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Smooth Words And Hot Coffee

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The one downside to getting out of prison was this: Godot had been released to the streets with only his visor, the clothes on his back, and nowhere to go. He hadn't even been left a good cup of coffee to keep him company. He supposed he should be grateful that he'd not gotten the death sentence, that he was alive and, while not exactly healthy, was not about to die of natural causes anytime soon.

Of course, lack of shelter in the cold November and the absence of food would make keeping himself going much more difficult. He needed money, he needed a job. Unfortunately, he couldn't return to practice law, given that he'd lost every case he'd ever prosecuted, and no one would trust him as a defense attorney after the things he'd done. Given that he couldn't run around for an hour without rest, much less eight of them, or the fact that he couldn't lift more than thirty pounds without hurting himself, there seemed to be no place he'd be suited for.

Until, one lucky day, after he found some change on the street, someone approached him while buying some coffee at a horrid, but nicely cheap coffee shop. A man in nice clothes that actually protected him from the cold outside. He'd overheard the ex-prosecutor flirting with the woman at the register, and thought that his deep, smooth voice and the way he spoke would be perfect for his business. No physical exertion, low stress, and great pay. After two weeks of shivering on hard wooden benches, how could he refuse?

Sitting in the small, soundproof cubicle, he mused to himself that, of all the jobs he'd ever envisioned himself having, he'd never once thought he'd be a sex operator. It didn't seem like too difficult a job, really. The guy training him had gone over the basics... the most important thing was keeping the caller interested. They longer he kept his client on, the more money the business made, and the bigger his salary. Every phone call was recorded and kept on file for a month, mostly to have proof in the event either he or the caller tried something unlawful, but also for teaching purposes. He'd been made to listen to both successful and failed calls, answering questions about each one. They'd been impressed with his insight, which, according to the supervisor, didn't happen often.

Now he waited, the smell of coffee filling the tiny space. In front of him was the computer, which he would use to record each call, send messages to his boss if need be(leaving the station with no one to man the phone was a no no), and, should a caller make him uncomfortable, he could end the conversation at any time. That was frowned upon, but apparently there were certain callers that had become infamous for... more extreme sexual fantasies, and only a few workers had the tolerance for them.

He poured his freshly brewed drink and took a sip, the scalding liquid feeling lukewarm to his deadened nerves, the bitter flavor just dark enough for him to actually taste it.

The phone rang. He clicked the record icon, adjusted the microphone on his headset, and accepted the call.

"Hello," he purred, "This is your fantasy come to life. How may I-"

"Prosecutor Godot?"

A pause, a smirk playing across his face. "My. If it isn't the wild mare. It's been a long time."

He could only imagine the enraged expression on Franziska von Karma's face. It took almost ten seconds for her to speak again. "So. The fool ends up on a sex hot line. Once an esteemed defense attorney, and now you just help people get off. How the mighty have fallen."

"Ah, but considering you're the one calling to find assistance in 'getting off' one could say you've fallen even lower than I, little filly."

"I'll have you know I'm calling for research!" she snapped, and he could hear the sharp crack of her whip. Really, did she take that thing with her everywhere? "But, obviously, I won't be getting the information I need from a fool so foolishly foolish as you."

"Oh, and why not?" he took a sip of his coffee. His back was beginning to protest, so he leaned onto his desk, his head supported by the back of his hand, the position taking the stress off his aching spine. "I'm ready and willing to answer any questions you have. Ask away, and I'll answer to the best of my ability."

He heard her take a deep breath on the other end before she answered, "I'm working on a case that deals with foolish activities such as this, so I need to know what a normal session for a company like this is like. For comparative reasons."

Ah.. for 'comparative reasons.' He had to move the mouthpiece away from his lips so she wouldn't hear him holding back his snicker. It seemed even little miss perfect got lonely sometimes. Of course, she'd never admit to it. Composing himself, his voice was even when he moved he microphone back in place, "I understand. In that case, I say again. This is your fantasy come to life, how may I help in finding your pleasure?"

"...I..that is.. oh, this is utter foolishness.."

"Oh, come on, filly, don't tell me you don't know what you want?"

"Just give me a moment!"

This was an interesting turn... given her normal behavior, he would have thought she would have jumped right into some dominatrix fantasy. The silence stretched on for over a minute, and only the computer told him that she hadn't yet disconnected. He was confused by her hesitance... but then a thought hit him. Maybe it wasn't just the fact that he was the one to answer the phone that gave her pause.

Was this her first time attempting something like this?

The smirk fell from his face as he became more sure of it. Perfectly perfect Franziska, the wild, bucking mare, always so focused on being flawless, on never making a mistake. So worried about her career, it didn't seem too far fetched that she'd ignore her own needs.

"I think I'll run my fingers through your hair." he said, his voice quiet, just above a whisper.


"Your hair. It looks so soft. You must take good care of it. I'm at your side right now.. will you let me touch it? I'm reaching my hand out."

"Fine. I don't care." her voice was controlled now, calm.

The smirk was back, though this time it wasn't mocking. A small, wolfish grin before he took another sip of his coffee, "My, your hair's even softer than I thought. And not a knot to be found. I move a little closer, you can feel my bodyheat, but the only part of me that's touching you is my hand. I'm trailing my fingertips through your hair, from the top of your head downward... my hand's resting at the back of your neck now, warm... almost hot.. against your skin. I press my face into the side of you head and inhale...What shampoo do you use?"

"Vanilla. You're smelling toasted vanilla."

"Mmm... I think I'll move closer... I'm behind you now, my hands rest on your shoulders.. my face is in your hair.. it smells nice. You smell nice." Behind his visor, his eyes closed, and he breathed in the bitter smell of his coffee, "My hands are trailing down your arms, my chest into your back as I pull you in, holding you close. You're skin is soft, cool against my own... I'm so warm. My lips slide over the back of your neck, my teeth nip at your skin...gently... my lips find the crook of your neck and trail upwards, until I find your ear. I exhale, a long, slow breath, and you can feel it inside you... and I speak the words we both know are true. You're perfect, are so, so perfect..."

He fell silent, awaiting her reaction.

"...that is enough, Prosecutor Godot..." he felt a twinge of satisfaction at the tiny bit of strain he heard in her voice, "I believe I've gotten the just of what these calls involve. I'm going to continue the investigation on my own."

Before he could say anything else, she ended the call. Opening his eyes again, he ended the recording.

Well, he thought to himself... this was going to be one of the best jobs he'd ever had.