The Voice - Part Six

(warning: contains non-consensual sex)

The first time he'd dialled the number, he was very nervous, but the girl on the other end of the line had a soft, silky voice. It had made him feel so comfortable, so free to say what he needed to say and do what he needed to do.

Her name was Sonia. She'd been wonderful to him. Sweet at first and very polite, then she'd opened up to him and told him all sorts of secret, shameful things. Initially it had shocked him - the way she spoke - but after a few minutes, he couldn't help himself, she'd made him do it - made him touch himself.

It was such a shock to him to feel it growing under his fingers. The more she spoke, the harder it became. "Stroke it, baby," she'd begged sweetly. "Doesn't that feel good?" And it had. It had felt so gloriously wonderful that, within a few minutes, he'd shuddered and spurted warm, creamy liquid all over his stomach and his hand.

That first time, he'd hung up the instant he'd orgasmed; so ashamed of what he'd done that he had ripped the phone cord out of the wall and swore he'd never ever call again. But a week later, the desire to hear her voice had nagged at him until it became the only thing he could think of. He'd called again and asked for her. They'd put him onto someone else who wasn't nearly as nice. That other girl - Candy - had been so crude, so unfeeling.

He began calling regularly. Sometimes he spoke to Sonia, and sometimes she wasn't there. He got into the habit of calling at the same time every night, reasoning that that was when she was available. The trick only worked sometimes.

"Oh, I'm very sorry, sir. Sonia is not available at the moment, but we have a very nice young lady named..." He'd learned, through bitter disappointment, to hang up if he couldn't speak to Sonia.

But when he did, it was glorious. She always pretended it was the first time, allowing him to relive that beautiful moment over and over again. At first she'd be shy and teasing, until he touched her, but then, feeling the power of his passion, she'd start to burn with desire herself. The gorgeous, trembling quality of her voice as she was swept away by what he did to her, until she was begging him, begging him to release for her, inside her, on her.

Just thinking about her, as he went about his everyday chores, made him hard. Often he had to stop, find a quiet place, and relieve himself of his pent up arousal. He imagined her in a sea of white sheets, writhing beneath him, pleading for his manhood - 'cock', she called it - his 'big sweet cock'. He'd explode with a gasp into his pocket-handkerchief, moaning her name aloud.

In the beginning, abusing her this way in his mind made him feel terribly guilty. Sonia was a nice girl, it wasn't right for him to use her like this. But after the many calls to her, he realised that she was showing him her very essence. When he told her that he had been thinking about her, she seemed very pleased and asked him what he thought about. He was hesitant to say at first, but when he finally described his fantasies, to his very great surprise, she moaned and told him that it was the sweetest, most erotic thing she'd ever heard.

"Doesn't it bother you Sonia? I know you are a nice girl. I wouldn't want you to think I didn't respect you."

"Bother me? Not at all. It's wonderful. It's exactly what I'd like you to do to me. Tell me again exactly what you'd do..."

And so he had, often. It was clear to him that she was tremendously aroused just listening to him describe it. Of course, it would arouse him too. He would touch himself while he told her. Each little moan she made felt like an electric charge surging down his spine and up into his erect... cock. He used that word because she did and he knew she liked it.

When she spoke to him, and he held himself, throbbing and seeping, in his fist, he felt so strong, so good. Sonia was the only girl who'd ever made him feel like a man. She was his Goddess, his Venus, his Mary Magdalen and his Virgin Mary all rolled up into one.

In more pragmatic moments, Lester realised that this is what Sonia did for a living. If nothing else, the telephone bill that came at the end of the month made that very clear. At times like that, he'd get angry and feel cheated: how could she pretend to be so in love with him? His mother's voice would ring in his ears.

"You stupid little toad. No woman is ever going to love you - love that!" she'd shriek, pointing at his small, tumescent penis in the bathwater. She'd take the wet flannel and cover his whole face with it, pressing it against his nose and mouth until he couldn't breathe. She'd laugh and screech, "That? That tiny thing? You dirty, degenerate little boy. Make it soft, or I'll cut it off!"

Once, when he was getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth, his mother had caught him with it half-stiff, poking out his pajama bottoms. He hadn't meant it to; it had happened without him even noticing. She'd slapped his face and scrabbled in the bathroom drawer.

"I know how to deal with this," she proclaimed, holding up a pair of rusty nail scissors. "We know what to do for filthy little boys who can't stop thinking about sex!"

So he'd screamed and run into his bedroom, huddling under the coverlet, weeping, but not before she'd cut his hip with the point of the scissors, trying to get at his penis. The wound had taken months to heal; he still had the scar.

He'd learned how not to let it get hard; he'd practiced controlling it. Even when a girl in grammar school had offered to touch it - just to see how it felt, she'd said - he had let her hold it, but he'd made it stay soft and meek.

In University, he'd met a girl named Myra. She wasn't pretty, but she was very jolly and affectionate. One night, after an evening in the university pub, she'd persuaded him to come back to her bed-sit. They had kissed and she had put her hands down there, inside his trousers and touched it. But her long red nails had reminded him of his mother's scissors and, no matter how much she tugged at it, trying to make it stiff, it just wouldn't happen.

"You're queer, Lester. That's the trouble with you," Myra insisted. "Time to face up to it and come out of the closet. You just don't like women."

Another girl had told him he simply wasn't really a man. And for a very long time, Lester thought that might be true. Perhaps he wasn't a man, but one thing he knew for certain: he wasn't an homosexual. Even the thought of kissing another man made the gorge rise in his throat. He liked women, in his fashion.

Lester liked watching women in the street, and on the tube, and sitting in cafes talking. He liked seeing them on the telly, in the cinema, and especially naked in magazines. In the beginning, he'd bought them and read them secretly Once his mother passed away and he was left alone in the huge, sprawling house, he bought the magazines openly and paged through them as he ate his dinner. They didn't make his penis stiff, but they gave him a lovely feeling down between his legs, like soft worms squirming around, or feathers floating. His testicles would ache pleasurably, but he'd never get an erection. Still, he liked the magazines. They were quiet. They didn't scare him.

That's where he'd found the number, and how he'd met Sonia, and why he'd fallen in love with her: she had made him a man.

 

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