A giant step backwards for women everywhere!

Hello everyone, I am your new friend and phone whore Beatrix.

Firstly I would love to thank IamRob from Freak Safari for giving me this website. When I first read the stories I was a fan and spent hours giggling about disgusting sex with perverts. I promise you that you will all get that from me and much much more.

I want to take this blog in a different direction. Don’t get me wrong. I am a huge fan of Charlotte, but I always felt something was missing from her blog. My goal is to bring more to this website and make it flourish.

Secondly, I absolutely love sex, porn, women, men, and funny toys! I am fascinated with this culture in the way that Jim Carey was fascinated with the number 23. There are other kinds of sex other than phone sex and I plan on talking about it as much as possible. It amuses me.

In a nutshell I own my own phone sex company, along with several online sex toy stores. I have professional phone sex if there are no girls working and for fun. If you want to know more about me, here is my full biography.

Now onto a story!

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Is it weird to say that I’m used to playing a dead girl? I thought so. I have a slew of these stories, but I wanted to wait for Halloween before we get into undead fetishes. For now we can go into the semi-undead fetishes.

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“Hello Beatrix,” a man who identifies himself as Adam whispers.

“Hi!!” I say. I am quite enthusiastic. I think this is mostly because I haven’t realized I am on a whore phone call yet. *Note to self: I need to change my ringtones.

“What are you doing?”

“Just sitting here watching television. What are you doing Adam?”

“Not Adam, Addams.”

“Addams.”

“Addams.”

“Oh—kay. What are you doing, AddamZZZZZ?”

“Gomez Addams.”

Now it’s at this moment where everything suddenly becomes so clear. I can do an Addams Family scenario. For the longest time I had a huge crush on Mortisha. This is going to be fun!

“Mortisha is out for the weekend with Pugsley and Wednesday. They’re at camp.”

“So are you coming with us, mi amore!” I say in my best Moritsha Addams voice.

“No no. You’re not going to be Mortisha?”

God dammit!

“I’m not?”

“No, IT.”

“Is that the hand?”

“No but you did give me a good idea! You can be cousin IT. Everyone is out for the long weekend. IT is the hairy cousin. But IT has a huge throbbing cock for Gomez, doesn’t he?”

“I sure do!”

“No, IT doesn’t sound like that, you have to have to beep.”

“Beep?”

“Yes, beep.”

Now I remember who Cousin IT is. He is that hairy guy from the Addams Family! Gross! He even creeped me out when I watched that movie. Why couldn’t I be Mortisha? I can do Mortisha. Even Lurch or that awful witch lady, but IT? I’m too offended to laugh at this.

“Beep beep beeeeeeeeep beep beep beep beep beep”.

“Oh hell yes, cara mia.”

“Beep beep beeeep beepbeep beep beep beepy.”

“Lick my hole, cousin IT.”

“Beep beep beep beepbeep beep beep beep beep beep.”

It continues until he, in his best Gomez accent voice, calls for Thing to come over and jerk us both off.

“Ok I’m going to get Thing to jerk us both off.”

“Beep beep.”

Gomez sounds like he’s really enjoying himself. I do my part, it’s actually quite easy to do. I even try to throw in real words into my beeps like cousin IT did, so you can kind of understand what I’m saying, but not quite. It’s really not that easy.

“Do you like that, IT?”
“Fu-beeeeep, yea-eeeeep.”

Try it, it’s tough!

After Mr. Addams gets off after his arousing weekend without the misses, I hang up and sit down in my chair and stare at the wall, contemplating what just I just allowed myself to do. This is not even close to the most bizarre of my stories, but it’s a story that tackles almost every genre of weird sex.

Incest? Well he did call me Cousin IT.
Bestiality? I consider IT an animal. He’s really hairy. If you don’t buy this, he asked Thing to join in, and they consider Thing a pet.
Gay sex? Cara mia!

And with all this weird crazy shit going on, all he really wanted was a little rim action and a hand job from some kind of hand pet thing.

Updates begin Monday.  Add me to your RSS feed.

Bad News:  Charlotte left Whore on Hold; rather abruptly.

The Good News: To quickly take her place is a new writer who will begin on Friday.  She has asked that all comments be closed for now.  I think you all are really going to enjoy her,  like so many men and women have on the phone.

The Great News:  She Plans to post much more than Charlotte, which is great news.

It’s sad, but at the same time a really good thing, and I hope you dig the new writer.

“I have Mark on the line, but he wants you to call him Darlene,” Mindy says, “You’re going to be 27 and a white, hard-core dom. He gets into violent sort of stuff so keep that in mind. It’s a 10 minute call.”

I scribble all this down in my notebook, wondering what I’ll have to do to him. I don’t really have a problem telling them how to hurt themselves. Typically the ones into pain announce what tools they have, and I just tell them what to do with them. Q-tips for the peehole, clothespins for nipples, rubber bands and leather straps for the genitals. Easy. That is until someone tells you they also have a toilet brush? I wasn’t sure if I should make him spank himself or fuck himself with it. So, I chose both.

Anyway, we’re talking about Mark/Darlene here.

When we’re connected, I ask Darlene to describe himself.

“Well,” he says in that annoying wanna-be-a-lady-sub voice, “I’m a forced sub slave with boobs…”

That’s a new one.

“I have implants,” he continues, “They’re a 36DD. I’m wearing a white lacy bra and a pair of white crotchless panties. I would like to be without balls.”

“Well, that makes sense,” I tell him, “There’s no use in having a balls when you’re all dressed up like a girl.”

“No, Mistress.”

“We’re going to have to cut those balls right off,” I announce, matter-of-factly.

I run through the castration stories I’ve read trying to think of the best way to fix this guy. I belonged to a body modification site for a while, and there were a number of eunuchs there. I knew there was a big contraption that crushes the blood vessels that feed the testicles, causing them to shrink and be absorbed by the body. It’s usually used on cows, but people do use it to castrate themselves or their friends. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was called and having no internet, I couldn’t look it up, so I settled on the good old sharp knife/rubber band scenario. The contraption I was thinking of is a Burdizzo, if you’re curious. (Don’t worry, I linked you to the Wikipedia page, so there’s nothing gory. Google it if you’d like the hardcore stuff.)

