Another Phone Booth

“H-hello?” Janet picks up the phone, a look of vague curiosity on her coldly pretty face.  At an icily preserved 38 years old, she's fought her way to the top of the heap at the Majors- Wankston Firm.  She didn't get there by being sweet, and she didn't get there by being warm.  She sure as shit didn't get there by answering payphones.  But with her car gone belly up, her cell battery gone south, she'd had no choice but to step into the booth on 32 nd and Park Avenue—not to call a cab or otherwise get a ride, but to make a teleconference on time.  Business doesn't wait—not if you want to stay on top.  One look at her closed, wary face would tell anyone that ‘on top' is the only position Janet Rollins knows.  

“Hello?”  Her voice irritated now, as much with herself as with the still silent caller.  Why did she pick up at all?  Why does anyone pick up a ringing payphone?  She rolls her eyes, moves to return the phone to cradle. “Snooze you lose, asshole.”

“Don't hang up, Janet.”  Voice low, smooth.  

“Who is this?”  Janet tugs at her lapel, eyebrows drawn down.  “Jack?”

“I don't know Jack, Janet.”  A soft laugh.  “I don't think you know Jack, either.”

“Funny—who the fuck is this?”

“You don't know me, Janet.  But that's okay—I know you.”

“Great, ever consider a career in comedy?   No?  Good thing.  Now, Find someone else to get your jollies with, asshole.”

“Why would I want to find someone else, Janet?  I have you.  Janet Rollins, 56192 East Central, number 14a Front.  Janet?  Janet, why so quiet?”

“This isn't fucking funny.”

“No.  No, it isn't, is it, Janet?  But I believe it will be fun.  For me, anyway.”

“Don't know how much fun you'll get talking to a dead line, asshole.”

“The Birmingham deal, Janet?  Oh, I see I have your attention now.   Are you sure you want to hang up?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”   Janet runs a hand through her perfectly coiffed hair—$250 every two weeks to keep it so sleek, so absolutely perfect.  The hand--$200 a week to keep her nails shaped, painted in the muted power red she prefers.  

“Of course you do, Janet.  You only run your hand through that oh, so professional ‘do' when you're nervous.” A chuckle, the sound of a lighter flipping open.  “That blue blouse really plays up your eyes—it must have been very expensive.”

“I don't have to listen to this shit, I can hang up, walk away.”  Janet's flat blue eyes dart, scanning the hundreds—thousands of windows, wondering which this person is peeping from.  

“Did you know I have the Federal Trade Commission on speed dial, Janet?  Isn't that funny?  I think it's a riot.”

Janet turns from the booth door, instinctively brings a hand up, hides her face as her voice drops to an angry whisper.  “What the fuck do you want?  Money?  Is that it, you want money?  Fine!  Tell me how much.”

“Oh, Janet, Janet, you really don't know me at all, do you?  I don't want money, what would I do with money?”

“Then what?  Damn you, what do you want?”

“ Mmm , I want justice, Janet.”

“Jus—what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“The Birmingham deal, Janet.  Your little deal brought you how many millions?  And it gave ownership of 492 child-laborers to a known pornographer, a known flesh peddler.”

“No!  I don't know anything about that, I—we couldn't have children working for one of our holdings, we—“

“Not we, Janet, you.  You made the deal, you took home the cash, you paid off the inspectors.”

“I got them out of a sweatshop!”  Janet's voice cracks, sweat beading on her upper lip.

“And into a whorehouse.”

“That's not my concern, I'm a businesswoman, I—“

“Don't care?”

“No, you fuck, I don't care, why should I?”  Janet slams a clenched fist against the plexiglass , oblivious to the stares of sidewalk denizens in the fading evening light.  “It was business!”

“And so is this, Janet.”

“What do you want from me?”

“What color is your bra, Janet?”  Wry amusement, voice soft, taunting.

“ Wha —fuck you, fuck you!”

“It's number two, in case you were wondering.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”  Janet's voice is shaky, her blush standing out starkly on her now pale cheeks.

