Diary of a Phone Sex Operator

I don’t like to call myself a “phone sex operator” because it sounds like a factory job and I’m no machine.  I like to think of myself as a receiver of sexy calls and callers.  I call myself Theresa.  That’s not my real name of course, but it’s still me.  I love my job.  I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a receiver of sexy calls and callers, I used to be pretty nerdy in fact, but it’s the perfect way to earn a living.  I have an active imagination and a voice which changed from being high and girlie to sexy and sultry.  I think it has something to do with smoking and practicing deep breathing during yoga.  Or else maybe I was a late bloomer but whatever, I like relating to people on this level.  I’ve tried other jobs before but they are pretty boring and this is a more fun way to connect with others, at least for me.  You might wonder what the sexual appetite of a receiver of sexy calls and callers is like.  Well, I don’t know about the rest of ‘em, but I can tell you I’m definitely very sensitive to touch.  I can sense sexual energy like a vibration, before it ever reaches the fingertips, and because of that, I need to move very slowly when I’m interacting with someone physically.  Plus, I love men.  I love men’s bodies.  If I could, I’d spend all day exploring and touching and kissing and grabbing and watching them.  I bet I could spend an entire lifetime, without speaking, on one perfect body discovering new pleasures for both of us, but who has the time for that?  That’s how I discovered talking!  Conversation is stimulating and a great way to electrify the senses when you can’t take the plunge into sex.   And, since nearly every caller is a favorite, it keeps my life very interesting.  I get a voice and a conversation to work with, and my imagination fills in the rest.  Sometimes I imagine meeting up with my callers on the outside, by accident, and what our one night stand would be like.  Would we talk then, or just fuck?  Would we be as compatible in person as we are on the phone, more or less?  I like to think more.  A huge benefit is I that I work from home.  I always take a bath with lavender oil and flower petals before my first call, I light candles and dress in sexy lingerie (I have  a small space heater to keep me warm), and I take calls in the quietest room in my apartment, tucked in the back away from the hall so I can hear the softest breath on the phone.  The men who cum in a whisper turn me on the most, makes me wonder what else that type of discipline is capable of.  I think there’s a man living above me, in 7b.  He must work from home too, but I don’t know what the hell he does and we’ve never met.  He walks around his apartment, picking up unidentifiable objects and dropping them and sometimes he’s completely quiet for hours.  I picture him naked in cowboy boots and a sexy cowboy hat, dick sticking straight out in front of him.  Something about the way his heels click above me and how the floor gives way with his weight, always at the perfect times too.  When I feel like being a normal girl with a monogamous sex life I picture him, above me, calling me with different scenarios, a master at disguising his voice.  He’s a talent at staying fully erect for hours and it keeps my panties warm and wet.  That’s my secret.  I didn’t plan to tell you, it just slipped out.  Each caller is a different personality of his, and when we make love, we never talk.  It’s as if we’ve never met.  In my real life, my boyfriend knows what I do to earn money and it doesn’t bother him.  I only share my body with him, but I refuse to talk to him.  I don’t care about small talk, or how his work day went, and I especially don’t give a fuck what his family thinks about me.  We snack, we chill, get high and watch porn or regular movies and we have mind-blowing passionate sex.  I’m completely in love with his energy and his body.  He gets me; he gets me in the mood; and he does not force me to speak (although sometimes his dick does, but that can’t be helped.  Climax-speak, whispers and whimpers, not ordinary bullshit-talk).  Only my callers get me to converse.  Enough about me though, I’m writing this diary as a tribute to my phone sex lovers.  They are all unique and special, except for the occasional perv.  I can spot them right away.  Usually, their voice makes my stomach hurt (like I said, I’m sensitive), and I get rid of those callers right away.  Talking to them would be disrespecting myself and my regular clientele.  Anyway, my favorite caller today called himself Brad.  Our conversation was brief and simple.  Right away he asked me not to be in the pits that he wasn’t the celebrity to which I laughed.  Cheesy joke, but it’s pretty cute when callers try to break the ice for me.  Shows they have good intentions.  I asked him what I looked like and he told me I had clear porcelain skin, flat blue eyes and long straight, black hair with bangs cropped at my eyebrows, no part (similar to his favorite barista).  My body is thick, a voluptuous size 12 and tight with very round, large breasts.  I wore bright red lipstick to match my patent leather high heels and heavy black eyeliner, with thick lashes which were perfect with my black leather, strapless dress.  I sensed his dominatrix fantasy immediately and felt myself get excited. Entertaining men who like to obey is always fun.  Just then, my fantasy cowboy dick upstairs dropped something heavy above me and I chastised Brad sternly to pick it up.  His voice got a little quieter and deeper with his confusion; he didn’t know what I was referring to but he didn’t want to disappoint me.  I refused to be specific and his breath slackened as he became turned on.  I said to him again, very slow and deliberate, Pick. It. Up.  He told me then that the only thing that had dropped  was his condom, still in the package, but that the landing was so soft he didn’t think I could hear it.  “My hearing is impeccable, now PICK. IT. UP.”  Silently, I wondered if my cowboy dick upstairs heard me and if I was making him self-conscious.  My nipples hardened.  This was like having a threesome in three dimensions.  Brad fumbled slightly on the phone so I knew he did as he was told.  I commanded him to close his eyes, and told him to unwrap the condom and put it on by feel.  I was going out later and I didn’t want his white stain on my black dress.  I was very stern.  I heard the crinkle of the packaging and his slightly nervous but aroused breathing and wondered what his breath tasted like.  I asked him what he ate for dinner because I smelled a hint of garlic on the receiver and he answered that I was smelling my pussy on his lips, so I took his cue.  I told him I didn’t cum hard enough earlier and that he needed to eat me out again so I could go out and have a good time to which he replied “My pleasure you bossy bitch.”  He sounded pissed off so I told him to bite me but to be gentle with my clit.  I could hear him jacking off and I wondered if he used lubricant because it sounded very moist.  I started breathing slow and deep and moaning a little; he told me I tasted salty like seawater.  “It’s the leather,” I said, wondering if he remembered what my dress looked like.  He started smacking and sucking a little more intensely and my breathing became louder and quicker.  I told him I wanted his fingers to play with me as he licked and I felt my own touch so I know he did as he was told.  The combination of his breath and my breath and the sounds of us both playing with ourselves was hot.  After several minutes of heavy breathing and whining I told him to hurry up because I had to go, but he refused to rush.  His voice was raspy and in a frenzy he told me that I was the only one he ever wanted and that his wife was a shallow whore who paid his bills.  “If you ever say another word to me about your wife I’ll leave and never speak to you again,” I sounded slightly angry and very serious, and he started to beg.  “No please don’t…I’m just kidding baby, don’t you feel the ring you gave me inside of you” and I started to scream with pleasure.  He came loudly through clenched teeth and hung up the phone abruptly, leaving me to wonder where the red welts on my outer thighs came from.  Sometimes phone sex is like being handled desperately by a ghost.

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