“I sit you in a chair,” I say quietly, “I take wrist restraints and I tie your left hand to the left arm of your chair. Then I strap your right arm down. I spread your legs and strap each ankle to the legs of the chair.”

“Oh yes, Mistress.”

“I wrap a rubber band around and around your sack, we don’t want too much blood on those pretty white panties, now do we?”

“Oh no, Mistress,” he says breathlessly, he’s very excited, so I speak slowly and quietly.

“I take a scalpel and cut down the center of your ballsack. Then I cut around, and pull the skin open, exposing your little, worthless testicles.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Turn your hands palm up, Darlene,” I don’t know why these things pop into my mind. I have to admit, I was a little amused and a little horrified by the story building in my brain.

“Yes, Mistress,” poor Darlene, he has no idea what I’m doing and he’s very confused.

“I pull out one testicle and I place it into your left hand. Then I take the other and place it in your right.”

“Oh yes, Mistress!” He’s happy again.

“I remove the rest of the skin of your sack, leaving you with a useless little cock, and ball free. I untie your hands. Do you know what I want you to do with your testicles, Darlene?”

“No, Mistress,” confusion again.

I laugh softly.

“I want you to eat them!”

Don’t ask me. I have no idea where that came from.

“Oh yes, Mistress! They taste good, Mistress! Thank you for letting me eat them,” he says breathlessly, he really does seem to be enjoying my little story, and that’s all that matters.

“Next time I talk to you, we’re going to hack off that worthless piece of meat left dangling between your legs.”

“Oh no, Mistress. I still want to stroke my cock.”

Now he sounds horrified. My laughter is genuine.

“You can’t stroke your cock anymore, you silly little bitch. Your cock is useless now without your balls, you’re a eunuch now,” I still say this softly, but condescending and mocking at the same time.

“A what, Mistress?”

“You’ve never heard of a eunuch? You know how some kings used to have harems?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Well, a eunuch was a castrated man in charge of watching over the harem. Since he was castrated, he wouldn’t become aroused and think of fucking one of the women.”

“I see, Mistress.”

“So, without your balls, you’ll have much less of a sex drive, if you even have one at all. I suppose I should have let you stroke yourself one last time before I took your balls…oh well, too late now.” I’m laugh to let him know I really don’t care. “It’s possible you’ll still be able to get an erection. Don’t bank on it, though.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“When you’re ready to get rid of that useless dick, I’ll cut it off for you.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Did you enjoy eating your testicles, Darlene?”

“I did, Mistress.”

“Good, then you’ll enjoy eating your cock, too.”

“Oh yes, Mistress! Thank you! May I call you again?”

“Of course, how else can we cut off your cock?”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress!”

“You’re welcome. Have a good night, my silly little eunuch. I will talk with you again soon.”

I love it when I can disturb myself with these calls.

It’s Thursday and I started work this morning at 10am CST. Daytime hours are hard to figure, so I wasn’t sure how busy I’d be. I only took 11 calls, but phew, most of them were doozies.

10:21 - 10:29
Phil wants mid-30s, white and kinky. He tells me his wife is out of town, and he decided that rather than be naughty while she was gone, he’d call me. He explains it’s still kind of naughty, but not as bad.

He asks if I want Daddy’s dick. The rest of the call is descriptions of oral sex. He hangs up before he cums.

10:32 – 10:36
LaShawn wants a 21 year old, slutty black chick. He tells me he’s stroking his dick. He asks how I want him to stroke it.

Of course I say, “nice and slow.” He sounds close already, so I’m hoping to stall and make a few more cents. It doesn’t quite work. As soon as I told him I had two fingers inside my pussy, he groaned. He thanks me before he hangs up, which is always nice.

11:25 – 11:30
Mindy says, “You have a per minute call with Vince. He wants 55, white, sweet and sexy. He wants you to pick him up at the supermarket and take him home and cook him for dinner.”

“Wow! Really?”

She laughs, “Yup, you’ll be cooking him!”

“I swear, every time I think I’ve heard everything working here…”

“I know! Have fun!!”

I describe running into Vince in the produce section of the grocery store. I ask him if he’s got plans for dinner tonight and he tells me he does not.

“You should come to my place,” I say seductively, “I’d love to have you for dinner.”

“That sounds nice,” he says. He’s not very animated and doesn’t sound aroused at all. I’m a little confused as I’m not sure how this should go. I figure I’ll take him to my place, then hack him up with my butcher knife.

“We get to my house, and I tell you to go clean up while I busy myself cutting up the vegetables I just bought,” I say, setting the scene.

“Ok,” he says and sits quietly for a beat, “I’m done and I walk back into the kitchen.”

“And I bash you over the head with my meat tenderizing mallet!” I say, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. I had it all planned out, I’d describe taking my big knife and slicing off hunks of meat to put in my roasting pan with my cut up veggies. I was contemplating if I should describe skinning him, or sawing through bones, but I figured I’d flesh it out after I gauged his reaction to the head-bashing.

“What’s that big cauldron over there? It looks big enough for me to swim in,” he says, ignoring the fact that I just bashed him over the head with my mallet. I guess there will be no hacking with butcher knives for Charlotte.

“Why don’t you hop in that cauldron for me?” I try to contain my disappointment. Cauldron boiling is nowhere near as fun, or cathartic, as hacking someone to bits with a big, sharp knife.

“Ok! Oh, it’s nice and warm!” He still has that detached, monotone quality to his voice, so I’m still perplexed as to how this needs to go.

“It is! I’m making a nice stew, so you just get in there with that hot broth and all those yummy veggies! I grab my turkey baster and squirt broth over your head and shoulders.”

“Mmmm. Hey, who’s knocking at the door? Is your girlfriend coming for dinner?”

“That would be Linda, I invited her. She walks in the kitchen and takes over the basting duties.”

Then I hear the click as he hangs up. Wow, what the fuck?

12:37 – 12:40
Tim wants a mid 50s, sensual dom. He called on the “Mommy Line,” so, I’m anticipating some incest action.

“I just took it out of my pants,” he says, breathless.

“You did?! What’s that cock like?” I ask him.

“An average, regular cock. 6 inches and it’s so hard!”

