you so hard, you can feel my hard-on and I can certainly feel yours, oh, you've been playing it cool all night but you can't play this cool, I can feel you starting to sweat, Billy. I'm licking the sweat off your neck, don't try to get away you fucking slut--" Dom's growl is fairly convincing, it does feel warm in here. I pour myself a tot with hands that are just a little shaky. Shite. Can't let him see it get to me, can I? Would ruin the whole joke if he thought I might be turned on.
So I take a little sip, force myself to play computer solitaire and let the alcohol burn its way down. "God, you're so ready, it's pathetic. Gonna fuck you so hard, Billy--I've got you, now, turning you around and pushing you up against the wall, sliding my hand down into your pants--" I turn around and offer my teacup to Dom. We're not supposed to drink on the job, but this one? Jaysus. You have to, just to survive. We tried toking up one night but it made everything too funny, and one thing you can't do is laugh at the callers. Nothing ruins a good hard-on like laughter, ask any poorly endowed bloke. Not that I'm one of them, small men aren't usually small, so they say and it's true by me…
Dom shakes his head, the grin on his face bizarrely contrasted to his voice, which is all profane edges and raspy threats. He's good, Dom is. "Goddamn you're tight, like a fucking cherry, I can feel every fucking inch of me buried in your sweet little arse. Fucking you good and hard now, Billy, one hand twisting your arm up behind your back, the other sliding around to the front to get ahold of your cock, fuck, that's nice--" he waggles his eyebrows at me, goddamn tease, and I shake my head in mock disgust and turn back to the computer screen-- "you're close, aren't you, sweetheart? Don't come till I say you can, Billy. Don't you fucking do it. Getting there… getting there…"
Oh look. I can put this black ten on that red jack… Shite. Hand slipped off the mouse, just a wee bit sweaty is all, they keep it warm, we told them we need it warm so we can wear our shorts-- "alright now mate, now you can come, come for me, Billy, come on, do it, do it, do it--yeah, that's it, yeah, oh Christ yeah, yeah, yeah, coming in you, oooohhhh…" Can I feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my head? Bollocks. Hallucinations now. More whisky's what I need, and I take a good swig. Dom's almost done, time for tea, time to tell Billy Junior down there to calm the fuck down so I can walk at some point in the near future. "Whew! Yeah. Mmmm. ... Well, thanks, mate, you were fine yourself. Call back anytime. Just press star-five-four to get me again." I turn around and offer Dom a sardonic toast; he winks at me and natters his way to a close. Faintly, through his headset, I hear the beep that means the call has ended. Dom sweeps the gear off his hair and bows in his chair, grinning like a fool. "Always keep 'em coming back for more," he says grandly. "And it doesn't hurt if you use your favorite name when you can."
I pour more whiskey and hand him the glass. "I fucking hate when you do that," is all I can manage, with a weak grin.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Ah, shut up you daft bugger, you love it really."
I'm still grinning at him. Aw, fuck it, Billy-boy's cute when he's pissed off and getting pissed, no fucking doubt about it. He's got that look in his eye that's trying to be so disapproving but he loves it, he adores it, don't you, Bills, hmm? You love it when I use your name, bet it gets right down in your gut and makes you want to shove me and my swivelly chair against your desk and do things to both of us. Want me to straddle it, mate? I can do that, yeah. Ha, you're so getting off on me.
Yeah, right, in your dreams, Monaghan. Always in your bloody dreams.
Thing is, being in the next cubicle to a Scottish voice like liquid sex? That's hard, right? Because Billy's a fucking pocket Venus if he was a girl. Pocket Apollo? Nah, too sunny. Pocket, let's see. Pocket Zeus? Not enough fucking women while pretending to be a cow, and no kids hacking out of his head. Hades? Yeah, fuck it, he's Hades. Someone I'd go down for, in both Hellish and every other sense of the word. And right, he might not be James Woods with the flame on his head and the annoying little cunts as sidekicks... unless you count me because, frankly, I am your number one annoying cunt, dial star-five-four for that. Studio Fifty-four, it's after. How fucking sad and child of the eighties am I, right?
So, he pulled a Yank. Lucky bastard. The one I got was alright, bit subby, like 'em to fight back a bit but then it's easy cash. Lots of sighing and giving the old let's get dom on you, and they like that if they find I'm called Dom, get a line of subs out my ears if they got that, sad buggers. Why can't I pull a Yank? Never get Yanks, always some talkative bastards from Slough and stuff, the usual let's go home from our shit nine-to-five jobs and jerk off to the Mancunian pervert on the other end of the phone.
