Chapter 13: Phone Sex with an Audience
Vanja traced the edge of her phone with a polished fingernail. On the screen, a gossip site flickered with a grainy paparazzi shot of Sydney Sweeney leaving a trendy restaurant, her smile too wide, her eyes a little frantic behind oversized sunglasses. The caption speculated about ‘career pressures.’ Vanja’s mouth curved. Pressure was a useful tool.
The penthouse was quiet, mid-afternoon sun slicing through the windows to pool on the black marble floor. Anya moved in the periphery, dusting a sculpture with a reverence that bordered on religious. She hadn’t made eye contact since the nursery floor. Her obedience was now a palpable thing, a thick silence.
Vanja tapped Sydney’s name in her contacts. It rang twice.
“Hello?” Sydney’s voice was breathy, artificially bright. “Vanja? I wasn’t sure you’d call again.”
“I was reviewing my notes,” Vanja said, leaning back against a mountain of silk pillows. She nodded once at Anya, a faint movement. The nanny stopped dusting, her hands falling to her sides. “From our session. Your transference is accelerating. Interesting.”
“My… what?” A flicker of real confusion. Then a forced laugh. “Right. The psychiatry thing. Look, about the other night, I think maybe we got a little carried—”
“Take your panties off,” Vanja interrupted, her voice cool and flat.
A sharp intake of breath on the line. Silence. Vanja could almost see her, probably in some minimalist rental, clutching the phone, her weird, wide eyes darting around as if someone might be watching.
“What? Vanja, I’m… I’m about to go to a script meeting.”
“You’re lying. You’re alone. Your publicist told my assistant your day cleared after the photo call. The one where you wore that dreadful yellow dress. It washed you out. Take them off.”
Another silence, longer this time. Then a rustle of fabric. A whisper. “Okay. They’re off.”
Vanja watched Anya. She pointed to the space on the bed between her spread legs. Anya approached, her movements silent. She knelt on the plush carpet, then, after a moment’s hesitation, climbed onto the bed, settling on her knees between Vanja’s thighs. Vanja hadn’t worn anything beneath her loose linen trousers. She simply lifted her hips, and Anya pulled them down, along with her underwear, exposing her. The air was cool. Anya’s breath was warm.
“Tell me what you’re doing,” Vanja said into the phone.
“I’m… I’m in my living room. On the couch.”
“Are you wet?”
A helpless, shuddery sigh. “Yes.”
“From my voice? From me telling you what to do?” Vanja reached down, her fingers threading through Anya’s hair, not gently. She guided her head forward. Anya’s tongue, tentative at first, touched her outer lips. “Or from remembering how you cried when I came in your mouth? You made a mess of my sheets.”
On the other end, Sydney whimpered. “Both.”
Anya’s tongue grew bolder, encouraged by Vanja’s grip. She licked a slow, flat stripe from perineum to clit. Vanja’s abdominal muscles tightened. She let out a soft, deliberate sigh for the phone.
“What was that?” Sydney asked, her voice tight.
“Our nanny,” Vanja said, matter-of-fact. “She’s cleaning me. Her tongue is inside me right now. Can you hear it?”
She held the phone lower, near her pelvis. Anya, understanding, increased her effort. The sounds were obscenely wet, a rhythmic, sloppy lapping. Vanja watched the top of Anya’s head, the focused bob of her shoulders. She pressed the phone back to her ear.
Sydney was breathing in short, sharp gasps. “Oh, god.”
“She’s better at it than you are,” Vanja commented idly. “Less teeth. More dedication. She knows her place. Do you know yours?”
“I want to be there,” Sydney blurted, the confession tearing out of her. “I want to be her. Fuck the script meeting. I want to be on my knees for you.”
“Then touch yourself. Pretend it’s my tongue. But do it properly. I want to hear everything. The sounds your cunt makes. Your fingers. Everything.”
Vanja muted her own end. She let her head fall back, focusing on the sensation. Anya was working in earnest now, her mouth sealed over Vanja’s clit, sucking with a gentle, persistent pressure while her tongue flicked rapidly over the hardened nub. One of her hands came up, fingers sliding through the slickness Anya was creating, circling Vanja’s entrance before pushing two fingers deep inside her own body, matching the rhythm of her mouth.