“Oh! That’s very nice, Tim!”

“It’s all filled up with sperm.”

“Mmmm, well, we’ll have to take care of that, won’t we?”

“Yes, because sperm has to come out, right?”

“It does!” I say enthusiastically.

“The sperm has to come out,” He says.

“Yes, you’re right, the sperm has to come out.”

“Sperm has to come out.”

“Oh yes, Tim. Let’s get that sperm out.”

“Sperm has to come out.”

“It does…I’ll help you get it out!”

“Sperm has to come out.”

“…”

“Sperm has to come out.”

“Sperm has to come out,” I repeat, because I’m not really sure what else to say at this point.

“Sperm has to come out,” he says again, thickly.

“Yes…”

“Sperm has to come out.” Then suddenly, “It’s coming! It’s coming out! The sperm is coming out!!”

“Good! That sperm has to come out!”

“Yes, sperm has to come out.” And he hangs up.

12:43 – 12:50
Dave just wants a blow job from an 18 year old. Simple.

12:51 – 12:52
Nick wants a black girl. We do our introductions and we’re disconnected. I figure it’s because I’m having internet problems.

12:53 – 12:53
Jim wants a black girl. In the middle of giving me the details, Mindy realizes Jim is Nick. He hung up and called back because he wanted someone else. Apparently, I’m not black enough.

2:09 – 2:19
Mervin Cooper calls up again. When I say hello, and ask him how he’s doing, he moans.
“I love your voice so much!” he whispers.

“Aww, thank you, honey. What naughty little fantasy have you cooked up for us today?” I ask softly.

He just called me three days ago. Apparently, he’s home sick from work.

This time, I’m an actress in the porn industry. I’m teaching young girls all about the joys of hanging. I train them how to hang people. As usual, he lays out the story and I just have to murmur encouragement occasionally. As we get closer to the end, and his voice starts to falter, I know what to say to get him there.

“I tell the girl to help me up on the stool, and cuff my hands behind my back, I tell her to put the rope around my neck. I tell her to ask me if I’m certain.”

“She asks you if you’re sure,” Mervin picks up my thread.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m sure I want to hang until I die for you today.” He groans long and low, so I continue, “Will you watch me? Will you watch me hang until I die for you today?”

Mervin finishes up and tells me, “I love that fantasy…I love your voice…” and we’re disconnected.

3:45 – 4:00
I’m in the middle of scrubbing my stove when John calls up, wanting a very pregnant 25 year old.

“I’m John. What’s your name?”

“Sarah.”

“How do you spell that?”

“S-a-r-a-h.”

“Like Sarah McLachlan?”

“Yea…”

After our descriptions, he asks how far along I am.

“I’m actually a week overdue!”

“Really? When were you due?”

“On the first…they’ll induce if the baby doesn’t come this weekend,” I tell him, breathing heavily as I imagine a super pregnant woman would.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”

“It’s a girl.”

“What will you name her?”

“Danielle.”

“Like Danielle Steele?”

“Yea…” what the fuck?

“Are you married?”

“Nope,” I really don’t know why I said no, I just usually answer their questions with the first thing to pop in my mind. I would never really name my daughter Danielle, either.

“Is he a nice guy? Is he in your life?”

“Oh yes, he’s a good man, and he’s excited about the baby. I’m just not the marrying type.” Whatever that means.

“I wish I were with you. I’d love to go to bed with you every night, and be the father to your daughter, and watch her grow up and have more children with you,” he says wistfully.

“Aw, that’s very sweet,” I’m having a hard time covering up my bewilderment. He’s just having a conversation about my pregnancy and all his questions are beginning to annoy me. I don’t know a whole lot about being pregnant, so I’m hoping he doesn’t want too much detail.

“Are you lactating?” He asks suddenly.

“I am!” Here comes the sex, phew.

“Yum. Hot mom’s milk is so much better than cow’s milk!” He exclaims.

“Yea…”

“Do you take lamaze classes?” He asks. I guess we’re not going to have sex after all.

“Yup, we sure do.”

“Who’s the hottest woman in your class? What does she look like?”

“Her name is Linda…”

“Oh, like Linda Hamilton?”

“Yea…She’s got long red hair, she’s very pretty.”

“Is she big?”

“She’s having twins, so she’s super huge!”

“Oh wow? Is she having boys or girls or one of each?”

“She doesn’t know. She and her husband want to be surprised.”

“Oh, I wish I could have an orgy with you and all the pregnant women in your lamaze class!”

“That would be fun,” I giggle.

My cat has been in a howling mood today. He saunters into the kitchen yowling at the top of his lungs. He seems to enjoy meowinng when I’m on the phone, so I’ve taken to keeping a squirt bottle near me when I work. I don’t have it in the kitchen with me, so I pick him up instead to quiet him. I hear the beep warning me that our time is almost up and I am giddy with relief.

“Is that a cat I hear?” John asks.

“Yup.”

“Male or female?”

“It’s a male.”

“Are you preparing him for the arrival of his human sister?”

“As much as you can prepare a cat,” I laugh, “he likes sniffing around in her crib.”

“I have a cat too. I live in New York and there are lots of mice in my apartment. It’s good for me to have a cat because he kills them all for me.”

I have no idea what to say, but I’m a little grossed out. “Oh, that’s good. It’s nice that you have a good mouser if you have lots of mice around.”

“It is. Enough about the cats, do you want to have more babies someday?”

“I would, I’d love to have a big family.”

“Me, too. I wish I could be there with you and see your big pregnant belly. I’ve never had sex with a pregnant woman, but I heard it was amazing! Do you measure your belly? I bet you’re really huge if you’re a week overdue.”

“Yea…”

Saved by the disconnect. Wow, what the fuck?

4:20 – 4:50
I have regular sex with Rick. He stresses how he just wants to make me happy, and does most of the talking. I moan and sometimes add to his description. He enjoys himself and says he’ll call me again. Score!

4:51 – 4:55
Raymond and I have oral sex. Another simple call with my sound effects punctuating his story telling.

4:59
I call Mindy and tell her I’m done! Not a terrible day all in all…

I got hung up on today because the guy didn’t believe I was black. I’m not sure if you’re keeping score, but I am black. Well, biracial, but same difference.

