When a man talks dirty to a woman, it’s sexual harassment; when a woman talks nasty to a man, the going rate is about five dollars per minute. I’m by no means a professional dirty-talker. I do it for free. If you’re lucky enough to catch me in a horny mood, then my husky, shrill, voice will bombard you with nasty, running commentary about what I want, how sexy you are, and how much you’re turning me on. To your face, in messages, even on the phone, it doesn’t matter. Such was the case last Sunday night.

Without boring you to death about the details, I was alone, my husband out of state, rushing to finish a job, so he could come back to me. I spent the weekend alone at our medieval group’s campsite. It was a wild party, lots of fun, but rather than my usual orgiastic, swinging, multiple-lover escapades, I foolishly chose a young, nice man to be my lover for the night. He was very, very nice. Sexually speaking, whoever said, “nice guys finish last,” was a big, fat liar. Rather than immerse himself into medieval recreation, this guy should probably embrace the Colonial, Revolutionary War cosplaying types. He was definitely a Minute Man. The ride back home, with my Lush II vibrator synced to my playlist, was better than the lackluster sex. Driving with the music blaring in my ears and stimulating my dripping cunt had me ready to explode before the first quarter of the trip was complete. I arrived home frustrated and horny, made more so because my husband--specifically his super-sized, magic cock--was out of state for the next few days.

I did my usual thing, stripping off my clothes, taking a quick shower, throwing a long t-shirt over my nude body, then raiding the fridge for something quick and easy to eat. Discovering a total absence of meals ready to eat, a quick call to the pizza place rectified the lack of edibles. When the best things about one’s weekend are pizza delivery and a vibrator, one is not having the best weekend, ever. Bending over, the delivery guy staring at my ass and exposed pussy, his seemingly decent-sized cock making the front of his pants swell out, was more gratifying than the previous night’s sex.

It being a “cheat day,” I washed down my “meat-lovers“ pizza with far too much red wine, followed by green, smoked herbs for dessert. I was so horny, my pussy gushing out wetness with every thought, that I pondered the pros and cons of masturbating by rubbing the pizza crust over my clit. I refrained from that, due to yeast infection concerns. Flying high, buzzed from my wine and smoke, I was pondering whether I wanted to go up into the bedroom and masturbate, go to my “writing studio” for some internet stimulation while I masturbated, or, go outside and masturbate in the great outdoors.

That’s when my phone rang. I didn’t bother to check the number; it had to be either my wayward husband or one of my friends. Hopefully, at the very least, it would be one of my playmates. Maybe they’d be up for some phone fun.

“Hello,” I breathed out, my voice all husky, dripping with sexuality.

“I miss you so much. I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. His voice was deep, low, and confident. There was something about his inflection, his evenness of tone, that made my pussy heat up.

I giggled my “airhead” laugh that guys like. “Sounds yummy. Exactly what about me has you thinking, so long and hard? I love it long and hard.”

My telephone suitor coughed, sputtered, and laughed simultaneously. “You’re just so sexy, “ he nearly moaned. “I can’t stop drooling over your body.”

Not exactly art, but I took the compliment. “What do you like about my body the most? Do my youthful tits, all firm and plump with those nipples that tilt upwards, make you hot for me? Maybe it’s my ass. The way my ass sticks out, that inverted heart shape, so round and juicy, makes men want to spank me. I like a good spanking, it gets me so fucking horny just thinking about it. Is that it?”

“All of it,” he groaned. His voice seemed needy, desperate. “You’re so wild. I still can't believe you weren’t wearing any panties the other night.”

“Oh,” I sighed. Just talking about it was getting me so worked up that I made my decision. I was going to masturbate right here, on the phone, and love every second of it.

I continued. “I’m not wearing any now, either. All I was wearing was just a thin, old t-shirt. I just flashed the pizza guy my nude ass when he showed up. Right now, though, I’m completely nude.”

“You,“ he paused, moaning. “You’re naked?” His voice was coming in pants, now.

“I’m not just nude, I’m touching myself right now. My fingers are slowly running up and down my juicy cunt, just from the sound of your voice. I wish you were here right now. I’d tear your clothes off of you, throw you down, and fuck you hard,” I moaned, “deep,” I sighed, “and fast.”

“I’m so hard right now.”

I giggled. “You make me so wet, lover. Do you want to hear how wet I am?”

“Pl-please,” he begged.

“Only if you promise to stroke that big, hard, thick cock for me.”

“I’m jacking off already.”

“Listen to what you do to me.”

I ran my phone down my nude body, the fingers of my free hand already thrashing over my pussy. I thrust three fingers into my drenched hole, fucking myself hard, screaming in delight at the sensations.

“Hear how fucking wet you make me, you hard stud? Jack that fucking cock for me.”

I pulled the phone back up to my face. It glistened, wet with my lubrication.

“You’re so sexy,” he grunted. I could hear him breathing heavily, obviously masturbating to me.

“Cum for me. Cum on me. Where do you what to shoot your hot, sticky load?”

His breath was coming in panting gasps, sighs, and moans of pleasure interspersing his heaving. “Can I cum on your face?”

My voice matched his, husky, panting, groaning. “Yes, cum on my face. Paint my lips with your jizz. Shoot it all over me, then watch as I clean myself up with my fingers and lick it off.”

“I’m going to cum,” he screamed. “You fucking slut, you’re so hot.”

“Fucking cum on me; cum with me.”

My fingers sloshed and abused my aching, needy cunt and pummeled my clit. I raced to my orgasm, embracing it, devoured by it. His groans of release caused a spasmodic orgasm that sent my limbs flailing, the phone tumbling to the cushion beside me, as the throes of pleasure possessed me. Eventually, I composed myself enough to pick the phone back up.

“Sorry,” I laughed. “I came so hard that I dropped the phone.”

“That was great,” he congratulated. “I’ve never had phone sex before. You’re so wild."

“I need to go,” I said. “But, please do me one favor.”

“Anything,” he was still panting, coming down from his orgasm.

“If you want more, call me back, any time. I don’t know who you intended to dial, but feel free to call me when you’re horny again.”

“Oh fuck,” he cried out. “You’re funny, Mary.”

“I’m not Mary,” I instructed. “My name is Krystal.”

With that, I hung up. I so love wrong numbers.