Vanja unmuted the phone. The sounds from Sydney’s end were unmistakable: the slick, frantic sliding of fingers, a low, desperate whine, the creak of leather couch.
“You sound like a cheap porn actress,” Vanja said, her own voice beginning to show a faint strain. “Is that how you got the part in Euphoria? By sounding like a desperate, hungry little slut?”
“Yes,” Sydney moaned, the word twisted with shame and arousal. “Yes, whatever you want. Please.”
“I want you to come. Just from the sound of my nanny eating my pussy. Come for me now. Do it.”
She muted the phone again. A sharp, guttural cry pierced the line before the silence. Vanja smiled. She dropped the phone onto the pillow beside her.
Her own climax was building, a tight, hot coil in her gut. Anya’s fingers were thrusting deep, crooking to hit a spot that made Vanja’s thighs tremble. Her mouth was a relentless, wet miracle.
“Harder,” Vanja breathed, her hand fisting in Anya’s hair, pushing her face down. “Suck it like you mean it. Like your job depends on it.”
Anya moaned, the vibration sending a shockwave through Vanja’s core. The nanny’s free hand drifted between her own legs, rubbing herself in frantic circles as she serviced Vanja. The sight of it, the abject generosity of her pleasure, was the final trigger.
Vanja came with a sharp, silent gasp, her body arching off the bed, her hips grinding against Anya’s face. Wave after wave of pulsing heat washed through her, drawn out by the continuous, dutiful lapping of Anya’s tongue. She rode it, eyes shut, until the last spasm faded.
She pushed Anya’s head away, not ungently. The nanny sat back on her heels, her face glistening, her lips swollen, her own fingers still working between her legs, chasing her own release.
“Finish,” Vanja commanded, her voice hoarse.
Anya’s eyes squeezed shut. A few more frantic circles and her body stiffened, a muted, choked cry escaping her as she peaked, her hips bucking against her own hand. She slumped, breathing heavily.
Vanja picked up the phone. She unmuted it. Sydney was sobbing quietly.
“Did you come?” Vanja asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it good?”
“It… it was the best I’ve ever…” Sydney’s voice was broken, small.
“It was mediocre,” Vanja corrected. “You came to the sound of service. You’re a spectator. She’s the instrument. You understand the difference?”
A long, shaky silence. “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll text you an address for tomorrow night. A private club. Wear something expensive. And no panties. I’ll know if you disobey.”
She ended the call without waiting for a reply.
Anya was trying to slip off the bed. Vanja’s hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist. Her grip was firm. “I didn’t say you could leave.”
Anya stilled. She looked at Vanja, her expression a complex map of submission, satisfaction, and deep unease.
Vanja pulled her closer. “You performed well. You have a talented mouth.” Her other hand cupped Anya’s cheek, a mockery of a caress. “But you’re still thinking of this as a transaction. Service for security. It’s more basic than that.”
She manifested her cock slowly, letting it grow to full, rigid length between them. Anya’s eyes widened, then dropped. A fresh wave of arousal, mingled with fear, scenting the air.
“You crave the degradation,” Vanja whispered, guiding Anya’s head down. “You need to be used more thoroughly than Helen. She fights it. You simply… accept. That’s why you’re more useful.”
Anya took the tip into her mouth without being told. She began to suck, her tongue swirling around the head. Vanja watched, a clinical observer of her own pleasure.
“You’ll come with me tomorrow night,” Vanja said, her voice even as Anya took her deeper, gagging softly. “To the club. You’ll watch me break that fragile, famous little actress. You’ll see what real obsession looks like. And you’ll assist.”
Anya hummed around her, a sound of assent. Vanja tangled her hands in the nanny’s mousy brown hair, setting a slow, deep rhythm.
“And then,” Vanja mused, her gaze distant, fixed on the city skyline, “we’ll see how deep your acceptance truly goes.”