While he questions me, I become defensive, “We don’t all talk ghetto, you know!”

Because all Asian girls say “me love you long time,” and all grandmothers are secret sluts.

So, now I’m mad at this guy and he’s mad at me, because he keeps saying, “I don’t care what you sound like as long as you’re really black.”

“Well, I am really black.”

“Oh, ok then. Because I called this other service and they didn’t have any black girls, but this service seems like it’s got a lot of black girls,” he says all distracted with his Afrocentric fetish having ass.

“Yup, we do!”

“It’s just, you know, when you answered, and you didn’t sound…not like it matters how you sound, but…”

“You wanted a girl who sounded ghetto?” I say, in my best Ebonics accent, heavy with sarcasm. Why am I so angry? I don’t know, but fuck this guy.

“Well, yea, I kinda did, I just…well, it doesn’t matter how you sound as long as you’re really black…”

“I am really black!”

“What color did you say your skin was?”

I know they want me to be black as the back of Whoopi Goldberg’s neck, but like I said, fuck him. Instead, I say, “A nice caramel complexion,” which also is the truth. I think.

“Um, can you hold please?”

“Sure,” I say, brightly.

“Click.”

This is pretty much the same as giving my tranny a teeny weenie. And I realize this, but I couldn’t stop myself. Rather, in this instance, Charlotte lost her control over the phone and I took over.

I participated in race fantasies, and I tried to squeeze my ears past the “n” word. I tried not to take it personally, since it doesn’t have anything to do with me, really. Then, I took the most heartbreaking call ever.

His name is Rufus and he’s a black man from somewhere in the South, in his 30s, I think. He wanted a black woman to dominate him. He fantasy being raped by a bunch of white guys. So, I started with some frat boys, and he stopped me. He wanted to be in a field, with older white men, being punished and humiliated. He says young white men aren’t like the older generation. They don’t have that hatred of black men and wouldn’t degrade him racially the way men from even just the generation prior would.

So, we switch, to him in a field with three white men in their 50s circling him menacingly. Even though I don’t want to, I see the scene in my head. Bright hot blue sky. Fields of some sort of hazy yellow vegetation and a black man on all fours, muscled and slick. The white men are straight out of the worst images of Mississippi, white undershirts and black suspenders with dirty blue work pants, foul grins twisting their faces.

And then he started talking in the slave voice. “Oh yessir massah,” and all that shit. I can’t describe how awful it was to hear that. I get that it’s all about debasement and being made to feel the lowest of low. I have a really hard time saying mean things to these guys. I feel bad and think they all need hugs. I try my best, but I know it sounds half-hearted. I’ve still mustered the audacity to laugh at some guy’s cock and call it his baby dick. Even though I felt bad, Rufus took me to another level.

He fed me my lines. He told me what he liked to hear. Pretty much the most vile things you can think to say to a black man, he wanted me to say to him. So, I squeezed my eyes shut and said them. And he loved it. With every piece of filth I spewed, he screamed, “Oh yes massa!” And I hated myself.

When he finished, he started talking to me, at ease. I didn’t know what to say to him. I wanted to apologize. He asked if it was difficult for me, and I admitted that it was.

He told me that he makes his living that way, being abused, degraded and raped by white men. He told me they have reenactments of auctions. If they pay extra, they can beat him up. He’ll even let you “hang” him. I didn’t ask how much he charged. I mostly just sat there dumbfounded.

Laughing, he told me about laying in bed for a week to recuperate from a beating. He said the money was good, and he liked it.

Then he made me do it again. He fed me some more lines. I searched my brain for every horrible thing I’ve heard said about black people. I tried to use my anthropology mind tricks and see it from his perspective rather than my own. He was enjoying himself, and was it really any different than the guy who wants me to put him in panties and call him my little cumfaggot or the guy who wants me to tie him up and fuck his piss-slot with a metal rod?

I tried to be accepting, he’s a grown man, after all. If he gets off hearing these things, who am I to deny him that? Who am I to question it? With Rufus, I couldn’t reconcile it. He was intelligent and witty, very pragmatic about his fetish. He got off. They got off. He made money, supposedly. He was happy, apparently.

When we hung up, he seemed happy as could be. I cried my face off. I felt sick to my stomach. Sad for him that he can be OK on his knees with a noose around his neck and a white man’s boot on his face. Disgusted in myself that I took him there for 25 fucking cents a minute.

So, I’m sorry to all you black fetishists on the phone lines, but I’m not doing it. Serena’s not having it, goddamnit. Find a white girl with a ghetto accent on the phone who’ll let you call her nigger, cause we ain’t doin it.

“Phew, sorry,” I say to my friend, Amy, after our conversation was interrupted by the WhorePhone, “that was a request!”

“Yay,” she says.

“Yea, I’ve talked to him a few times. This is the first time I didn’t die!”

“Wait, what?!”

This is one of those moments where I realize the things I talk about at work aren’t exactly normal. Besides the time I broke heads for the mob, I’ve had to participate in erotic deaths with a couple of other people.

This guy, Mervin, has called me several times. He’s the type of caller who tells the story. These are my second favorite, close behind the random conversations. Not simply because I get to be lazy — which is nice — but because I learn a lot. I’ll be armed with new material for the next guy with the fetish.

I can’t be terribly lazy though, I still have to be an active participant, especially if it’s a detailed fantasy. How lame would it be if you spent 15 minutes laying down your beautiful orgasmic story and you gave your partner a command or a question, wait expectantly and she says, “Excuse me, what did you say?”

I still have to be there.

Mervin is in his 30s. He has a soft and friendly voice. He sounds like he’d be your high school Chemistry teacher. He doesn’t sound creepy at all. Engaging, but just a little odd.

He begins to weave his fantasy for me.

“You’re a college student, not really much money. That’s why you do the phone thing. You’re still not making quite enough to survive so you start browsing websites looking for part time jobs. You come across one that says, ‘Actresses needed! Earn $1500 in a weekend.’

You decide it can’t hurt to try it out, you know they’re filming a movie in the next town over, so you figure they need extras. You know there’s a good chance it’ll be some skeezy porn flick, but you don’t care at this point.

