Phone Sex with CS
Phone Sex with CS
A few day ago I got a phone call out of the blue from CS. In case you need your memory jogged, CS is my old boss. He heads a department at a particular Television Broadcast company. His hobbies include Welsh rugby, computer games and cross-dressing. As you would suspect wife and kids don’t know. I wonder, however, which is the worst secret:
A. That you’re a cross dresser or
B. You’re a cross dresser who has fucked half the girls in the office.
See Heavy Petting on the Northern Line for more info on him.
He was calling me from his back garden. His wife was asleep upstairs. We were having a sort of normal conversation about work, documentaries, stressful jobs etc when broke out with, “So how do you do this uh, phone sex thing?”
How fucking presumptuous! He calls me just for phone sex. Asshole. Or maybe I’m the asshole for taking the bait.
“I dunno,” I answered, “you called me, remember?”
“Oh yeah,”
“I wanna see you in drag.” I declared.
OK, admittedly I was initially way freaked out by the cross-dresser thing. When he told me I tried to play if off like the cool New Yorker I am. Secretly, I was freaked. The more I started thinking about it, more comfortable I got with the idea. So now I actually dig the idea of him putting on a dress and fucking me. I dig the idea of giving him head under his skirt. It seems so wrong, but so right. It seems so crazy and naughty and off the wall that I would actually do that.
He tells me that he’d love to dress up for me. At the same time he seems self-conscious. He starts planning out what he’d wear if we were to fuck.” What’s bizarre is that he goes in to intricate detail. *I* don’t even think about what I’m going to wear when I’m fucking someone and I love fashion.
He tells me that he’d wear fishnet stockings. Black high heel patent-leather shoes, black crotchless knickers, lacy black boostier and then he sends me a link to a tight-fitting red dress on Ebay. He also told me that he would wear bright red lipstick. What a fucking train wreck!
“Ew!” I said, “That sounds really tarty. Like a really bad outfit. I don’t go fort tarty. I go for classy. Aim higher. Also pointy shoes are horrible. Only whores wear pointy-toed shoes.”
He seems embarrassed albeit impressed with summation of his outfit. He says that I’m the sort of guidance that he needs for his transvestitism.
He goes on to say that he loves to dress up. He likes the idea that he can dress up as a woman and be sexually attractive. I’m not so sure about that. He’s only borderline attractive as a man. As a woman he must be a right munter. But who am I to hold any judgments?
He asks me to describe what I’m wearing. I was so unglamorous. I was wearing sweat pants a gray athletic Harvard T-shirt. No bra. No knickers. I figure why lie about it? He seemed disappointed that I wasn’t wearing something more sexy; but hey, I was home with the dog, why bother dressing up for that?
He tells me that he would love to go down on me; to place his mouth on my pussy; flick my clit with his tongue and simultaneously place his thumb in my cunt and twist it while he’s licking me out.
I get incredibly horny, but I don’t let on that I’m playing with myself. I want to run to the other room and get the vibrator, but frankly I’m too lazy. So I grab the neatest phallic-shaped item: my hair brush. I use the non-bristly side of the brush to get myself off. I straddle the brush and move my hips up and down. He’s on the phone whispering the filth he would do to me; how he would love to come inside me; flip me over; fuck me doggie style; fuck my mouth; sit on my face; let me fuck him with a strap on. It all sounds good. And so I cum quietly. Apart from two little sighs he was none the wiser.
I tell him I have to go walk the dog. That's my favorite excuse. He seems perplexed by the sudden departure. I don’t care, though. It’s all about getting *ME* off.
"I actually dig the idea of him putting on a dress and fucking me. I dig the idea of giving him head under his skirt. It seems so crazy and naughty and off the wall that I would actually do that.”
A few day ago I got a phone call out of the blue from CS. In case you need your memory jogged, CS is my old boss. He heads a department at a particular Television Broadcast company. His hobbies include Welsh rugby, computer games and cross-dressing. As you would suspect wife and kids don’t know. I wonder, however, which is the worst secret:
A. That you’re a cross dresser or
B. You’re a cross dresser who has fucked half the girls in the office.
See Heavy Petting on the Northern Line for more info on him.
He was calling me from his back garden. His wife was asleep upstairs. We were having a sort of normal conversation about work, documentaries, stressful jobs etc when broke out with, “So how do you do this uh, phone sex thing?”
How fucking presumptuous! He calls me just for phone sex. Asshole. Or maybe I’m the asshole for taking the bait.
“I dunno,” I answered, “you called me, remember?”
“Oh yeah,”
“I wanna see you in drag.” I declared.
OK, admittedly I was initially way freaked out by the cross-dresser thing. When he told me I tried to play if off like the cool New Yorker I am. Secretly, I was freaked. The more I started thinking about it, more comfortable I got with the idea. So now I actually dig the idea of him putting on a dress and fucking me. I dig the idea of giving him head under his skirt. It seems so wrong, but so right. It seems so crazy and naughty and off the wall that I would actually do that.
He tells me that he’d love to dress up for me. At the same time he seems self-conscious. He starts planning out what he’d wear if we were to fuck.” What’s bizarre is that he goes in to intricate detail. *I* don’t even think about what I’m going to wear when I’m fucking someone and I love fashion.
He tells me that he’d wear fishnet stockings. Black high heel patent-leather shoes, black crotchless knickers, lacy black boostier and then he sends me a link to a tight-fitting red dress on Ebay. He also told me that he would wear bright red lipstick. What a fucking train wreck!
“Ew!” I said, “That sounds really tarty. Like a really bad outfit. I don’t go fort tarty. I go for classy. Aim higher. Also pointy shoes are horrible. Only whores wear pointy-toed shoes.”
He seems embarrassed albeit impressed with summation of his outfit. He says that I’m the sort of guidance that he needs for his transvestitism.
He goes on to say that he loves to dress up. He likes the idea that he can dress up as a woman and be sexually attractive. I’m not so sure about that. He’s only borderline attractive as a man. As a woman he must be a right munter. But who am I to hold any judgments?
He asks me to describe what I’m wearing. I was so unglamorous. I was wearing sweat pants a gray athletic Harvard T-shirt. No bra. No knickers. I figure why lie about it? He seemed disappointed that I wasn’t wearing something more sexy; but hey, I was home with the dog, why bother dressing up for that?
He tells me that he would love to go down on me; to place his mouth on my pussy; flick my clit with his tongue and simultaneously place his thumb in my cunt and twist it while he’s licking me out.
I get incredibly horny, but I don’t let on that I’m playing with myself. I want to run to the other room and get the vibrator, but frankly I’m too lazy. So I grab the neatest phallic-shaped item: my hair brush. I use the non-bristly side of the brush to get myself off. I straddle the brush and move my hips up and down. He’s on the phone whispering the filth he would do to me; how he would love to come inside me; flip me over; fuck me doggie style; fuck my mouth; sit on my face; let me fuck him with a strap on. It all sounds good. And so I cum quietly. Apart from two little sighs he was none the wiser.
I tell him I have to go walk the dog. That's my favorite excuse. He seems perplexed by the sudden departure. I don’t care, though. It’s all about getting *ME* off.
posted by Naive London Girl at 12/01/2006 09:07:00 AM
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1 Comments:
I don't like fishnets.
You sound so rubbish at phone sex. If you are wearing swetapants and a T shirt, you don't admit it, you embellish.
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