A Stranger's Whisper

Jenson had the house to himself for the first time in what felt like months. His wife had taken the kids to her sister's for the weekend, and he'd planned an aggressively boring Saturday: lawn, leftovers, ESPN, bed by ten. He'd mowed half the yard, showered off the sweat, and was standing in his kitchen in a pair of gray sweatpants, eating cold pizza straight from the box over the sink like a animal, when the phone rang.

The landline, oddly. Nobody called the landline except his mother-in-law and scam robots.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Is Diane there?" The voice was deep, unhurried, the kind of voice that came from a big chest. A man's voice, smooth as gravel poured over velvet.

"There's no Diane here. Wrong number."

"Shit. Sorry, man. You sure? Diane. Tall, dark hair, has a laugh that makes bartenders lean in?"

"Pretty sure. I'm Jenson, my wife's name isn't Diane, and there's no Diane in this house."

"Huh." A pause. Jenson could hear the guy breathing, could hear the faint clink of ice in a glass on the other end. "That's a shame. Because the Diane I'm thinking about would've known exactly who I was the second she heard my voice."

Jenson laughed, still chewing. "Well, she's not here, man. You got a wrong number."

"Maybe not." The voice had a smile in it. "Maybe it's fate. You ever think about that? Out of all the numbers in the world, I dialed yours."

"I think it means you need to check your contacts."

"Or it means you're the guy I'm supposed to talk to tonight."

Jenson set the pizza crust down. Something about the guy's confidence was amusing, the way strangers on planes sometimes decided you were their therapist for a few hours. "Alright, well, good luck finding Diane—"

"Wait. Hold on. Don't hang up. I already apologized, didn't I? Twice." The voice dropped lower. "Let me ask you something, Jenson. You married?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because if your wife was Diane's friend, you'd know the type. Women who look like they bake cookies for the neighborhood and then say things in the bedroom that'd make a priest retire." A low chuckle. "Diane, for instance. Diane likes being held down. Just gentle enough that she can pretend she isn't letting it happen. She likes whispering 'don't' when she means the exact opposite. I had her on all fours on a hotel balcony last month, and the whole time she kept saying somebody's going to see, and she never once moved away from the railing."

Jenson stood there with his hand on the phone, mouth slightly open. "That's — okay, that's more than I needed to know about a stranger."

"Is it?" The voice was warm, unbothered. "You still there, though."

He was. That was the thing. He was still there.

"Look, man," Jenson said, shifting his weight. "I'm gonna go. Good luck with Diane."

"One more question and I'll let you go. You sound like a guy who's had his share of stories. That voice. Married guy, keeps himself in shape, am I right? You work out?"

"What does that—yeah, I lift. What's your point?"

"My point is guys like you and me, we've both stood in a locker room and watched the whole world pretend it isn't looking. We've both had a woman say something filthy in the dark and felt our whole chest go tight. I'm just talking, Jenson. It's a Saturday night and I dialed a wrong number and found a guy instead of a girl. Could be worse company."

Jenson leaned against the counter. It had been — God, how long? Six weeks since he and his wife had done anything more than a tired goodnight kiss. Work, kids, her headaches, his schedule. The dry spell had calcified into something they didn't mention, like a broken garage door they'd both agreed to walk around.

"I'm not really a phone guy," Jenson said.

"Nobody's a phone guy until they are." Ice clinked again. "What's her name? Your wife."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I want to hear you say it. Married men say their wife's name different than other words. Softer. Like it might break."

"Karen," Jenson said, and noticed, distantly, that he'd said it softer.

"Karen. When's the last time you kissed Karen like you meant it? Not the cheek-peck. The kind where you get a hand in her hair and she makes that little sound in the back of her throat."

Jenson exhaled through his nose. "That's none of your business."

"That long, huh."

"Who is this, really?"

"Call me Mister X. It's what Diane screams when she wants to be loud and what she bites into a pillow to keep from saying when she doesn't." The voice was pure silk now. "And don't give me that tone. You're still on the line, Jenson. Six minutes now. Guys who aren't interested hang up at thirty seconds."

He was right, and Jenson knew he was right, and that annoyed him more than anything. He glanced at the kitchen window — the yard, the hedge, the neighbor's roofline — making sure, absurdly, that nobody could see him standing in his own kitchen having this conversation.

"I was about to hang up," he said.

"You were about to see if I'd say something dirtier. That's different." A pause. "You alone right now?"

"Yeah."

"Whole house to yourself?"

"...Yeah."

"See, now that's interesting. Because a man alone on a Saturday night, wife out of town, half-mast already and pretending he isn't — that's a man worth talking to."

"I'm not half—" Jenson stopped. He looked down. He was. The gray sweatpants were doing him no favors whatsoever. "You're an asshole."

"I'm honest. There's a difference. You've been walking around with that all evening and you were going to bed with it unattended. That's a tragedy. That's a waste of good equipment."