You go to the address, and it’s a nondescript house in a subdivision. The neighborhood is lower middle class. Well kept lawns and driveways cluttered with brightly colorful children’s toys.

The woman who answers the doorbell is a pretty, older woman. Blonde and curvy. She’s wearing a long, terrycloth robe and smoking a cigarette. She introduces herself as Claire. She sits you down on the couch and explains that they are in fact, filming a porn film. She asks if that’s OK. You tell her that you’d been filmed before. You thought it was fun and it turned you on a little.

She asks if you’re into bondage. She explains they’re doing a film that features strangulation. She asks you what sorts of bondage play you’ve done in your personal life. You tell her you enjoy being tied up. Being choked makes you wet, so you’re starting to get turned on at the prospect of this movie. She tells you that you’ll be choked with a noose. That you’ll be flimed hanging from the ceiling by your neck. She asks you if that is OK. You’re a little afraid, but you tell her yes.

She leads you into a basement where there are 4 other girls in long white terrycloth robes. You notice they have marks around their wrists from being bound, they have the same marks around their necks. Claire instructs you to take all of your clothes off and follow them into a little room.

There are 5 stools set up and each of the four girls stands on one. You notice a camera on a tripod in front of the girls. Above each stool, is a noose hanging from the ceiling. They each take their robes off and pull the nooses around their necks. Claire tells you to take the empty one. As you climb up on your stool, you notice that there’s a number 3 painted on it. You place the noose around your neck.

Claire tells you that each stool has a number placed on it. She will draw a number, and that girl will hang until she dies. She looks you in the eye and asks you if this is OK.

You notice the other girls are masturbating as the camera rolls. You’re turned on, too, and you begin to touch yourself. You tell Claire that it is OK.

She reaches into a hat, and what number does she grab, Sarah?”

“Three,” I say with a sticky gasp. That’s why you have to pay attention!

“That’s right. And you know what that means?” He’s closing in on the finish line now.

“It means I’m going to die,” I say, afraid and aroused at once.

“It means you’re going to hang from your neck until you die. Do you want that, Sarah?”

“Oh yes!” I gasp.

“Say it…”

“I want to hang from my neck until I die,” I whisper as he groans.

“Do you want to die for me today?”

“I do. I want to die for you today. I want to hang by my neck until I die…”

After taking a moment to regain his composure, Mervin thanks me. He reminds me that these are just fantasies, and he doesn’t really want to watch girls hang until they die. I tell him I understand, and that it was a hot fantasy. And it was fun, in that disturbingly interesting way. As I said, he’s called me several times since then, once with the same fantasy, once where I didn’t die, and once today.

I told my friend, Jeremy, about this caller yesterday. I’ve known Jeremy for many years and he wants to be a mortician. Thus we joke about horrible things. He asked me if I had a good death rattle for Mervin. Only he would think such a thing! It hadn’t even occurred to me. I had to admit it was a good idea.

I helped another guy hang his girlfriend. Then there was the guy I had to beat to death with a rock while I rode him. For whatever reason, these calls didn’t really make huge waves in my mind’s perversion ocean. That should bother me! How was your day? Oh the usual: pregnant trannies, sexy grandmas and snuff porn.

When Mervin called today, he had a pretty creepy scenario. I was a prostitute who went with a john to this cellar. Same bare white room with a bright light and a video camera. There was a drainpipe with a noose waiting for me. He was so excited describing the room, and it was so vivid. I always try to match my breathing and the tone of my voice with the caller’s. I was there. I could see the room with the milk-crate for me to stand on. Hear the drip off the drain pipe and its echo in the cold room. I wondered if he’d ever had a girlfriend who liked to be choked and if he “accidentally” strangled her too hard one night and got off at the thought of making her die. I wondered if he’d ever actually killed anyone.

I understand that these are just fantasies; it’s just difficult to keep in mind when you hear that tone of voice. I tried to put that out of my mind and play along with Mervin though. Aside from the strangling teenagers thing, he seemed like a nice guy. I was a little nervous when I made my first attempt at the death rattle today. I didn’t want it to be hokey. I heard the catch in his voice and the groan so I did it again. And then once more, the grand finale. I’m giving up last breath. . .for you. He absolutely loved it! I’d like to thank Jeremy for helping me creep myself out and ensuring Mervin’s place as a regular. I’ll take him over Mr. Fantastic any any day. I look forward to the many ways I’ll be strangled.

I’m having an interesting night of calls. It’s one of those occasions that I’m actually enjoying being on and having fun with my customers. And it shows, they’ve all stayed to talk to me for their entire alloted time. It’s amazing what simply deciding to change your outlook can do.

I talk to a disabled Vietnam vet. He was feeling depressed about being stuck at home, in a wheelchair with no company, no one to talk to. This depresses me, too. We shift topics to nicer things, since he just wants to talk, no sex. I’m saddened when he gives me his address and asks if we can be pen pals. As much as I’d like to, I can’t. But, over the next few days, I think more and more, “why can’t I?” If it would brighten this poor guy’s day, why not? I could send them with no return addresses, even though that’s not really in the spirit of pen pal-dom…

I get a request from my new favorite caller, Sam. He’s quickly becoming a regular. He’s very nice and easy to talk to. It helps that his fantasies aren’t so far out there that I can’t relate. It is interesting that his fantasies are based on telephone conversations. For instance, in one case, I was his cleaning lady and he’d realized I’d been looking through his drawers, and he called me to confront me. The conversation came around to me having a crush on him and what would happen when I came back to his place for my punishment. Another was I was his wife, and he called me on his lunch break, interrupting my masturbating to the pool boy. I told him what I was doing, it turned him on, and we talked about possibly inviting the pool boy to join us that evening. There have been a couple of other calls, and in each case, we played characters having phone sex.

The next hour is spent with another regular. He wants to call me back when our time is up, but decides he’ll wait a little bit. He waits an hour and calls me back for another hour-long request. We don’t really have conversation, we “listen to each other masturbate.” So, I fake orgasms at semi-regular intervals while he shouts, “That’s the real thing baby! You’re really getting off, I can tell!” Indeed. He sometimes asks me to do bewildering things, like shove my panties up my ass or pussy. I’m not sure how or why he figures this would feel good for me, but I try to make the appropriate sounds. Once, he told me to shove three vibrators in me, end to end…all in all, though, he’s a nice guy, so I don’t mind him. He spends a lot of money with us, because he calls several times a week and he also talks to this other girl a lot.

