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"I'm wearing something very special for you tonight, lover," the woman purred into his ear over the telephone receiver.
Lance Arden groaned.
"Leather." She paused dramatically. "A leather thong. I picked this one just for you. Do you like leather?"
"The thong is tight between the cheeks of my derrière, lover," she cooed.
"Uh-huh," he grunted, and scratched down a couple of notes on the writing pad beside his phone. "Tell me more, Velvet."
He listened intently to the telephone actress, who called herself simply "Velvet," describe her exotic attire, or lack thereof. Research was an important aspect to being a reporter, and Lance Arden, after winning several top field honors, was considered one of the best in his field. When he'd taken the assignment to write a special feature for Chitter-Chat magazine, he'd had no idea that phone sex would be so addictive--or so arousing.
"Would you like to fondle my breasts tonight, lover?"
Lance drew in a ragged breath. Velvet's smooth, heated voice made him shiver with anticipation. "Yeah, sure." He glanced down at the recent advertisement for the telephone service STEAMY4U lying beside him on the bed. A tempting beauty with come-hither eyes stared up at him from the glossy magazine page.
Lance put down his pen and closed his eyes. To hell with research. Tonight, it would be just him and Velvet. He slipped into the intimate telephone fantasy with ease.
"Lie back and let yourself go, lover," Velvet continued. "I want to feel your sweet lips gently kissing my breasts. Would you like that?"
"Oh, yes. Very much." He exhaled slowly and let the intimate illusion completelyenvelop him, wrap him in a sensual cocoon of sultry words and heated suggestions that made his cock thicken in response. In the semi-darkness of his apartment bedroom, he cradled the phone to his ear and stretched out on his bed.
"My body is excited by your touch, lover. I'm getting very hot," Velvet gasped, becoming more breathless by the moment.
"Me, too." Lance swallowed hard, glided his free hand down beneath the elastic waistband of his jogging pants, and fondled himself. The heated desire within him grew almost unbearable. He shifted, his elongated cock brushing against his lower abs.
"Oh, lover. Caress me all over," the voice on the other end of the phone panted, hot and heavy. "I'm excited. I want you now, lover! Don't hold back!"
The sensuous coaxing of her words fueled his desires with heated fantasies of lust and passion. "Yeah ... oh yeah, baby," he muttered, his hand encircling his now freed erection. He drew his hand into a wild up-and-down motion around his cock.
A heated coil of longing tightened in his lower extremities, seeking, driving for release. Lance lost all sense of reason. He reeled in the steady stroke of his frantic hand. The woman's voice took him over the erogenous edge. The world within him exploded, and a stream of passion flowed from his body. He groaned deeply with release, then finally found peace.
It was nearly five o'clock in the morning when Anna Holmes logged off the system switchboard and put down the receiver headset. She sat back in her armchair and stared out her bedroom window at the sun edging over the horizon. Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she sighed deeply and massaged away the tension of a hard night's work.
So many callers sought the soft, reassuring voice of a woman that the phone lines seemed to ache with their desperation and sexual frustrations.
"Don't get so uptight, Anna. Remember, it's only a job," her boss, Queenie Jackson, had told her a million times. "We provide a service, and, honey, you're one of the best."
Sincere compliments from her Atlanta-based supervisor were one of the reasons Anna enjoyed working the telephone-fantasy lines. She also enjoyed the leisurely pace and working in the late-night hours from the comfort of her room. The pay was good, but sometimes the callers tugged at her heartstrings, as well as stirred her own sexual embers. One day, she vowed, she'd quit the telephone-fantasy business. But, for now, she had to remind herself that it was just a service-oriented job.
Anna pulled herself out of the armchair, wrapped her old, terrycloth robe around her shoulders, and headed down the hallway. Ryan, her ten-year-old nephew, would be up soon to catch the school bus, and it was Anna's turn to cook breakfast for him.