Reclining Nude with Drapery (ca. 1912–1913) by Gustav Klimt. Original from The MET Museum. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.

(Content note: This piece contains verbal humiliation play and mentions of DD/lg)

The screen on my phone flashes bright in the darkness and I swipe right to answer. Immediately I can hear him breathing, low and urgent, and there’s a hitch in his voice as he says my name. I roll onto my side and pull my legs in tight to my body, laugh quietly, saying nothing in response. For seconds there is silence, and then I hear the soft noise of bedding being moved, the creak of a spring, and a muffled, pleading moan.

Say hello, he says, and I obey. So does she. I wasn’t talking to you, he says dismissively, and I hear the sharp crack of a palm hitting flesh. I hear her gasp and picture her wincing, rocking away from him and then back. She’s acting dumb today, he says to me. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. His words are punctuated with sharp intakes of breath, and I close my eyes and picture his cock, angry hard with its prominent head, sliding in and out of her… her cunt? Her ass? I’ve no idea.

I breathe in, and open my mouth to speak. I say ‘how-‘, and then pause. I listen to them, their noises meshing like a helix against the familiar soft whoosh of the wifi line.

What was that? he asks.

Oh, I- I stutter.

Ask, he says. Go on.

I swallow, and shake my head at myself. How are you-

He laughs and interrupts me. In her cunt. He spits the last word through gritted teeth and when she lets out a groan of surprise I picture him pulling his hips back to slam into her, the head of his cock banging against her cervix, bruising.

On her back, now. She’s soaking wet. Desperate little cunt. My fingers were inside her when I told her I’d be calling you. She gushed. She’s a fucking mess. You should see her face, right now. Her mouth- He laughs, and his voice takes on a sing song tone as he emphasises every other word with a thrust, expelling tiny little gasps.

Without thinking I roll onto my back, hike up my skirt, spread my legs and slide my hand into my panties. My hips rock to the rhythm of his words. I close my eyes and press my fingers against my clit, not rubbing but pressing, squeezing my thighs around my hand.

I hear movement at the other end of the line, as if the phone has been picked up from where it was lying on the bed, and then a soft incoherent moan in my ear. There is wetness, and what sounds like sniffling. Open, he says, and his voice is distant, coming from somewhere above. Suddenly there is the round sound of gagging, she gasps three times in close succession, and I know, I can see, her mouth stretched wide, his fingers in her mouth, his knuckles against her teeth.

Good little bitch, I crane to hear him say. She is moaning louder now, straight into my ear, and mumbling his name when he pulls his fingers out. She can cum from this, you know. My cock in her cunt, my fingers in her- his voice is muffled, and although I know what the last word of the sentence was I want to ask him to repeat it. I am biting my lip and spreading my wetness from cunt to clit with my finger. I was just going to listen. I just wanted to hear, hear what he said about her. And here I am, moaning with her, my index and second finger resting on my tongue, and I mumble, finishing his sentence.

He is increasingly breathless, and I can hear the tells; if we were on the phone, just the two of us, he’d be breathing through his nose, making those noises from the back of his throat that I quiet my own moans to hear.

She can cum from this. She couldn’t. I trained her. A pause. Didn’t I? Lazy bitch. She learnt though. Learnt to obey. I hear another slap, a hand against a cheek, a soft, accepting mew. What are you now? He holds the phone to her mouth.

A good little cunt, she whimpers, and I hum down the phone at her in comradely acknowledgement.

What else is she? He asks me. What are you, both.

Entertainment, we breathe, and I exhale a giggle as my fingers slip and slide. Daddy’s entertainment, I whisper.

And what kind of man is Daddy? Princess, tell Babygirl.

A volley of rapid gasps, and I hear her croon, half warning, half welcome, the vowels quivery and extended. He’s a bad man.

Good cunt. For a moment there is nothing but the conversation of their cries and I listen, grinning, grinding my hips against the sofa, matching their pace.

Okay Babygirl, he breathes, I’m gonna go. I need to cum in this cunt. I whisper goodbye, laugh as I picture handshakes and awkward promises to do this again, but then the line goes dead and I am left with silence. I imagine the rising tone of their moans as he grabs her hips and tells her over and over again where he’s going to cum, hear her begging for it in my accent, my voice. My fingers move faster and I am on the verge when my phone vibrates. I rummage for it with one hand and see he has sent me a picture message. With lazy failing fingers I swipe the message open, and see her cunt, white and pink, the mons topped with a tuft of dark hair, a pearl of white oozing from within her folds. There are black letters and an arrow pointing; ‘You’re next, Joy’. My hips judder, I hold the phone to my face, and I cum, thrashing, roaring.

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