The best comes just before I sign off. Mindy tells me he’s a brand new caller named George, and he wants to talk to a sweet and sexy, black, 20 year-old.

We introduce ourselves. George is an older gentleman from the South. He tells me he has a rather strange fetish, and wants to know how comfortable I am role-playing. I am always a little wary when they tell me their fetishes are strange, but I tell him we can talk about anything as long as all participants are 18.

He clears his throat and hesitates. I assure him that he can tell me anything, that’s what I’m here for.

“Well, see…it’s like this,” he begins, “The other day, this telemarketer called me, and I agreed to buy something for her, but I had to give her all of my personal information…”

“OK,” I say encouragingly, still with no clue where this will end up.

“Well, that just turned me on so much!” he announces, still a little hesitantly.

“…talking to the telemarketer?”

“Yes! Just, something about giving out my personal information turns me on so much. I’d like to be able to do that, but I think it would be even better if the person on the other end of the line knew I had my dick in my hand while she was getting this information.”

OH! Really?! Wow…

“Oh, so it’s just telling someone your confidential information gets you excited?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Yes, it really does. I’m not sure why, but, oh do I get worked up!”

I chuckle a little, relieved. That’s nothing!

“We can roleplay that, George, no problem.”

“Are you sure, that won’t make you uncomfortable?” He asks. It’s sweet when they’re really concerned about me being comfortable with their fantasy. Obviously, George is unaware that the company he called is dominated by men with strange fetishes, usually gross ones.

I assure him that it doesn’t make me uncomfortable in the least and it actually sounds like fun. He breathes a sigh of relief and tells me that he wants me to ask him for everything. He says if I want to write it all down, too, that would be even better. So, I grab my notebook and click my pen, making sure it’s noisy enough for him to hear.

“So, George, your phone rings, and I’m a telemarketer calling to offer you phone service,” I begin.

“OK,” he clears his throat, “Hello?”

“Hello, sir. My name is Serena, and I am calling from PhoneWhore Communications. I have an offer for a new telephone service for your area. Are you interested?”

“Oh, yes, I am!”

I can feel him relaxing, and that makes me smile. Funny how something so silly to me can be so stressful to him. I suppose it is a little strange.

“Well, sir, I’ll need your first and last name to get this set up.”

“George Thompson, miss.”

“All right, Mr. Thompson, and what is your address?”

He gives me his address, and in this manner I get his Social Security number and driver’s license number as well. I tell him we can keep his existing phone number, so he gives this to me, as well as his cell phone number, just in case.

I tell him that I want to make sure I have the information recorded accurately, and I read it back to him.

At this point he groans, “Oh, Serena, I’m playing with my dick right now, and it feels so good!”

“Well, I’m glad Mr. Thompson! Ok, now, we can set you up for monthly payments to be deducted directly from your checking account. Are you interested in that?”

“I am interested in that, let me grab my checkbook…”

“Thank you Mr. Thompson. And when you’re ready, please read me your routing number, followed by your checking account number.”

He does. He also tells me the balances in his checking and savings accounts.

I explain he can use his credit card as a backup payment method if he’d like. Of course he would like.

“But, just so you know, you can’t open up new accounts, I have it set up that way,” he says. This is the first time he’s sounded a little concerned. It is probably occurring to him that I could be shady and take all of this information and run.

“That’s ok, Mr. Thompson,” I reassure him, “We don’t need to open up new accounts. All that matters is that funds can be deducted from these existing accounts.”

“That’s fine, then. You can make purchases from the accounts, no problem,” he says happily, then groans a little and tells me how good he feels.

“Do you have notifications activated on these accounts? So, if an amount above a certain level is charged, the company will call to warn you?”

“Yes, if you spend a lot in one place, or if you make many small purchases that add up to a lot in one day, they’ll call and ask me if I authorized them.”

“I see. But, if I make small purchases, spaced out over time. Say, weekly, or monthly, then no red flags will pop up?”

He groans louder this time, “No, not at all.”

I take advantage of the thickness in his voice and repeat all the information he’s given me so far once more.

“Oh, Serena, my dick feels so good!”

“That makes me happy, Mr. Thompson.”

I’m not really sure what else to ask him, so he starts offering information. He tells me his email address and password. He gives me the website for his credit card company, and his user name and password. Then he gives me the 800 number for his bank and his access code for said 800 number as well as his debit card number and PIN.

He asks me if I can log into the website for his credit card and see if the password he gives me is correct. As luck would have it, my internet is out on this night, so I can’t do that. I don’t tell him this, instead, I open up a word document so he can hear me typing away.

I tell him I can see his account information. He asks if I can see his credit limit there. I tell him I’ve logged out already, but I did remember seeing it. Was it $5000? My wild stab in the dark pays off, and he says that’s right, voice thickening even more. I’m far from psychic, but since his checking and savings account balances weren’t terribly high, I figured he couldn’t have an astronomical credit limit.

I keep typing, telling him I’m now entering his information in our database. This allows me to read all of his information back to him once again.

He tells me again how good he feels, and is silent briefly. I again tell him that I’m happy he’s happy. He thanks me finally, and tells me that it was fun.

He reminds me again that his accounts are set up so that no one can open up new accounts, or get another credit card issued. I tell him I understand and that he doesn’t have to worry about anything.

Sometimes I wish I had fewer scruples. I have an Amazon wishlist after all! I hang up with a bemused smile. Not a bad night at work at all.

As she talks about them, she seems to have that bitter disdain for men like a lot of sex workers do. She calls them “idiots” and “fucking bastards.” Even when she says “the guys” there’s an edge to her voice. It’s strange to me, these guys just want to get off. They can do that for free! Instead, they’re giving us money to help them with their fantasies because they can’t talk to people in their real lives about them. I guess after 7 years of talking to perverts, you get burned out. ~Me

Change that to 7 months.