Oh, whisky!
Alright, alright, so I go and nab a drop or two. Keeps the home fires stoked, anyway, and I get to be near Billy and his Amazing Arse of Amazingness. Alright, it's not the most original name, but fucking hell, look at it and then try and form some coherent idea, will you? Because that's the Arse to End All Arses, the Arse that Launched a Thousand Cocks, The Twin Hills of Fairest Illium. Fuck knows if Illium had twin hills--if it didn't, then it should have. Nice rounded hills, maybe in denim. Yeah, we'll go for denim. Nice, tight denim. Little short sleeved shirt, blue to bring out his... Rear of the Fucking Year that arse is. You know you get awards like that? Rear of the Year? They tend to be won by some saggy-cheeked C-List celeb who wouldn't know a decent arse if it came up in front of them and begged to be tongue-fucked.
Oh shit, why the fuck...ah, forgot to sign out, you cheeky cunt.
Beep. Beep.
"Hey, I'm Dominic."
"Alright mate?"
Londoner. Billy gets bored of them, but they are kind of cool, yeah? The ones we get tend to be City boys, come in from being up the West End (and not each others' arses) and wanting a nice jerk-off session before they retire to beddy-byes. Nice voice. Sounds a bit older, I like older men--Billy, you hear that you silver-tongued Pict? Older men know what they want, they're confident, you get banter. Bills likes the kids, nurses them along, but then he's a lot fucking nicer than me, isn't he? With his pretty voice and kind words. Bet he wouldn't half-rape someone in an alley because they begged for it. Love to see him have a go, mind. Yeah. Londoner. Speak to the Londoner.
"Aye, not bad, better you've rung up, of course. Things seem to have taken a massive turn for the better."
There's a chuckle, and it's low and warm and a bit whisky-and-fags like I like, and yeah, alright, sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to set up a meeting with some bloke and do him. Losing my job would be a fucker though, because the cash is always good, and the lack of Billy would make me jerk-off sessions far less appealing. Some people are built for normal jobs. Not me. But then I'm not normal.
"I'm Andy. What you wearing, babe?"
Babe... ah, I'm sensing domming Dom at the mo, so I go into that mode we all do. It's called lying.
"Nothing much, it's really warm here, I've had to strip."
In front of me Billy kind of twitches, which must be suppressed laughter at me being fucking blatant, but then it's best to be professional. Alright, some of the men I've chatted to have got into footie results and then we've had a decent bicker, and then one of them got screwed while watching Match of the Day, and I did the commentary and Man U won, of course, but then that's kind of different. Not usual, kind of nice.
"Bet you're fucking gorgeous, love. I can tell by your voice... Dominic... that you're a sexy little cunt."
Ah, a professional sex-line caller. On goes the old flirtatious streak, and out comes the sexy phrases. These blokes tend to go on for hours. Poor cunts, never know everything I say is said sarcastic.
"I try... and then ten minutes later, when I got my breath back, I try again..."
Alright, there's Billy's gorgeous green eyes giving me the Look, and suddenly I'm wheeling over, because I'm a cheeky fucker, hooking a leg over his so there's no escape! Clicking his cards because the bastard doesn't seem to be able to click the cards fast enough. And me? Multitasker, me, and talkative to the end, and alright I'm not the cleverest or prettiest or the best in bed, but by Christ I'll fucking laugh you into bed, yeah? And this Andy really seems to dig the accent, so I make it a bit less Manchester, a bit more Lancastrian, bit softer. Apparently people like accents, well, my accent, and that's just weird because I'm used to it. I can get where they're coming from with Billy, because it's that cute little lilt and the Glaswegian, and the way it trickles from his throat. I'd love to fuck his throat and hear him talk around my cock.
I nudge Billy with my elbow while still talking to Andy, who's currently got me up against the wall in a shower and is doing nefarious and possibly unhygienic things with the shower head, and it is going to be a long one. Probably like Billy, really. Yeah, Billy. Shit, listen to the call, you stupid bugger. Anyway, distracting myself from the hotness that is Billy, and who I got my leg over, I sign at him for tea and send him off. Can't resist watching him go from the cubicle though, because his arse...