Jenson laughed despite himself, a short, disbelieving sound. "Karen's sister's place, upstate. Back Sunday night," he heard himself say, and wondered why.

"Two whole days. And you were going to spend them eating cold pizza and watching SportsCenter."

"How'd you know about the pizza?"

"Because you've got that chew in your voice. Married-guy-alone sound. I know it well." Mister X's voice dropped a register. "Here's what I want you to do, Jenson. Nothing crazy. Just stand up straight for me."

"Why?"

"Because I said so. Because you're curious what happens next, and so am I. Stand up straight."

Jenson was already standing up straight. He hadn't decided to. His body had just done it, the way it did when a coach barked. That was the moment he felt the shape of the thing — the guy on the other end of this line was going to keep telling him what to do, and some part of Jenson was going to keep doing it.

"Good," Mister X said. "Now. You still dressed from the day, or dressed for the evening?"

"Sweats. T-shirt."

"Take the shirt off."

"No." The word came out fast, automatic.

"Okay. Don't take it off. Just hold the bottom of it. Just hold it in your fists, like you're about to, and don't. I like a man right on the edge of a decision."

Jenson's hands had moved before the sentence finished. He was gripping the hem of the shirt, knuckles against his stomach, and his heart was going hard enough that he could feel it in his throat.

"There he is," Mister X murmured. "I can hear your breathing change, Jenson. You've done this before. Not on a phone, maybe. But you've stood in front of someone and waited to be told. Maybe you don't remember. That's fine. Your body does."

"That's not—" Jenson swallowed. "That's not me."

"Take the shirt off or don't. But I think we both know the sweatpants are the real question."

Jenson pulled the shirt off. He told himself it was because the kitchen was warm. It wasn't. The air hit the hair on his chest — thick, dark, the kind of chest hair his wife used to run her fingers through on Sunday mornings back when Sunday mornings still belonged to them — and his nipples tightened and he heard Mister X make a low, appreciative sound.

"There we go. Describe yourself to me. Honest."

"Forty-three. Six foot. I lift four days a week. Got some gut I fight, mostly losing."

"I'd bet you're losing. Guys who fight it at forty-three have good shoulders and a stomach that's a valley, not a hill. Am I close?"

"...Yeah."

"Now the sweatpants, Jenson."

"No." He meant it. Mostly he meant it. "This is — man, I don't even know you."

"You know exactly what I am. I'm the guy who dialed a wrong number and got lucky. And you're the guy who answered." The voice was patient now, almost gentle, which was somehow worse. "You're hard. I can hear it. There's a thickness in the way you're breathing. You've been hard since I told you about the balcony. Don't argue, just listen. You're going to take those sweatpants down to your thighs. Not off. Just down. And you're going to stand in your kitchen like that, and you're going to tell me how it feels."

Jenson's thumbs hooked the waistband. He stood frozen for a second — a full, silent second where he could have hung up, could have laughed it off, could have gone back to his pizza and his boring Saturday.

He pushed the sweats down to his thighs.

His cock sprang free and stood there, rigid and flushed, jutting out from the dark thicket of hair, and the kitchen suddenly felt like the most exposed room in America. The window. The window was right there.

"Blinds," Jenson said hoarsely.

"Close them. Good boy. See, you're already thinking ahead. That's a man who wants this." A slow exhale across the line. "Now tell me. How does it feel?"

"Weird. Wrong. Hot." The words fell out of him. "I'm standing in my kitchen with my pants down talking to a stranger and I'm so hard it hurts, and I don't even know why."

"You know why. Because nobody's asked you to want anything in a long time. Everyone takes from a man like you. Your job takes. Your kids take. Karen loves you, but she's tired, and tired love doesn't say take your dick out and show me. So here I am saying it. Take it in your hand, Jenson. Show me."

"I'm not going to—" He was. His hand was already closing around the shaft, and the groan that came out of him was embarrassing, low and ragged, a sound he hadn't made in years.

"There it is. That's the sound. Don't you dare apologize for it." Mister X's voice had gone rough at the edges now, less composed, and somehow that was the hottest part — knowing the guy on the other end was in it too. "Grip it. Full grip. You've got a good one, don't you? A handful. Married men with your build always do."

"Seven and a half," Jenson heard himself say, and then flushed at his own transparency.

"Thick?"

"Karen always said — yeah. Thick."

"Slow strokes. Nothing fast. I want you at a pace you could hold for an hour. Thumb over the head on every upstroke. You know your own rhythm, you've done this ten thousand times, but tonight you're doing it for me, and that changes it. Doesn't it?"

It did. God, it did. Jenson braced one hand on the counter and worked himself slow, hips pushing forward into his own fist, and the whole thing was insane and he could not stop. His own hand felt like someone else's. The kitchen smelled like cold pizza and dish soap and his breathing filled it.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," Mister X said.

"Karen. Our honeymoon. This motel in — God, this is stupid—"

"Nothing's stupid at eleven strokes a minute. Tell me."

