Phone sex: the conference call fuck

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Is there anything in life more tedious than a conference call for a job you hate? You’re half involved in something you barely care about, and most of the people involved wouldn’t notice if you simply logged out. But – like fantasising about teachers during lectures – you can spice up even the dullest conference call with the addition of a dirty story… For a long time I’ve had a fantasy about a different kind of phone sex : getting fucked hard by a guy while he’s talking to someone else. Ideally during a fairly serious, business-like phone call. The person on the other end of the phone knows that he’s fucking me, but is happy to continue with their business dealings regardless. The guy fucking me is highly-sexed and horny, yet still able to concentrate on the minutiae of … I don’t know, contract law or something … while I squirm about on his dick. I don’t know why I find this hot, I just do. Something about the interplay of distraction and focus, I guess – a theme which features in the dinner party fantasy and other similar fantasies too. Anyway. That fantasy – him talking on the phone to someone who knows he’s fucking me – might just be possible in real life, but the following one isn’t. It would be unethical from a consent point of view, because the people at the other end of the line have no idea what’s going on. I feel the need to state this up front, just in case any of you resolve never to speak to me on the phone again. Don’t panic – I won’t be bringing this fantasy to life at any point, because that would be remarkably creepy and unprofessional. In my head I can be as unprofessional as I like, though, because all the people who live in my head are made up. So here goes: the conference call fuck. Conference call fuck “Right,” he begins, unmuting the conversation. “Are we all here? Sam? Ashley? Charlie?” He’s greeted with a cacophony of ‘yeses’, and he smiles. There are four of them in the virtual room, but only two of us in our physical one. The phone sits menacingly in the middle of the table, picking up on every word, every chair squeak, and every rustle of movement. “Ashley, can you begin by giving us an update please?” He hits mute, and Ashley’s spiel begins. We’ve probably got one minute – two, maximum – before he has to unmute and join in. He unzips his trousers and starts slowly rubbing at his dick. I drop to my knees on the floor and stare up at him, waiting for a nod of encouragement. He puts one finger to his lips, nods quickly, and unmutes the call. As I lean forward and take the tip of his dick in my mouth, he offers Ashley a few words of encouragement, and a suggestion that might improve the project. With wet lips and tongue I trace gentle circles around the head of his cock, making sure to keep the noise to an absolute minimum. Slow. Silent. Careful. Then he hits ‘mute’ again, and in one quick, harsh movement he grabs my head and thrusts upwards into my mouth, groaning as he feels his cock smack up against the back of my throat. Two, three, four hard thrusts before he releases my head and – gagging – I change the pace. Drooling into his open fly, using the spit as lube to start working his dick with my hands. Now that I control the speed, I can keep quiet more easily – avoiding the telltale slurping or choking sounds that come when he fucks my throat . We go on in this vein while each person updates him. Me quietly working his dick while he requests updates from the others, him vigorously fucking my face to denote the next muted moment, when I can choke and slurp without fear of getting caught. But it’s not easy, either for me to do this or for him to come. I can sense his frustration – each time he presses the mute button, he goes harder. Quicker. Angrier. What started as a few sharp thrusts now turns into a protracted fuck – pushing up with his hips and pulling down with his hands for five, six, seven, ten strokes in quick succession. Then unmute again, and he sits still, the only sign he’s paying attention is one hand resting calmly on the back of my neck. “So in terms of next steps…” he addresses the group with a voice so devoid of lust that he might just have been taking a sip of coffee. As he goes on to outline what he thinks the strategy should be, he gently pushes me back so I’m sitting on my heels, looking up at his impassive face. He flicks one hand in the direction of the table, and I bend over it – being careful not to let my rings or watch strap tap too loudly on the wood. He doesn’t break the flow of the conversation. He’s in control of this, as he is with everything else – leading the discussion, asking for input, and debating the finer details with colleagues. It’s hard, just from his voice, to judge even the moment when he stands up from his chair and pulls down his trousers. “I think we’d need an impact report on that,” he explains, moving closer to me. Placing a hand on my backside and pushing his thumb into the folds of my skirt. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, and hold every muscle tense to avoid rustling or sound. I’m desperate for him to hit that mute button. But it’s not happening yet. “We’ve had problems in that area before – we probably need to be prepared for any eventuality.” Calm, controlled, he keeps the conversation going even as he lifts my skirt and strips down my knickers. He runs his thumb gently down and buries it in the wet folds of my cunt. And I try not to squeal. “It’ll take at least four weeks, I think, to get the requisite buy-in from stakeholders.” ‘Bossy’ is the word that springs to mind, but it springs straight back out again as he shoves two more fingers deep into me and I start to forget how words work. “But it will be worth it if they don’t put up any roadblocks later down the line,” he continues, using his other hand to pull my knickers further to the side. He’s lubing himself up now, soaking juice from my cunt all over his hand and massaging it into his dick. Taking more and rubbing it over the entrance to my ass. Pushing his fingers in slowly – so so slowly – to avoid any sound. I, meanwhile, am trembling with anticipation, and practically drawing blood from biting my lip to avoid crying out. I can see his right hand hovering towards the mute button, and I almost let out a sob of gratitude. “Sam – over to you.” Mute. And he comes at me in a whirlwind. Fingers and hands rummaging at my cunt and ass. Greedily grabbing for everything with a flurry of movement. He pulls at my shirt, exposing my back and neck, leaning forward to bite and kiss and whisper: “no noise. You’ve been good so far but it’s going to get harder. No noise. Got it?” Oh fuck yes I’ve got it. It’s the whole point. It’s what makes this game so fun. Him torturing me, me knowing I have to stay totally silent. I’m willing him to do more – harder – to give me more to work with. I’m well-practiced at quiet sex but I need more of a challenge. I twist my face to the side so I can look up at him while he fucks me, and I nod slowly. Then I look at the phone. Sam is winding up now, giving a run-down of the next steps and waiting for a response. He pushes the button on the phone – unmute – at the exact same moment he presses the head of his cock against my ass. “Yes, that sounds good to me,” he explains, and something about the gentle authority in his tone makes the back of my knees quiver, and I have to shift slightly to avoid slipping down to the floor. He pushes forward – an infinitesimal amount but enough to show me that he’s noticed my movement. It’s a warning, mostly: stay still. I will. I’m pinned there by a combination of the firm pressure of his dick and my own stubborn willpower. “Anyone else care to chip in?” he asks, and I beg silently for someone to start a monologue. A long, rambling, monologue filled with business jargon and excessive self-importance. Something – anything – to get me fucked quicker. “I’ve got a couple of questions,” Charlie ventures, and the phone goes back on mute. Mute . He grabs my hair, pulls me back onto his cock in one quick, harsh motion. The smack of his thighs on the back of mine and the immediate relief at having him – finally – inside me makes me want to weep. Hard. Fast. Functional. Stroke after stroke, smacking into me and pushing my hips forward to get crushed against the wooden desk. I reach back and spread myself so he can fuck me harder, further, deeper , even as I know he’s calculating the seconds until he next has to hit that button. Five seconds, maybe, and he raises a hand to give me a stinging thwack – a warning. “Sssh,” he hisses, and gives one final hard thrust until he settles with his cock deep and hard inside me. I oblige, freezing stock still, mouth hanging slightly open so my quick breaths leak out quietly. Unmute. “I was thinking,” he begins, launching into a fairly detailed analysis of what’s just been said. If I had the brainpower to concentrate, it left me long ago, so I’m in awe at how he’s managed to keep track even while we fucked. Better, I’m in awe of the way he can keep his voice so steady when his cock is twitching inside me. I can feel the tremble in his legs, pressed up against mine, but from the measured way he dissects this tedious strategy, no one at the other end of the line would have a clue what was happening. But I know. I can feel his dick move ever so slightly back and forward as he speaks. I can sense his desire to move more quickly, and I start to match his movements with my own. Back and forth. Millimetre by millimetre. Sliding, squeezing, pushing… desperately waiting for that next muted moment. I’m getting impatient now, caring less about the tiny sounds I might make. His voice is a background noise, and it seems to me that it might just muffle some of the more obvious rustles of my clothes. He seems so good at speaking in that businesslike monotone that I figure – surely it can’t hurt to just push back against him a little? Surely no one will have heard my breath catch as I gave one more thrust? But it’s not really them I’m being quiet for – it’s him. He places a firm hand on my back, abruptly changes tone. “Apologies,” he barks into the phone. “There’s something here I have to deal with. I’ll just be two minutes – talk amongst yourselves.” Mute. This time there’s no teasing or playfulness – just one hissed “ssssh” and then a heartstoppingly vigorous ending. He grabs at my arse with his hands, pulls me back onto him, stretching me open to get deeper inside. Fucking me like it’s a punishment – meting out thrusts of his dick like he’d dispense strokes of a cane. One. Two. Three. Four. Five six seven. One after the other, in quick succession, all the while maintaining his total silence and composure. By contrast, I’m a gasping, squirming mess – legs trembling to keep myself upright, hands scrabbling at the far edge of the table to try and get a better grip. My efforts to stay silent have long since failed, and I allow myself one concession – a guttural moan at the back of my throat as he gives one final, hard shove and empties himself inside me. It takes two minutes exactly. As I tremble on the desk, reaching back to rearrange my skirt, keen to stand up and fix myself and wipe the spunk that’s dripping slowly down the back of my legs, he tuts once. Orders ‘sssh’ again. Then he unmutes the phone.