"I'm on my knees in front of you, hands cuffed behind my back, collar keeping me head up nice and high so you can just fuck my mouth with your cock. Feel that? My throat around it, swallowing, wanting you to come, Sir..."
Adding in sir makes Andy squeak faintly, breathing accelerating, and so I close my eyes, fingers doing the old fake five-finger shuffle on my shorts.
"You love that, don't you? Me, all helpless and bound before you, just yours to pleasure you when you want me. You don't even let me come sometimes, unless you tell me to. My Master, and I'm your slut to play with and use and abuse as you want. Your hands are in my hair now, tugging my face against your prick and balls, and I'm groaning because I need to come and you've not let me at all. But then you drag me over onto my hands and knees, and I can't resist wiggling my arse at you. I'm a cheeky little sub, you like that..."
Got to get the personality in there somewhere, because people know, you see? They tend to know I'm the funny one, I'll do the food fetish stuff, or the tickling, or the more weird stuff with them because I'm game for anything, me. It's like people tend to trust Billy because he's a good bloke, nice with the younger ones, he's pleasant to everyone. Really, I couldn't see Billy backhanding some little tart because they purposely don't suck his cock right. That's in a phonesex way. I wouldn't do it...well, not that hard, and only with consenting adults over the age of sixteen.
"Ohhh... oh fuck... you're so huge..." And I give little sweet cries, like a right little bottom would. Me? Fucking brilliant, I am. Egotistical too? Aye. You should hear Billy pretend to come, though, that's magic. He's like some sex robot, sent to earth to make poofs spend too much money listening to his voice and him coming. Right nearly gets me hard when he does that, but then my shorts are tight for a reason, you know?
Ah, fucking finally. Andy comes. He's a nice bloke, he says thanks and asks for my extension and what sort of stuff I'm into. It's always nice having someone who actually remembers that you're human as well, and he says next time I will wank for him properly, and I have to agree. Dominating rules, OK Master. There's a certain etiquette needed in the whole BDSM communication thing, so I got to give it. Master my arse, though, as if he could. But then get the cash, the company says, get us our thirty pieces of silver, you Mancunian-voiced phone-whore. Get the cash and then you're free to do what the fuck you like in the cubicle. Of course, there's reason and rules on actual behaviour, but then I like stepping beyond that reason. What fun is there if I can't? Yeah, when it's me and Billy I strip down to my shorts and then just go along with that. They keep it warm in here.
Anyway, I've fucking earned my break, of course, so off I log and then wheel back round to where I can expect to get told off for taking over his computer. But then I've got me Gameboy, so he can have a Tetris. Billy, little skiving Scotsman that he is, has had far more break than me, and I'm dead pretty compared to him.
Alright, I'm lying through my pointy teeth.
Billy's cute when I'm sexy. Me? I'm fucking hot, despite the screwed up face. Billy's a bit pretty, a bit delicate, all cute mouth and expressive green eyes and an arse you want to have bouncing on your cock. Alright, the arse is fucking perfect, maybe slightly better than mine. Possibly. Billy's the sort of poof you take home to Mummy and Daddy for tea. Me? I'm the pervert you shag in club toilets or in dark alleyways. Okay, I give Bills his voice being better than mine, and he's funny as well, which means we bounce off each other. Not actually in the way I want which I mentioned which includes pricks, but there we go. Each to their own. But nah, Billy's a cute little package I want to unwrap and have all for my greedy perverted Dom wiles.
It's tempting to phone up Billy and try and have a nice wank, but it wouldn't fly. We're not soundproofed that well. I'm shit at accents apart from Dorset, and that makes everyone piss themselves laughing. I'd rather wank in front of him than over the phone. Maybe I should just take me eyeliner, blond-tipped self over there, sit on his desk naked and hard, and be at it when he comes in with tea.
But then it'd shock him so much he'd probably scald my cock when he drops the tea in shock.
So I just fiddle with his cactus, which tries to stab me, and put my feet up on his desk, and when Billy comes back in with bless'd tea, I stand up and give him the whole 'Hit Me Baby One More Time,' routine. It's complete with spanking movements and tossing of pigtails. Alright, alright, it's the headset, I don't take it off because it's comedy gold.
"Hit me babeee, one more tiiiime!"
So what? I give his cute little arse a little smack? What's the problem there? It's me, it's Dom, I'm safe because no fucker takes me seriously.
~*~
Chapter Two