"This motel room, she'd just come out of the shower, and she dropped the towel on purpose. Stood there and let me look. Didn't touch, just looked. She was — she was shaved, which she never was, she'd done it as a surprise, and she was wet before I even got across the room. I ate her pussy for an hour. She came three times on my face and I jerked off onto the carpet like a teenager because I couldn't wait."

"Fuck." A genuine crack in Mister X's voice. "That's the good stuff. That's what I'm talking about. Now think about this. Somebody's watching you right now. Me. I'm on the other end of this line and I can hear everything — every breath, that wet sound your fist is making, that little grunt you do at the top of every stroke. You're putting on a show, Jenson. Married dad, body like a workhorse, standing bare-assed in his own kitchen, jacking his thick married cock for a stranger's voice. You should be ashamed. Are you ashamed?"

"A little," Jenson gritted out. His hand was moving faster now, wrist flexing, the head of his cock dark and leaking.

"Good. Keep a little of it. Shame is just spice." Mister X's breathing had gone audible, syncopated, and Jenson realized with a jolt that the guy was touching himself too, somewhere out there in the dark of the city, and that image — an unknown man, big voice, big hands, hard and listening — made Jenson's balls draw up tight.

"Slow down," Mister X commanded.

"What? No, I'm close—"

"I know you're close. That's why you're slowing down. Grip the base. Hard. Squeeze it until the urge backs off. You come when I tell you, not before."

"Fuck you," Jenson panted, but he did it. He squeezed, groaning, hips stuttering, the orgasm retreating like a wave pulling back and leaving him shaking and desperate.

"Good. Very good. You follow instructions better than Diane ever did." A dark chuckle. "Now spit in your hand. Get it wet. Both hands — one on your balls, one on your cock. Play with them. You've got heavy ones, don't you? A dad's balls. Full. When's the last time you emptied them properly?"

"Weeks," Jenson admitted, working himself again, wet-sounding now, obscene in the quiet kitchen. "Karen's been — it's been a while."

"Then tonight we fix that. Faster now. Stroke it like you mean it. I want to hear you. Stop being polite — nobody in this house to hear you but me, and I want to hear every grunt, every swear. Say my name."

"Mister X—" It came out broken, halfway to a whine.

"Again."

"Mister X. Fuck. Mister X, I'm gonna—"

"Not yet." The voice was steel under the silk. "Hold it. You hold that load for me. You've been holding it for weeks, one more minute won't kill you. Tell me what you'd do if I walked into your kitchen right now."

"I don't—" Jenson's thighs were shaking. Sweat ran down his temple. "I don't know."

"Yes you do. You've been standing there with your pants down doing what I say for twenty minutes. You know exactly what you'd do."

"I'd — God — I'd stand there and let you look. Like the motel. I'd just let you look."

"Look at what? Say it."

"At my cock. My — Jesus — my hard, dripping, married cock."

"Fuck, yes. That's it. Now listen. When I count down from ten, you're going to come. Not before. And you're going to point that thing at your own chest and paint yourself with it, every drop, and you're going to say my name when it happens. Ready? Ten. Nine."

"Fuck, fuck—"

"Eight. Seven. Feel it building. Six. You've earned this, Jenson. Five. Four. Three. Two—"

"Mister X—!"

"One. Come. Now."

Jenson's whole body seized. The orgasm detonated out of him from the base of his spine, and the first rope hit him square in the chest with an audible splat, the second across his stomach, then a third and a fourth and a fifth, an absurd, weeks-in-the-making flood that painted his hairy chest and left him gasping, knees buckling, catching himself on the counter with a slick hand, groaning a long, wrecked, animal sound that didn't sound like him at all.

"Mister X," he'd said, somewhere in there, without deciding to. Twice.

For a while there was nothing on the line but two men breathing.

"Look at that mess," Mister X said finally, hoarse, satisfied. "Weeks, you said. I believe it. You're welcome."

Jenson looked down at himself — dripping, destroyed, gripping a phone, pants at his thighs in his own kitchen — and started to laugh. It came out helpless and real, and he heard Mister X laughing with him, that deep velvet rumble.

"I cannot believe that just happened," Jenson said, grabbing a dish towel.

"I can. I called Diane, after all." A rustle, the clink of ice, a man settling back somewhere. "Same time tomorrow, Jenson. You've got a whole Sunday alone, and I've got a wrong number that turned out very right."

"I'm hanging up now," Jenson said, grinning at his ceiling.

"Ten o'clock. Don't be late. And Jenson — take a shower before you check the mail. You look like a crime scene."

The line went dead. Jenson stood there, wrecked and laughing, cum cooling in his chest hair, holding the phone like a trophy.

That night he texted Karen a message he hadn't sent in years: *Miss you. Call me when you get a minute. Alone.* And he set his phone alarm for 9:55 the next evening — not because he was going to answer, obviously. Obviously.

At 10:00, he answered.