Prawn
Toomuchtimeonhands
Joined: 13 Oct 2002
Posts: 825
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 Posted: 06/21/03 - 03:52 Post subject: I called one of those hot-talk phone lines yesterday ...
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The commercial said I could tell them my deepest darkest secrets. When the woman picked up, I couldn't hold myself back any longer. I told her the whole thing, my deepest, dirtiest secret. When I was seventeen, coming back from getting my drivers license, I killed a homeless man.
She became frightened, but that wasn't the end of it, as she asked what I was wearing I continued. After the initial thud, I didn't know what to do, so I got out of the car to see if he was alive. He was, and for a moment I was relieved. I stood over him, bones broken, blood spilling from his lips, and wondered exactly what I should do.
She continued trying to talk dirty to me; I just assumed that was this particular woman’s way of coping with the stress. I'd seen the commercial, apparently this was what the hotline was for, and so I continued, paying no mind to her slutty advances. As she rambled on about her gigantic tits and tight vagina, I returned the rest of my story, I told her how I was too terrified to call an ambulance, and risk my license. I wasn't ready to go to jail on account of my happiness. So I went to look in the trunk for something I could use to help this man. All that was there were a crowbar, jumper cables, and a tire iron. At this point she was moaning, I hadn't the slightest whether my sordid epic was turning her on, or stressing her out to the point that this was her only escape. I merely paused, saying once more into the receiver that the commercial promised someone would listen to my darkest secrets, and that's what I would be using the service for.
She told me she was working herself to orgasm, I thanked her for the update, and again set to lifting this burden I'd worn for four years. I told her of how my mind first dwelt on a means of saving this poor, crushed man with the tools I had available, I told her about the idea of using the cables and crowbar as some sort of splint rested on the tracks of my train of thought for what seemed like ages. Then, after a moments pause, where she huffed, and let out mock cries of ecstasy into the phone, I spoke of how after logic kicked in, my thoughts fell into the darker recesses of human nature. He was just a homeless man, and would most likely not be missed. It's only in the moment where justifications such as that make sense. Unfortunately for the man I'd hit, in the moment was right where I happened to be standing at the time.
The woman ignored my tale as best she could, huffing away, asking me how hard my c**k was. I told her that I wasn't the type to get off on such tales, and frowned slightly at the black receiver in my hand. She asked how much I wanted to ram it inside her. I rambled on. I spoke of how a human skull sounded when it's breached by iron, how his brain splattered onto my black jacket as I hit him again and again, my fear, having mixed with some deep seeded animal instinct having caused me to render the man unrecognizable. I told this seductive sounding listener of how I went through a great deal of effort making sure I'd found all the teeth which had leapt from his jaws in an effort to save themselves before tossing him, well, what I could gather of him that wasn't firmly ground into the asphalt, into that trunk and driving home.
At that point I, when pausing to take a gulp from a then lukewarm glass of water sitting next to the base of my phone, could hear the nervousness in her voice when she asked if I'd enjoy it if she would kneel down and suck me off. Being an honest guy, I answered that I probably would, then once more went about my confession. She made a sound similar to that you might expect of one sucking on a straw buried deep into a thick drink, and I uttered on in a tone truly apologetic. I wasn't speaking so for her sake, because that was what she was paid to do according to her commercial, I was doing it because in retrospect I'd realized that a suspension of ones license wasn't permanent, but death was.
As she continued sucking my imaginary telephone penis, I informed her of how I disposed of the body once I got home, cleaning the mans meat from his shattered bones, and dropping them in small chunks into the food processor, turning him into some sort of gelatinous sludge before dumping him down the garbage disposal. She moaned some sort of affirmation. It was messy work, and the clothes I was wearing had to be burned, which I did the day after along with some tree clippings that had sat piled in the summer sun for far too long. The bones were much more difficult to deal with, as they were more permanent than the rest of the human body. I sat in my basement for hours, scrapping them against the unfinished walls, grinding them to powder as I used to do with twigs and such as a child to create primitive spears. In the end, I'd whittled a whole human skeleton down to a pile of sloppy, bloody, plaster, short of the ends, which I tucked away in a heating duct. They would dry there, and the smell however foul that would result from the process wasn't likely to reach my neighbors.
As my story wound down, and her heavy breathing softened, I felt slightly disgusted. Here I'd recounted a tale of murder, and an example of how low we as human being could act, and all this woman could do was talk about her vagina, mouth, and various things she could stick in either of them. I thanked her for her time, and put the receiver down, my frown growing at the realization such a confession did absolutely nothing for my conscience. After it all however, I found myself far more disgusted with the actions of my listener that night, than to my own.
I'll never call a phone **** line again, no matter what they promise me. Those s***s are sick, sick human beings.
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