‘What are you wearing?’ - an ensemble of fucking lies, my horny friend.
Okay, so I’m going to be brutally honest. Occasionally, I USED to stretch the truth regarding my outfit…. Ever so slightly. I may have described my outfit as something a little more seductive than say; A worn out old Terminator t-shirt complete with baked beans stains, for example.
There has been the occasional day when I was first starting out as a Phone Sex Chat Operator and I was answering calls between catching up with housework or episodes of American Horror Story and I simply had no intention of shoe-horning my sagging arse into a PVC outfit or some stringy lingerie. Or, that it had already gotten cold out but it hadn’t reached that acceptable point in late October when One can confidently put on their heating without looking like a complete pussy, and I didn’t want to be shivering in my bra and knickers. I simply cannot be sexy when I’m chilly.
‘So…what are you wearing?’ - fuck, urgh… what do I do? Do I fuck up their day, or do I lie through my teeth? Most of the time, in these instances, I will lie through my teeth. In my defense, I’m pretty bloody sure all of us Phone Chatline Workers have done this at some point in our careers. Perks of the job; Slob about in your old undercrackers whilst flirting on the phone.
But I soon learnt a throbbing-hard lesson. Now, I only work the sex chatlines whilst I’m camming or between filming or taking work selfies. So I’m already made up and looking hotter than the Sun (I fucking wish) by default.
The Fateful Day.
‘Can you send me a photo? I’d love to see what you look like right now…’ asks my client, excitedly.
‘Fuck!! FUUUUCK! Fuck me, why the fuck did I agree to this - he only tipped me a shitting tenner. God, I should’ve charged more than a tenner. Actually, I should have just been fucking sensible for the first time in my sad little life and said ‘No’ and made up some cock and ball story to shut him up. Why am I like this? I really am a prize Dickhead. Okay, it’s done now, he’s already tipped you. You’ve got this, Bunnie. Keep talking sexy, your catsuit is around here somewhere - the suitcase - NICE ONE! We’re not done yet… keep chatting about sexy things whilst you covertly and one-handedly slide your leg into your catsuit. You’ve fucking got this….’
I frantically pulled up the trouser section with my right hand, my phone was placed in my left hand and against my ear with my head pressed against the wall - for balance - whilst desperately wiggling and cramming my arse cheeks into my outfit. ‘Fuck, I’m never eating chocolate again’, I think to myself, knowing full fucking well that I most definitely will be rewarding myself with a big bastard bar of it once this ordeal is finally over.
Through the dizzying panic and like a fucking trooper, I continue talking about sexy things in an exaggerated RP accent (I like to sound fancy, but I’m actually about as posh as an old scrotum in real life) and my free hand is now wildly thrashing around as I try to feel for my lipstick. My phone has been manically exchanged to my right hand and placed the on the ear of the accompanying side. My left hand has now been tasked with make-up duties. My head is still against the wall, for balance, and my catsuit has made it up past my arse. My arse, Dear Reader, I have pushed outwards, away from the wall, to prevent my shiny attire from slipping down.
Between the sizzling exchanges of my client and I, I use my elbows to heave my arched body off the wall and I momentarily move my phone in front of my face for a reflection in order for successful lipstick application. ‘Big sweaty bollocks to it’ I lament to myself, ‘I can’t see piss all.’ The dismay.
‘How are you getting on with that photo?’ My client breathes lustily.
‘Ooh, I’ve already taken it’ - I giggle, nervously. ‘I’m just waiting for it to upload’ I fib, for I have now become a master of deception.
I make a break for the mirror, tiptoeing across the room, phone to my ear in one hand, lipstick in the other. My lower back is still arched so that my bottom is sticking outwards to prevent accidental outfit slippage. I waddle towards the mirror like a sexy duck. I hastily apply the lipstick, put the phone down for a second and fix my hair. ‘That’s going to have to do. A fucking tenner. That’s not even a packet of cigarettes these days. I really am a shit show of a human being.’ I consider to myself as I shake my head in disbelief.
I continue talking to my very patient client. I’m hoping that he thinks that the panting is me masturbating and not because I was at that time shuffling down the corridor in a frenzied panic, with my phone to my left ear and my right hand hoisting up my catsuit. My legs are apart whilst I advance down the hallway, still tiptoeing, to prevent my limbs rubbing together and making too much noise. I had come too far to give the game away now. With this motion, I had now evolved from sexy duck to alluring penguin. I attempt a seductive groaning noise, simply because I couldn’t think of anything else to say in that moment and I needed to fill in a pause in the conversation, but alas, it most definitely sounded more like a throaty wheeze, the dirty smoker that I am.
I mutter something about his throbbing cock in a breathy voice and before he finishes his response, I gently, but swiftly, place the phone upon the table. And like a PVC God, I majestically slip on the upper part of my suit and pull up the zip in one smooth movement.
It’s Photo Time, Bitches.
I briefly utter something else about his erection and subsequently seized the opportunity to mention how wet I was (obviously, I imply that it’s my vulva that’s wet, and not because I’d been sweating profusely due to the stress of the ridiculous situation I’d gotten myself in). And then I send that motherfucking photo. BAM! I’m a fucking super star.
The client cums loudly and hangs up. Not even a shitting thank you. The knobhead.
I consume a big bastard bar of chocolate and await my next call.
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Image ©Bunnie Stevens 2023