Hotline Fling

1: He Should Have My Job

Juneau's POV

("June-O")

Saying my life wasn't how I imagined it would be was the greatest understatement in my twenty-four years.

"Ohhhhhh....holy shit," his gruff voice, soaked with desire, flooded into my right ear. "This feels so...fucking...good."

"Mmmmmm...fuck me harder," I purred with my strongest projection of false pleasure, forcing a satisfied-enough moan up my throat and between my lips. My parents probably rolled over from disappointment right now. "You're the only one that can get me off like this."

"I-oh shit...fuck, I'm so close...I-oh-yeah."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes as his quick, heavy breaths filled my ears. "Squeeze it all in me, Doc," I moaned. At his final grunt of release, my eyes caught my restaurant menu stack available at arm's length from my sofa. "I want every last drop of your hot and sticky cum filling me up and leaking back out."

"No one fucks me like you." He panted heavily, a relaxed edge of afterglow in his tone. "My dirty, sexy little nurse."

Always so complimentary, this one. The eye-roll urge won. "You've made an absolute mess everywhere again, didn't you, Doc?" I asked in my sweetest yet most sultry voice, sweeping a hand across my forehead to brush away the fallen strands. According to my QR reports, that voice took me twenty-one days to perfect. It was my regular voice, augmented by velvety undertones like a hot, smooth knife that frosted a cake. Well, a cake that exploded into spurts of relief.

To the sound of his decreasing pants, I reached for the menu stack. Mexican. Not a chance. Mongolian Barbecue? So good, but total colon cleanse. Ooh, new Italian. I wonder if they have cannoli? Cannoli were the best break-up food, which I'd unfortunately indulged in quite liberally over the past six days. Not like I was choking anything else down my throat lately. If I spread my legs, a tumbleweed would roll out.

"Sweetheart, you're the best." The compliments, along with other things, flowed out. "Wednesday?"

"Wednesday. I'll try not to play with myself too much thinking about you until then." I hung up the phone with a grunt. My clock read 19:55. Fudgeknuckles. Performance pun aside, had I lasted five more seconds, I would've hit twenty minutes and extra much-needed dollars on my next paycheck. The only things coming faster than my Five-minute Freds were my student loan bills.

My life wasn't dependent upon today's success, but my life right now was. A simple glance up from my phone revealed that. Eight months, and I still hadn't recovered. Without a television or a computer, my phone was my lifeline to the outside world and subscription binges. Vinegar Hill wasn't Harlem, but homeless and dumb without renter's insurance, subway proximity, lower rent, and a whole shitload of desperation pushed me across the Brooklyn Bridge.

While my tiny apartment was anything but sexy, every inch of me felt relaxed and comfortable, especially the inches not covered in constricting nylons and pencil skirts but in yoga pants and fuzzy, Gus-hair collecting socks. "I love you, buddy. The hair, though?" I groaned and peeled off my socks.

He jumped onto my red futon sofa and bumped a warm, soft nudge on my left ankle. The shade of red under my ass wasn't anyone's taste, another clearance steal. "Hi, Gus." I stroked what remained of his whiskers. He rubbed back, his used car-that-should-be-in-a-junkyard-like purr rumbling. His golden-yellow eye closed, making me smile.

Call six rang my loaner work phone. "Hello?" I purred and sank onto my slouchy sofa on my fuzzy fleece blanket and between two comfortable pillows. My hand met my forehead. Not the standard greeting, Juneau.