A couple of people have pointed out how my attitude has changed since I started. I’ve referred to callers as “assholes.” I’ve stopped focusing on the caller and started trying to IM and watch TV shows with closed captioning while talking to them. I get mad at them for not saying what they want, even though not very long ago, I wrote how that was an aspect of many calls and it was up to me to figure out what they really wanted. I actually enjoyed that process and felt proud of myself when I finally unraveled the mystery.

I use to have entries stockpiled for this blog, waiting for my weekly update. I’d write something at the end of nearly every shift. Now it’s been a month since I’ve written anything.

Why?

I’m not sure. On some level, I feel like I’ve heard every incarnation of the fantasies I’ve already written about. Perhaps since it’s not new to me anymore, and actually a little boring, I figure you’ll be bored, too.

But, why all of a sudden, am I bitter and angry at the poor pervs who just want to get off? Those men who probably don’t have a woman in their lives to tell these things to and turn to me suddenly get attitude. It’s not like anything has really changed. Most of the guys I talk to are surprisingly nice. Just because I’ve already talked to two guys who want to fuck their moms today, doesn’t mean the third guy deserves a half-assed phone call.

It is draining. You’re perky, and sexy and interested in his every word, or else he hangs up unhappy and you don’t get paid. You have to let men call you every terrible name they can think of, and describe doing disgusting things to you, without taking it personally. For 25 cents a minute. Or you have to verbally humiliate and abuse a caller, without letting them know you feel sorry for them. You have to convincingly talk seductively about things that might disturb you. Or offend you. For 25 cents a minute.

Do you realize that there’s a permanent, unalterable change in your mentality after you’ve described the texture of your poop as it flows into some guy’s mouth? Or that part of your brain screams in horror while another part describes the joys of bestiality? That sometimes, when you’re alone, handling your business, a man in heels will enter your dream, unbidden, and beg to suck the cum out of you?

You know, being a phone floozy ruins everything sexual in your life. I’ve thought more about what I’d do if a guy I dated wanted to wear panties in the past 8 months than I have ever in life. Comments from a man that ordinarily wouldn’t even register, I now wonder if they’re indicative of some deep, dark fetish. A guy might say, “yea, I’ve had a girl rim me, it was pretty cool. I’d let a girl do that again,” and it used to be barely eyebrow raising. Now? Now I wonder if he’s got manties in his closet and secretly wants to get assfucked by a big black dick.

Forget about ever having phone sex again. I wasn’t a big phone sexer before this job, but it would be impossible now. I tried exactly once. It’s difficult to not be Charlotte and be me, the girl who was into this particular guy. In my mind, he kept becoming a caller, not a guy I wanted to hump. I kept slipping into work mode and saying things that didn’t feel natural since they’re Charlotte lines. It took a lot effort to keep Charlotte at bay and just enjoy the moment. He felt as though he had all this competition since I’ve already heard everything, what could he possibly say to turn me on at this point? And in a way, that’s true. Not that a man I’m interested wouldn’t be capable of saying something sexy to me anymore, but the telephone thing has become so separated from my reality, it just won’t work.

Apparently, it’s intimidating, too. Guys have told me they wouldn’t want their girlfriend to be a phone whore. Or that they feel at a disadvantage because my dirty talk skills are way beyond what they can imagine. It takes sexy banter to a whole different level when, as a woman, you say something absolutely shocking to a man and leave him speechless. Unless I just meet pansy asses…

Even sex itself changes. On one hand, it’s awesome that suddenly, you can be very dirty talking in bed. Well, me, not you. I was never talkative, I was way too self conscious. Now that I understand the effect that some choice nastiness flowing from your lips can have, I’m not so self-conscious. On the other hand, now I worry that he’ll think I’m just exaggerating, saying dirty things because of my job. I can’t win!

And really, what do I tell people I do for a living when I go on job interviews? I provide customer service from home over the telephone. Well, what type of customer service to you provide? The type where the caller hangs up with a smile. And kind of sleepy and in need of a sandwich.

I’m trying to get back to bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Charlotte, who took such pride in making men cum from my well-crafted, personalized fantasies. I feel bad for them. How low must that feel? To have your phone whore yawning at your fantasy?

I need a rejuvenation! A rediscovery of what makes telephone acting so rewarding!

I’m trying.

Before we begin, I’d like to offer a suggestion to anyone calling a phone whore. Do not tell her that you’re into anything if you’re not really into anything. I will ask you multiple times if you’re sure you mean anything. Especially if you call on the “No Holds Barred” line and ask for a kinky girl. If you reiterate that yes, you’re into anything, I will warn you that I like to do very dirty things. If you tell me again that you’re into anything, and I can do whatever I want to you, I will bring my big black friend with his big black cock to play. If that fucks up your fantasy, it’s your own damn fault for telling me I could do whatever I wanted to you.

Anyway…

Mindy is chuckling lightly as I answer my phone. “Oh boy, I got a fun one for you tonight!”

She says this gleefully. I love that she gets so excited when I have messed up calls. I need to ask her if she’s ever phone whored or if she’s always been a receptionist. I bet if she’d been a phone whore she wouldn’t giggle so much at some of the requests we get.

I grab my notebook and pencil. I’m tired and distracted. I’m not in the mood to play tonight. I really haven’t been at all lately.

“Oh lord. What do you have for me tonight?” I ask warily. I remember when this job was fun and I was all gung-ho about making sure the guys enjoyed themselves with me. It didn’t take long for me to be irritated. Of course, it’s still nice when I make a man cum over the phone. I still get that sense of pride in a job well done, but sometimes, my heart is not in it.

“I have Jermay for 10 minutes. He wants 19, hot and horny, and motherly.”

We laugh. We always laugh when they ask for teenaged and motherly.

“That’s not all,” Mindy warns me, “He wants you to be pregnant.”

“OK, pregnant. Like, how pregnant should I be?” They usually want 7 or 8 months along, for whatever reason.

“Like, ready to pop!” She giggles as she tells me this.

“Ok, 19 and 9 months pregnant,” I say as I write in my notebook.

“Not just 9 months pregnant, but you’re in labor now!” She laughs heartily. She’s so good at saving the best detail for last.

“Oh yay!” I say, unenthusiastically.