“The Federal Trade Commission, Janet.  Number two on speed dial.  Janet?  Janet, are you still with me?  Don't sulk, dear, it's not becoming.”

“Blue.”  Janet's voice is husky, enraged.

“I'm sorry, Janet, I didn't hear that—say it again?”

“It's blue, you fuck, my bra is blue!”

“Good girl.  I'd like to see it, Janet.”

“I'd fucking die first.”

“And you just may—bad things in happen to uppity bitches in prison.  Oh, my—yes, Janet, prison.  That's where people like you go when they get caught, isn't it?”

Janet moans, a low, frustrated sound, her eyes squeezing shut, hand rising, swiping the sweat from her brow.  “I hope you rot in hell.”

“I'm sure you do, Janet—but all things considered, you might want to spend a little more time considering the state of your soul rather than mine.”

“Fine, you piece of shit excuse for a human, here you go.”  Janet hisses, lips pulled back in an impotent snarl as her fingers begin fumbling with the buttons of her silk blouse.

“Don't unbutton, Janet—grab that soft fabric, give it a good tug, rip it open.”

Janet gives a sharp whine, grabs the silk, yanks, sending buttons flying.  

“Oh, my, yes.  You are angry, aren't you?  Pull it open, Janet, untuck your blouse, let it fall open.”

“You motherfucker , you god damned motherfucker !”  Janet's voice is trembling as she yanks the blouse wide, reveals her C-cup breasts encased in thin, hand tatted lace.  She looks up, sees that she has an audience—two men, eyes wide, mouths frozen in disbelieving smiles.  Men come to this corner to drop their cash on the adult theaters, the strip joints.  It's not often they get a free show.

“Very nice, Janet.  Oh, yes, very nice.  You take very good care of yourself, don't you, Janet?”  A low, amused laugh.  “It would appear your audience agrees.  Give them a smile, Janet, touch your breasts for them.”

“Please don't do this.”  Janet's voice breaks, tears brimming.

“Please?  Please?  I think that's a first, isn't it, Janet?  Are you begging?”

“Yes, damn you, yes, I'm begging!”

“I think I like you like this, Janet.”  A pause, the sound of smoke being inhaled, exhaled slowly.  “But sadly, I really do need you to do this, Janet.  Now.”

“I won't.”  Janet's voice small, quavering.

“Yes you will, Janet.  Surely your lifestyle, you job, your homes, your cars, your jewelry, surely those are worth a few moments of embarrassment, aren't they?”

Janet whines, her head thrown back, eyes squeezing back tears as her hand rises slowly, haltingly cupping a breast, a strained, thin lipped smile on her lips.

“Squeeze it, pinch the nipple through that pretty lace.”

Nodding, blushing furiously, Janet complies.  “There, you sick fuck, happy?  Are you happy?”

“Getting happier by the moment, Janet.  Hook your fingers under that lace, tear the cup open.”

“Oh, Christ, oh, please stop this, I will do anything—“

“I know you will.  You're doing it now.  Now obey me.  Tear it open.”

Janet looks up, tears spilling from her wide eyes, trailing down her trembling face.  Four men now.  Four men watching her, their expressions open, frankly aroused.  With a low moan, she grasps the expensive lace, jerks hard.  Once, twice, the delicate material surprising strong.  With a frustrated yell, she yanks violently, the sound of the lace giving so loud.  Her breast spills out, upturned, nipple stiff.  Another man joins the crowd.  She whimpers, turns away.

“Turn back around, Janet.”

“N-no, please.”

“Do it now.  And tell me, Janet, what color are your underwear?  I'll bet they match, don't they?  Pull up that power skirt and show me.”

“If you wanted to humiliate me, you have, if you wanted to shame me, you have, please, please stop now.”  She turns slowly, eyes the growing crowd fearfully.  Two women have joined, their eyes sharp, hateful, their dress proclaiming them prostitutes.  

“We're not done yet, Janet.  Not even close.  Now show me your little panties.  Right now.”