“And then,” Vanja mused, her gaze distant, fixed on the city skyline, “we’ll see how deep your acceptance truly goes.” She fucked Anya’s mouth with a measured, relentless pace, watching the reflection of the nanny’s bobbing head in the dark window. The doorbell chimed, a soft melodic note that echoed through the vast space.
Anya flinched, but Vanja held her head firmly in place, not breaking rhythm. “Ignore it,” she murmured, pushing deeper until Anya’s nose pressed into her pubic bone. The bell chimed again, followed by a frantic knocking. Then the distinct beep of the keypad, and the heavy door swinging open.
Sydney stood in the entrance to the bedroom, her fake blonde hair disheveled, her weird eyes wide and blazing. She was still in the yellow dress from the paparazzi shot, a small overnight bag dropped at her feet. She froze, taking in the scene: Vanja, half-reclined, her cock buried in the mouth of a plump, kneeling woman.
“You said tomorrow night,” Sydney whispered, her voice cracking.
Vanja finally released Anya, who pulled back, gasping, strings of saliva webbing her lips to Vanja’s shaft. “I changed my mind,” Vanja said, her tone flat. “You changed yours. You came home.” She didn’t move to cover herself. “Lock the door behind you. Take off that hideous dress.”
Sydney fumbled with the lock, her fingers clumsy. The click was deafening. She reached behind her, struggling with the zipper, her eyes never leaving Vanja’s naked form. The dress pooled around her ankles, revealing her skinny frame, the slight sag of her natural tits, the fact she’d obeyed about the panties. She was shivering.
“Come here.” Vanja’s command sliced the air.
Sydney approached, each step hesitant on the marble. Vanja grasped her by the back of the neck when she was within reach, pulling her down into a brutal, possessive kiss. Sydney melted into it, a desperate little sound escaping her throat. Her hands fluttered, then clutched at Vanja’s shoulders.
Vanja broke the kiss, turning Sydney’s head to face Anya. “This is Anya. She lives here. She cleans. She services. You will be nice to her.” She pushed Sydney down onto the bed beside the nanny. “Show her how sorry you are for interrupting. Kiss her. Make her wet for me.”
Sydney stared at Anya’s glistening mouth, then leaned in. Their kiss was awkward at first, Sydney’s hunger meeting Anya’s shocked passivity. Then Anya’s training took over; she opened her mouth, letting Sydney explore. Vanja watched, a conductor observing her orchestra. She manifested a second cock, the thick length of it rising alongside the first, both standing rigid from her body.
“Look at me,” Vanja said.
They broke apart, lips swollen, both breathing heavily. Their eyes locked on the impossible sight. A pure, primal fear flickered in Sydney’s expression, chased by blinding want.
“On your hands and knees. Both of you. Face each other.”
They scrambled into position, side by side, their asses in the air. Sydney’s was bony, Anya’s full and soft. Vanja ran a hand over each, a comparative assessment. She positioned herself behind them, the twin cocks nudging at their entrances.
“You get the famous one, Anya,” Vanja said, guiding one cockhead to Sydney’s tight, clenching hole. “Since you’re such a fan of television.” She pressed forward, breaching Sydney in one slow, inexorable thrust. Sydney cried out, her back arching, her fingers twisting in the silk sheets.
Vanja didn’t pause. She angled the other cock against Anya’s already-slick pussy and pushed in, meeting no resistance, sinking deep into the nanny’s welcoming heat. Anya moaned, low and guttural, pushing back against the invasion.
Then Vanja began to move. A punishing, synchronized rhythm, fucking into one then the other, her hips pistoning. The room filled with the raw, wet sounds of penetration, of skin slapping against skin. Sydney was sobbing, “Oh god, oh fuck,” with each drive inside her. Anya was silent, her face buried in the mattress, her body jolting forward.
“Touch each other,” Vanja growled, her own breath starting to shorten. “Now.”
Sydney’s hand flailed, finding Anya’s breast, squeezing roughly. Anya’s hand snaked between Sydney’s thighs, fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast circles. Sydney’s sobs turned into sharp, shrieking gasps.
