Chapter 2: The Call Option
The phone buzzed against her thigh, the screen casting a cold sheen across the salt-rimmed glass. Stu’s message was simple: ‘i was wondering if you do calls?’
Maya read it twice, her thumb brushing the screen. She tapped away. “$150 for 20 minutes,” she typed back, the numbers feeling both trivial and immense. The three dots pulsed in silence, then her payment app chimed—a transfer notification for $300.
Outside, a siren wailed, threading through the rain as she watched the neon streetlamp flicker against the wet glass. "Gimme a second."
She placed her phone in her pocket and wheeled herself toward the bathroom. The toothbrush scraped against her molars, the mint taste sharp and cleaning away the lingering ghost of the whiskey.
Back in the bedroom, she killed the overhead light, leaving only the weak amber glow from a dusty lamp on the floor.
The window unit AC kicked on with a rattle, blasting a wave of chilled, dry air across her skin. She pulled the faded gray Army PT shirt over her head, the fabric catching briefly on the scar tissue at the base of her neck before falling to the floor.
She then shoved her sweatpants down, kicking them off to join the shirt on the floor, leaving her in only her bra and underwear. The chilled air bit at her exposed thighs, a stark contrast to the familiar, dead stumps she carried there. She stared at the phone's screen, at Stu’s name, and felt a cold knot of reluctance tighten in her stomach. This is stupid, she thought. It's just sound, just words, same as the texts, she reasoned, her hand tightening around the device.
She hit the call button and lifted it to her ear before the doubt could take root.
The line connected with a soft click, followed by the faint, humid static of his held breath. "Hello?" Stu's voice was higher than she'd imagined, tight with nerves.
"Hey," Maya said, her own voice low and measured in the dark room.
An awkward silence stretched between them, filled only by the rattle of her window unit. "Thanks, uh... for taking my call."
"It's alright. I mean, you paid pretty good." She finally said, because someone had to mention it.
He laughed, a short, stifled burst of air against the receiver. “Yeah, I guess.”
The sound died, leaving the hollow hum of the line between them. Maya shifted against the bed, the sheets shifting under her weight. “So,” she said, the word landing with a dull thud, “what’s on your mind?”
“I… I kept thinking about last time.” His voice was rushed, a quiet admission that felt louder than the siren outside. She imagined his face flushing, the same as when he’d sent that blurry photo.
“Hmm,” she hummed, the sound flat, and then she made her voice soften just around the edges, layering it with a warmth she didn’t feel. “That’s actually really flattering.”
The AC cycled off, leaving a sudden, hollow silence in the room that waited for his next move.
Maya let the silence stretch, then asked, “So what’d you think about, specifically?”
“I, uh—your stomach,” he stammered, his breath catching in a way that was punctuated by the soft, rhythmic rustle of fabric against skin.
She could hear the deliberate, aching slide of his hand over himself, a tense and unsatisfied motion that wasn’t yet a stroke.
The sound was intimate and pathetic, curling through the phone line to fill her hollow room.
“Keep going,” she said, the words dropping into the quiet like stones.
“I just kept... thinking about last time,” he stammered, his breath hitching softly. The faint, dry sound of his hand moving over his cock was a whispered confession through the static. “About your mouth and—and everything you typed.” He swallowed, hard. “Fuck. Can I... can I jerk off while we talk?”
Maya watched the neon light smear across her ceiling. “Sure,” she said, the word as casual as a weather report.
He grunted, shuffling out of clothes. There was a wet, rhythmic sound of his stroking that filled the line, a stark contrast to the sterile hum of her AC. "What are you wearing right now?" he finally asked, his voice strained.
"Nothing," Maya answered, her voice flat and factual in the dark room. "Just a sports bra and these plain black underwear." The admission hung between them, a simple inventory of fabric and skin.
"Could you... take them off?" he whispered, the question sounding startled, as if it had escaped him.