“Oh, God, please, they think I'm a whore, please . . .”

“What do you call a woman who sells her soul for a few bucks?   I'd say you are a whore, Janet.  They do come in all shapes and sizes.”  A sharp laugh, the faint sound of fingers tapping.  “Lift your skirt—or I hang up.  And if I hang up, you might have one day to get out of the country before your whole life comes crashing down around you.”

Janet whimpers, a trembling hand catching the hem of her light linen skirt, lifting haltingly until her garter, panties are revealed, both the same jewel blue of the bra.  

“Oh, very, very pretty, Janet.  Tell me, are they bikini or thong?”

“ Th -thong.”  Janet's voice is weak, stammering, her eyes down, not daring look up at the increasingly raucous crowd gathering around the booth.

“You hardly sound the ultra-professional bitch now, Janet, what's wrong?   Squeamish?  I can't believe that, after all, you're the woman who sold children into prostitution and porn.  Did you know that Thailand is the largest producer of child porn?  And snuff?”  Voice hard now, venomous.  “A child prostitute in Bangkok can expect to live approximately 3 years from the time they enter the trade.  How does that make you feel, Janet?”

“I-I'm sorry.”  Janet begins to sob softly, her hand still clutching her skirt, holding it above her hips.

“No, you're sorry you got caught.  But that's okay, Janet—I'm going to help you make amends.  Turn around.”

“ Wh -why?”

“Because I told you to.  Because you lie so much that I want to see for myself if that pretty scrap of material covering your icy cunt is really a thong.”

Janet turns, sobbing harder, pulling the skirt up in back, showing that she is, indeed, wearing a thong.  

“Wiggle your ass.”

“Oh, God.”

“For a woman who hasn't seen the inside of a church in over 10 years, you certainly do invoke the name of Our Lord with appalling frequency. “ A cough, a low laugh.  “Of course, it is said that the Lord doth love the sinner better than the saint, as the sinner is in greater need of God's love.  Now shake those hips.  Wiggle that ass.”

Janet complies, her legs trembling, slim, well muscled thighs trembling as her lovely ass works from side to side, eliciting a rousing cheer from the growing crowd of spectators.  

“Press it against the glass, move your hips like you're fucking it.”

“Please . . .”

“No pleading necessary, Janet.  Bend over and fuck the glass or the FTC fucks you.  Pretty simple.”

Janet's pretty ass presses against the ass, her hips grinding, her neatly trimmed pussy lips peeking with each thrust, her body shaken by her deep, devastated sobs.  The booth begins to shake, a brave bystander striding forward, grasping the sides of the booth, his hips slamming against the plexiglass in an obscene parody of intercourse.  

“Stand up, Janet—you are shameless, I declare.”

Janet straightens, stumbles back, away from her ardent admirer.  Her face is a mask of horror, eyes darting from face to hungry face.  

“Reach up, Janet, move the light cover.”

“Please, please, why?”

“Because I told you to, Janet.  The longer you question me, the longer this goes on—and who knows how long the natives will be satisfied with just watching?”

Janet's shaking hands push the plastic cover aside, skitter along the narrow shelf, seeking, then finding.  She grasps the object, pulls it down with a horrified gasp, the crowd shouting, howling as she holds the huge dildo in her trembling fingers.  

“What's wrong, Janet, not big enough for you?”

“You can't, please, you can't ask me . . .”

“I'm telling you, Janet.  Sit on the bench, pull those sleazy little panties down, and fuck yourself for the crowd.”

“I won't.”  Her voice, teary, shaky, her glistening red lips pulled down in a miserable frown.  

“In prison they'll use their fists up that tight twat, bottles, iron bars, broom handles—whatever they can get their fat hands on.  And you won't even have that pricey flat to go home to, that fancy claw foot tub to soak it all away in.”

Janet stumbles back, sits hard on the cold metal bench, her legs spreading slowly, one hand still clutching the phone, the other clasping the monstrous dildo.  Whimpering, whining, she lifts her skirt, struggles to work her panties down to the building chant from the crowd.  Tilting her hips up, she pushes the ugly pink tip against her pussy, tears flowing freely, her free breast jiggling with her sobs.  