“Of course we just happen to have a girl working at this moment who’s in labor! It’s his lucky day!” She jokes, “Connecting you now!”

Unsurprisingly, Jermay has a thick, very thick, very hick accent. “Hey baby,” he says huskily, “How you doin’ tonight?”

“I am so tired,” I say. Tiredly.

“Oh yea? How come you so tired?” He asks me. Tarred, actually. How come you so tarred?

“I am ready to have this baby out of me!” I exclaim, heavily.

“Oh you are?” His voice instantly takes on that horny tone I love so well, “Is that baby comin’?”

“It is! I’ve been having regular contractions and everything, I feel like I wanna push!” I say this as though I’m breathless and struggling.

“How can I help you?” He asks quietly.

“You can shove your hands up there and rip this baby outta me, Jermay!”

“Really?”

“Yes, Jermay, I want this baby out!!” I yell. I wonder again if my neighbors think I’m crazy.

“Just breathe, Sarah!” He encourages.

I start in on Lamaze breathing. That really seems to get him going, and he shouts more encouragement.

“That’s right, Sarah! You can do it! Breathe baby!”

“It’s coming, Jermay!” I shout, trying hard not to laugh.

Is this guy beating off to my Lamaze breathing? He’s the only guy in middle school who didn’t get grossed out at the birthing videos in health class. I wonder if instead of porn, he has natural childbirth sites bookmarked. I talk about a lot of very disgusting things with my callers, and he’s not the first to want a pregnant girl. I don’t understand what could possibly be erotic about a woman in labor, but who am I to question?

“Keep going! Push it, Sarah!” He’s shouting, too, so I imagine he’s having a good time.

“Oh, it’s coming, Jermay!” I shout and groan louder. I Lamaze breathe faster and harder. He hangs up halfway through my “pushing,” and I can dissolve into laughter.

I had an interesting conversation with Lil Tim Tim. He knows me as Mary Anne, but has never called me by name. He always calls me Mom, and has never dropped the baby talk with me. I’m never really sure what to do with him; it’s hard enough having a conversation for a half an hour with a real 5 year old!

Our conversations used to start with me being angry because he got in trouble at school for not acting his age. He’d tell me his teacher didn’t think he was ready for kindergarten. He just wanted to stay home and be a baby. We’ve reached an agreement where if he behaves at school, he can be Mommy’s Baby when he gets home. He gets a bubble bath. He gets to dump the baby powder on himself when we put the diaper on. Sometimes he wears footie pajamas, but mostly he kicks it in just a diaper. We’ll have a snack and then chit chat. Every once in a while, I’ll sing to him. The singing cracks me up, I am absolutely tone deaf but a real baby doesn’t really know any better; I don’t know how he tolerates it.

This call was a little different. He asked me what I was wearing and what I did for a living. He asked how old I was and what I looked like. I’ve talked to him countless times and these things have never come up. I was never more than this abstract “Mom” in his fantasy. It threw me off a little bit and I had to remember to use my mommy voice and not the sexy voice in describing myself.

We were laying on my bed and he had his head on my stomach. He was wearing his baby bunny diapers and I was stroking his hair while we talked about baby bunnies and duckies. It was a quiet sort of thing, since I was really tired and out of things to talk about. We were getting ready for a nap, when he asked me, “Why do I like being a baby, Mommy?”

Now there’s a loaded question for you.

I thought for a bit, then I said, “Sometimes it’s hard to be a big boy. You have to do all sorts of things you don’t want to do. And sometimes, when you’re a big boy, you have to do things you don’t even like to do. That’s not very fun and it’s very stressful. So, it’s nice to come home and be a baby with no worries at all. It’s nice to lay your head on a warm tummy and just relax with someone who loves you. And who loves you more than your mommy?”

He was quiet for a long time. I didn’t know if I’d said something wrong, so I just sat there waiting. He finally said, in a husky sort of baby voice, “I really enjoy talking to you, Mary Anne.”

It didn’t strike me as I was saying it that I was anywhere near the mark, I was mostly just rambling. Early in the conversation he’d said that kindergarten was hard and that he was very tired. I took it to mean he had a stressful week at work, and that’s why it was a sleepy sort of conversation we were having. I was only trying to talk in the way you do when you’re laying in bed half asleep, just enjoying being warm and near someone.

I don’t tend to question “why” when I talk to my pervs. That’s not really for me to know or attempt to figure out. In most cases, I can’t even begin to think of whys. Much of the time, I can’t figure out why I do the things that I do. How can I begin to understand why some guy would want to have sex with a pregnant tranny? The least important aspect of that conversation is how the tranny got pregnant to begin with and that’s a big fucking question.

I’ve never thought about why people want to be adult babies. I mean, I’ve wondered why Tim Tim talks to Mindy in the baby voice, too, and why he chooses to be 5. I often wonder why he snivels all the fucking time. I wonder why listening to a grown man pretending to be 5 only really infuriates me when he won’t stop sniveling. I wonder if he gets to play this fantasy out with a significant other, or if he ever has. How would that conversation go? How do you even tell your lady that you like to put on a diaper and talk like a 5 year old? He gets so into his character, I can’t imagine I’d be his only outlet. If I am, I feel bad for him.

In fact, I’ve never even wondered what he does for a living until I was relating this story to a friend the other night. I’ve never wondered how old he really is, or if he’s married or has any children. I was never convinced any of that really mattered. It’s all about making sure they get off within their allotted time, right? Well, Tim Tim never gets off as far as I can tell. Our conversations never turn sexual, I don’t know if he makes it sexy once we hang up. I suppose it’s possible.

Now I wonder if my attempt at answering why will change the dynamic between Lil Tim Tim and Mommy. Is Lil Tim Tim my new biggest fan now because I figured out why he likes being a baby? Is he in awe and in love, thinking I get him? Maybe our conversations will be easier since I’ve touched a part of his psyche.

What if he really did have to do something that made him unhappy in his real life version of kindergarten? Did he have to fire someone? Did he have to sit in all day conferences listening to discussions of profit margins and second quarter earnings? Maybe he got fired; I keep hearing the economy is in the shitter after all.

Or maybe I was way off and he hung up laughing, saying, “This whore thinks she’s smart!”