Vanja felt the tension coiling at the base of her spine, a live wire. She fucked them harder, deeper, her world narrowing to the sensation of twin sheaths of hot, clutching flesh. Sydney came first, her body seizing, her cunt milking Vanja’s cock in violent pulses. The convulsion tipped Anya over the edge; the nanny’s internal muscles fluttered and clamped down, a silent, intense orgasm wracking her substantial frame.
The dual grip was too much. Vanja’s control shattered. With a raw, animal groan, she shoved as deep as she could and came, jets of release flooding into both of them at once. The sensation was vast, overwhelming, a circuit completing. She stayed there, buried, pulsing, as they all shuddered through the aftershocks.
Slowly, she withdrew. Both women collapsed onto their sides, spent and glistening. Vanja dissipated the cocks, the strange energy receding. She lay back on the bed, the silence returning, now swollen and sticky.
Sydney stirred first. She crawled up the bed, her body trembling, and curled herself into Vanja’s side, her head on Vanja’s chest. She smelled of sweat, cheap perfume, and sex.
Vanja looked down at her, at the vulnerable line of her neck. An unexpected, sharp feeling lanced through her chest, bypassing all calculation. She turned her head, pressing her lips against Sydney’s temple.
“Fuck,” Vanja whispered, the word dragged from a place she rarely acknowledged. “I missed you.”
Sydney’s breath hitched. She wrapped her arms around Vanja, her grip shockingly strong, her face buried in Vanja’s skin. She held her tighter, as if trying to merge their bodies back into one.
She held her tighter, as if trying to merge their bodies back into one. Vanja allowed it, her fingers absently tracing the knobs of Sydney’s spine, feeling the frantic rabbit-thump of her heart slowly settle. Across the vast bed, Anya slid away silently, a shadow retrieving her simple cotton dress from the floor. She padded out without a word, closing the bedroom door with a soft, definitive click. The seal of a servant. Acknowledgment of a changed hierarchy.
Vanja stared at the ceiling, at the delicate tracery of the gold leaf in the canopy above. Sydney’s breathing evened into sleep, her grip loosening. Vanja extracted herself, the cool air hitting her sweat-damp skin. She walked to the window, naked, and watched the city’s nocturnal pulse. A strange, hollow echo vibrated in her chest where Sydney’s head had lain. It wasn’t affection. It was the quiet after a perfect, destructive experiment. She had proven her hypothesis: the actress was broken, and beautifully so. The result should have felt cleaner.
She slept fitfully, Sydney’s limbs a possessive tangle around her.
Grey morning light diluted the room’s opulence. Vanja woke to the faint, familiar sounds of the penthouse: the hum of the climate control, the distant clink of ceramic. Sydney was gone from the bed. Vanja pulled on a black silk robe, tying it shut as she moved through the quiet halls.
The scent of butter and brewed coffee guided her to the kitchen. Anya stood at the stove, her back to the room, shuffling pancakes on a griddle. Her posture was stiff, the set of her shoulders broadcasting a morning-after shame. At the massive kitchen island, Sydney sat on a stool, still in one of Vanja’s oversized t-shirts. She was building a precarious tower of wooden blocks with a serious, dark-haired little boy.
Leo. He concentrated, his small tongue poking out, placing a final block. Sydney watched him, a softness on her face that Vanja had never seen there before. It wasn’t a performance.
“And… crash!” Sydney whispered, nudging the tower. It tumbled. Leo giggled, a pure, sparkling sound. Sydney grinned, scooping him up. “You’re a demolition expert, buddy. The best.”
She noticed Vanja then. The grin didn’t fade, but it changed, warming with a different, more complex heat. “Morning,” Sydney said, her voice still sleep-rough.
Vanja walked over. She cupped Sydney’s chin, tilting her face up, and kissed her. It was slow, deliberate, a claiming in the mundane morning light. “Morning.”
She released her and ruffled Leo’s hair. He babbled something, reaching for a stray block.
Sydney set him down, her eyes following Vanja as she poured coffee. “I missed him,” Sydney said, nodding toward Leo as he crawled after a rolling block. “I missed… this. Being at home.” The word hung in the air between them, weighted and dangerous.