“ Mmm , what's that they're shouting, Janet?  Shove it in, shove it in?   I think that sounds like a fine idea.  So shove it in.   Shove it in that tight, cold cunt of yours, shove it all the way in, I want to see it disappear into that mean snatch of yours.”

“ Mmplease , please, if you want to fuck me, just tell me where to meet you, I'll fuck you, please, I'll fuck—“

“Fuck you?”  His laugh is harsh, derisive.  “Sweetheart, I wouldn't touch that kooz of yours with the proverbial ten foot pole.  Now shove it in, whore.  Shove it deep.”

Janet sobs, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as she reaches down, parts her pussy lips, her shaking fingers working down, deeper, holding herself open as the other hand brings the dildo into place, begins pushing.  The jostling crowd moves in closer, eyes starving, devouring her as she whines, head back, hips twitching to accommodate this pink latex beast.  She bites her lip, moaning with pain as her pussy stretches, the dildo catches, tears as she shoves harder.  A small cry escapes her trembling lips as the last inches grind into her, filling her.

“Now fuck yourself with it.  Like you fucked those little children, fuck yourself hard.”

Janet's eyes stare up, red rimmed, mascara running, her hips moving in a dull, mindless rhythm as she shoves the giant dildo into her pretty pussy again and again.  Her ears roar, are filled by the obscene cheers of the men peering in.  Some have unzipped their flies, taken their stiff, angry cocks out, are jerking off furiously to her show.  An enterprising pimp has begun working the crowd, promising personal shows for those willing to cough up the cash.  

“Fuck it harder, fuck it like the whore you are.”

Janet's hips rise, fall, rise again, the cruel metal of the bench biting into her ass, her arm aching, pussy burning.  She tries to find a prayer, but realizes with a desolate start that she doesn't remember any.  The pimp shoves through the crowd, his pockets bulging as he pounds on the door.  Janet looks up, her eyes glassy, swollen with tears as she shakes her head slowly, miserably.  

“Pull it out, Janet. Pull it out and suck it.”

Janet obeys numbly, her tongue moving slowly, lapping at the wet tip.  With a sick moan, she opens her mouth, her shining lips wrapping around the thick latex, her eyes dull, flat above.  

“Shove it deep, Janet, gag on it.”  His voice is thick now, raspy.  

Janet gags miserably, her nostrils flaring as she fucks her face with the dildo.  Her legs still spread, her pussy red, wetness shining on her sparse, so neatly trimmed brown hair.  She continues mindlessly, waiting for him to tell her to stop, her eyes locked on the pimp kicking at the door.

“I'm sorry, Janet, I was called away, I—oh, my—you're not still fucking that viper's mouth of yours are you?  Oh, goodness, how funny!”  His laugh is deep, booming, more Santa than Satan.  She whines, he laughs again.  “You can take it out of your mouth now.” His tone is light, dismissive.  “Oh, and open the door.”

“N-no, no, please, they'll hurt me . . . “ Janet's voice is husky, words slurred.

“Yes, I imagine they will.  Think of how bad it would be if you were 6 years old—like some of those children you condemned to a miserable, agonizing, dehumanizing death.  I would think it would be easy to fuck a 6 year old to death, wouldn't you?”  

“ Mmmplease , I said I was sorry, I said—“

“I don't believe you.  Not yet.  Now open the door—and if you drop that phone, my next call is to you-know-who.”

Janet rises shakily, swaying on her heels as she grapples with the door, slides it open.  The pimp's beefy hand grabs her hair, his gold toothed smile broad as he tries to pull her from the booth.

“N- noo !” Janet screams, jerking back, batting at him with her free hand.  “In the booth, only in the booth!”  She squeals, twists out of his rough grasp, losing a handful of her now not-so-perfect hair in the process.  “I can't hang up, I can't hang up the phone, please, please, anything you want to do, do it in here.”

“Tell him you want to take them all on in the booth, as many at a time as will fit.”

“Please, please, ohhh , I'm going to do this, mmmplease don't—“

“Say it!”

Janet look into the pimp's sneering face, moans, “I want to take on as many as can fit in the booth, p-p-please.”

Janet grunts, whines, her slim body shaking, battered between the two eager men.  Her tight asshole bleeding, tearing as each punishing thrust lifts her off her heels, her pussy filled, raw as the men fuck her furiously, sandwiching her cruelly.  Her skirt hangs in tatters, the fine linen shredded away to give easier access.  Her delicate lace thong hangs desolately from one trembling leg, rough hands clawing, mauling her breasts, both uncovered now.  One small hand, nails broken, bleeding, pawing at the steamed up plexiglass , struggling to maintain her balance while the other hand clutches the phone to her ear in sick obedience.

The booth is filled with their panting, grunting, her thighs slick, coated with cum from the others.  Her lipstick smeared, mascara dark under her eyes, her cheeks, chin, chest smeared in cooling spunk.  She grunts, moans as the cock in her ass explodes, adding to the hefty collection of cum already filling her cramping bowels.  But her mind is distant, only barely registering the new body behind her, the rough prodding, poking, then brutal penetration.  To her it's all one agonizing nightmare, all the men on her have the same foul breath, the same leering faces, the same thick, punishing cocks.  It's as if there is only one man, fat, smelly, mean, filling her magically with the same stinking meat.  What she focuses on is the sound of his voice.  His voice.  Ridiculing her, reminding her that this is no worse than the fate she brought down upon innocent children.  Admonishing her to keep that phone to her ear, to take it like the whore she is.  She whines, brought to her knees as a new cock, the same cock, bobs before her swollen, puffy lips.  Her mouth drops open automatically, her head jerked back as the thick meat grinds mercilessly into her sore, aching throat.  Thighs jerked apart, another inside her pussy, another in her battered ass.  Her eyes wide, glazed with shock, pain, but her mind on the voice.  Waiting.  Waiting for him to tell her.  To tell her she's paid her debt, she's fulfilled her obligation.  

Janet whines, the cock in her pale, slimy face spewing cum into her unprotesting mouth.  She sputters, swallows, throat working, milking, her mind tiredly noting that she's developed a system, one that allows her to breathe while sucking, eating cock.  Cum spatters her face as her latest user withdraws, globs in her eye, another up her nose, setting off a spate of hacking, gagging.  

“Janet?”

She moans, bouncing violently with the double fucking of her ass and pussy.

“Janet, are you paying attention?”

Janet whimpers, tries to speak, her jaws too sore, mouth too swollen, throat too bruised.

“That's a good whore.  Do you want to stop now, Janet?”

Her eyes widen, she whines high, begins squirming, twisting between the men crushing her.

“Ask me, Janet, beg.”

“ Mmmplease , mmmm unna stob mmplease .”  Her eyes, swollen, red, glassy, roll up hopefully, pitifully, pleading.  “ Mmmm , p-p-p- leeeaase .”

“Janet?”

Another cock in her face, she turns her head aside, resisting for the first time since the phonebooth door opened.  

“Janet?  Are you listening?  I hear the regret in your voice, Janet, I hear the pain, the remorse.  And I'm a nice guy, Janet, I am.  So I've listened to you begging me, and I have one thing to say . . .”

Gagging, whimpering, Janet's bruised, bloodied hand rises shakily, pushing against the fat, sweating hip of the man fucking her face, her nostrils flaring, bruised lips stretched wide around his thick shaft.  It's over, she knows it's over, she can stop, this can end, please, please this can end.

“Janet?  Janet?  Are you listening?  My answer is  . . . no.   Janet?   Janet, are you there?  I said no.  No.  No.”  

Janet screams rawly around the cock in her face, her ear filled with the uproarious laughter of her tormentor, his answer to her pleas echoing in her stunned mind as her head is jerked back, giving passage to her swollen, tortured throat.