Vanja leaned against the counter, sipping her coffee. Its bitterness was a comfort. “We missed you too,” she said. The plural was intentional, an inclusion of the space, the routine, the unspoken dynamic. It wasn’t a lie.
Sydney bit her lip, a flicker of the anxious, public girl returning. “Was my mom too much? When she visited last week? She texted me a novel, but I couldn’t tell if she was thrilled or horrified.”
Vanja shook her head, her gaze cool and assessing. “She was fine. Chatty. Impressed by the art. She asked if I was your life coach.” A faint, humorless smile. “I told her I was more of a behavioral specialist.”
From the stove, Anya made a small, choked sound, quickly disguised as a cough. Her ears flushed a deep, telling pink. She kept her back turned, focusing fiercely on the pancakes.
Sydney, oblivious, sighed in relief. “Thank god. She can be a lot.” She slid off the stool. “Here, let me help, Anya.” She moved to the stove, taking a plate from the cabinet.
Anya stiffened, her blush deepening. “It’s fine, really. I have it.”
“No, I want to.” Sydney’s tone was light, genuine. She served the pancakes, her hip accidentally brushing Anya’s as she reached for the syrup. Anya flinched as if scalded.
Vanja watched the exchange, the hidden current zapping between the two women. It was more interesting than the pancakes.
After breakfast, Anya bundled Leo into a tiny jacket. “Park time,” she announced, her voice finally steady. She avoided looking at either of them.
“Bye, monster!” Sydney called, blowing a kiss. Leo waved a chubby hand.
The door closed behind them. The silence they left was different. It was charged, expectant. The hum of the apartment seemed to lower in pitch. Vanja set her coffee cup down on the marble counter. The click was deliberate.
Sydney was wiping the island clean, her back bent. The thin cotton of the t-shirt rode up, revealing the pale, soft skin of her thighs, the faint shadows of bruises from the night before. Vanja moved behind her, soundless on the floor. She didn’t touch her. She just let her presence be felt, a shift in the pressure of the room.
Sydney stilled. The dishrag in her hand stopped moving.
“They’ll be gone for an hour,” Vanja said, her voice low.
Sydney turned. Her weird, wide eyes were dark, the pupils swallowing the pale blue. There was no performance now. Just a raw, hungry wanting. “Yeah.”
Vanja didn’t kiss her. She pushed her back against the cold marble of the island, her hands firm on Sydney’s hips. She dropped to her knees. The kitchen tile was hard under her knees. She pushed the t-shirt up, exposing Sydney’s cunt, the blond hair damp and tangled.
“You’re already wet,” Vanja observed, her breath hot against Sydney’s skin.
“Since I woke up,” Sydney breathed, her head falling back against the counter with a soft thud. “Since I felt you get out of bed.”
Vanja leaned in and licked her. A long, flat, slow stroke from her opening all the way up to her clit. Sydney tasted like sleep and salt and their combined sex from the night before. Vanja savored it, the intimate flavor of possession. She focused on her clit, sucking the swollen bud into her mouth, applying a ruthless, circling pressure with her tongue.
“Oh fuck, Vanja,” Sydney moaned, her hands tangling in Vanja’s dark blond hair, not guiding, just clutching. “Just like that. Your mouth, fuck.”
Vanja slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding the spongy wall of her front. Sydney’s cunt clenched, dripping around her fingers. Vanja fucked her with them, a steady, deep rhythm, while her mouth worked its torment. Sydney’s thighs began to shake, her hips bucking, fucking herself on Vanja’s face and hand.
“Don’t come,” Vanja ordered, pulling her mouth away, her fingers still pumping. “Not yet.”
Sydney whimpered, a high, strained sound of protest. “Please. I’m so close.”
“Get on the floor. On your back.”
Sydney slid down, her body limp with need, hitting the tiles. Vanja stood over her for a moment, looking down at her splayed form. Then she lowered herself, positioning her body over Sydney’s face, her own cunt hovering above Sydney’s mouth. She aligned herself simultaneously, her mouth finding Sydney’s soaked pussy again.
They 69’d on the hard kitchen floor. It was awkward, inelegant. Real. Sydney’s tongue lapped at her with a desperate, clumsy enthusiasm. Vanja moaned, the vibration travelling through Sydney’s clit. She returned the favor, redoubling her efforts, fucking Sydney with her tongue, pushing deep inside her before returning to suck hard on her clit.
The sounds were filthy: wet, sloppy sucking, guttural moans muffled by flesh, the slick slide of tongues and lips. Sydney’s hands gripped Vanja’s ass, pulling her down harder onto her face. Vanja felt the building tension in Sydney’s thighs, the involuntary spasms of her abdomen.
“Come,” Vanja growled, her mouth full.
It was permission and command. Sydney screamed, the sound swallowed by Vanja’s pussy. Her body arched off the floor, rigid, as her orgasm ripped through her. Vanja felt the violent clenching around her tongue, the flood of new wetness. She rode it out, sucking and licking through every pulse until Sydney collapsed, twitching.
Only then did Vanja let her own focus shatter. The sensation of Sydney’s whimpering, post-orgasmic mouth still working feebly at her cunt was the final trigger. Vanja came with a sharp, stifled cry, grinding her hips against Sydney’s face, her own thighs trembling. Pleasure, bright and searing, arced through her, leaving her hollowed out and breathless.
She rolled off, onto her back on the cold tile. They lay side by side, panting, staring at the recessed kitchen lights. Sydney’s hand crept over, fingers lacing with Vanja’s. Their grips were tight, slippery with sweat and come.
The digital clock on the oven ticked over.
“And then,” Vanja mused, her gaze distant, fixed on the city skyline, “we’ll see how deep your acceptance truly goes.”
Her hands tightened in Anya’s hair, establishing a brutal, rhythmic pace. Anya took her deeper each time, her throat fluttering around the intrusion, a low gagging sound punctuating the wet suction. Vanja watched the strain in the nanny’s neck, the tears beading at the corners of her closed eyes, with detached fascination.
“You love this,” Vanja stated, her voice flat. “Your husband never used you like this. He asked. He pleaded. He treated you like a person.”
Anya moaned around her, the vibration a clear answer. Her own fingers had found their way back between her legs, stroking her clit in frantic circles that smeared her wetness.
“Stop that.” Vanja’s command was a whip-crack.
Anya’s hand flew away from herself as if burned. She kept sucking, her pace faltering for only a second before resuming with desperate enthusiasm.
“Good girl.” The praise was cold currency. Vanja shifted her hips, driving herself deeper into that wet, clutching heat until the head of her cock bumped the back of Anya’s throat. The nanny’s body convulsed, her instincts screaming to pull away, but she held, she swallowed, she took it. Vanja felt the powerful, involuntary constriction and let her head fall back against the pillow. “Now make me come. Use your throat. Milk it.”
Anya obeyed, hollowing her cheeks, applying perfect pressure as she withdrew and plunged again. Her nose pressed into the trimmed blonde hair at Vanja’s base. The obscene, sloppy sounds filled the sunlit room, a stark counterpoint to the orderly skyline.
Vanja’s climax was not a wave but a sharp, escalating strike of lightning. Her spine arched, her thighs clamping around Anya’s head. “Take it,” she growled, pulsing into that accepting mouth. “Swallow every fucking drop.”
Anya did. She drank it down, her throat working, a small choked sound escaping as she managed the voluminous release. When Vanja finally released her grip, Anya fell back, gasping, strings of saliva and spend connecting her lips to Vanja’s softening cock for a moment before breaking.
Vanja manifested it away. The sudden emptiness was its own presence. She sat up, swinging her legs off the bed, and stood over Anya, who remained on her knees on the carpet, breathing heavily, face flushed and slick.
“Clean yourself up,” Vanja said, walking toward her en-suite bathroom. “You look like a used whore.”
The marble was cool under her bare feet. She turned on the gold faucet, letting the water run hot. Behind her, she heard Anya moving, the rustle of fabric as she likely wiped her face on her sleeve.
“The club tomorrow,” Vanja called out, not looking back. “It’s called The Grotto. You’ll wear the black maid’s uniform from the hall closet. The one with the short skirt.”