Hung Up: A Smutty Inanimate Object Novella, page 1
First published by Eloise Knot 2024
Copyright © 2024 by Eloise Knot
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
This is a work of fiction and should not be referred to for any sort of instruction for safe sex practices.
First Edition
ASIN: B0DBPFQDZ8
Editing by Dixie Dickinson
Cover by Katherine Carter
To all the women who prefer their men fictional.
This one’s for you.
Preface
Kinks
Drier Than The Sonoran Desert
This Is A Dream . . . A Really Weird Dream
As The Lady Commands
Who Needs A Bob When You Have A Pierce?
Cleanliness Is Next To Hole-iness
Field Testing
A Haboob And Some Lube
Show And Tell
Mutual Mortality
Hung Up . . . On You
Trigger Warnings
A Love Letter From The Author
Also by Eloise Knot
Dearest gentle callers,
The following work is highly sexual and requires some bend to your imagination. If you haven’t guessed it already, our main lead has . . . relations with her phone, which magically turns into a man overnight.
If you do not wish to go along for the ride, please exit here.
Please also do not expect much in the ways of plot here. We both know that’s not really why you picked this book up, but don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.
Have fun ;)
xo,
Eloise
P.S. You can find a list of triggers at the end of the book (there aren’t many, this is a fairly fluffy novella). If you wish to go in blind, then happy reading!
P.P.S. I’d love if you could leave an honest rating or review once you finish!
Anal
Daddy*
Dirty Talking
D/s*
DVP
Edging
Light Impact
Mutual Masturbation
Oral
Praise
Snowballing
Toys
Use of inanimate object
Wax*
*during her calls with her clients
Note to her: I wish I could, too.
“Shit,” John hissed. Through the phone, I heard John moaning. There was a fever pitch to his voice, one that told me he was getting close. Whether those groans and hot gasps of breath were of pain or pleasure, I would never know.
Well, it was probably both.
John’s pleasure fell through the phone, but his needy groans didn’t even stir a flutter in my pussy.
My eyes rolled of their own accord, my right hand holding a bright pink princess phone against my ear while I inspected the almond shaped manicure on my left hand. Its long, deep maroon color was sinfully classy, and I couldn’t help but picture it gripping a live cock in front of me. But this was business.
“Again,” I instructed, my voice dripping with sex after years of practice, “I want to hear you.”
John was currently dripping melting wax down his chest at my command. He seemed to be interested in temperature play, but I only found that out after our third call. He’d been too afraid to ask a partner, because he wanted to maintain that control over the wax.
Enter, me: Harper Rhodes, your friendly neighborhood phone sex operator.
My eyes scrunched shut but I fell into the call, breathing heavily so John could hear me. You know, really selling the fantasy.
The sound of his wet flesh squelched through the phone. Knots clenched in my stomach, though not from arousal. Wax play didn’t really do it for me, but the moment John was brave enough to ask me, I’d done a shit ton of research on how to make sure I could safely guide him.
“Yes, I’m so close,” he croaked.
There were some of my clients who really revved my engine, but John wasn’t necessarily one of them. I was drier than the Sonoran desert—if you could believe it—and that was hard to match.
But that was the job, and it was a job I did well. So well, in fact, that I had regulars—like John—who called me precisely when their appointment started. They tipped exorbitantly and sometimes they even sent extra money, just because. I’d trained them well, I always joked to myself.
To . . . myself.
John, here, was on the newer side, but with each call he opened up more to me. I was sure he was a perfectly fine person, but his sexual appetite never did it for me. Which was fine, I’d never yuck anyone’s yum, but his fantasy would never be mine.
And it didn’t have to be.
So I panted, and I moaned, and I squealed like they were the center of my universe. And for a few minutes each night, I supposed they were.
“One more,” I murmured, dropping my voice so he’d really have to pay attention. “One more, and then you can come.” My left hand flicked an invisible piece of lint off my knee, which was currently propped in front of me. I wrapped my arm around my leg, leaning my cheek on my bony knee, my eyes falling shut as I listened to John pour more wax onto his chest, his orgasm riding in tandem with the hiss slicing through his teeth.
When all that was left was the sound of John trying to catch his breath, I cleared my throat. “That was wonderful, John. I’m so glad you called me again. You really know how to make a woman feel so special.” My eyes scrunched as I choked the words out and my heart skipped a beat over the false sentiment.
“Well, Harper, you are irresistible.”
My blood rushed so loudly it was all I could do to hear him over it.
“How could I not call you?”
I chuckled low, the sensual kind I reserved for my clients. Keeping them on the phone that first time was always the most difficult, but once you finished the first call, they were usually eager to pick the phone back up again the next time. But it was always smart to play the game until the goodbye.
“Same time next week?”
“I look forward to it,” I answered, which was only partly a lie. I definitely looked forward to his payment.
It was muffled but a groan slipped through the phone. I imagined him biting his knuckles to keep himself quiet. Now that caused a flutter inside me.
The phone clicked and I sighed, gently placing the handset back on the base. I’d picked a landline because I didn’t want any other contact with my clients other than through this phone. It was my way of separating myself from my job. You know, like how they say not to put a television in your bedroom because your bed was only for sex and sleep? Like fuck was I going to not watch my reruns of Criminal Minds with a glass—or three—of white wine from the comfort of my California King whenever I felt like it. Idiots, those scientists, I always grumble, even when my eyes burn when I stay up too late watching Spencer Reid for hours on end.
For my job, though, I forced that separation by having this hot pink princess phone, fixed with an actual cord I sometimes wrapped around my finger. With my chin length black bob and bangs, the movie practically wrote itself.
It’s French, Claire.
The phone was my saving grace, found while thrifting a few months after I graduated from college. Gave me a whole idea right there in the middle of the shop. Immediately I knew, if I was going to do this, I’d have to go all out. Pull out all the stops. Give them such a good time they came crawling back for more. My clients called at exactly their appointment time, not a minute early, not a minute late, and paid me twelve hours before to confirm their appointment.
Other than that, there was no contact. If they wanted to make any changes, they had to tell me the session before.
It was strict, but it worked.
A chime broke the silence, and the corner of my mouth quirked.
I grabbed my cellphone. The scenic ocean lock screen showed it was past ten at night. Rain softly pattered outside—the remnants of a monsoon storm—a stark difference from the digitally picturesque white sand and crystal blue waters, and I settled back into my leather couch.
At the bottom of the screen, a green app with a white dollar sign boasted a notification: You’ve been paid. I clicked into the app and smiled. God help ya, John. John had just tipped me over two hundred dollars. Not bad for thirty minutes of faking it. Looks like you’re my new favorite client.
I laughed. That would never happen. I already had a favorite client.
I swiftly transferred the funds, and stretched on my couch. A groan slipped out as I arched my spine upwards. The soft white throw blanket laying haphazardly over the armrest called to me, and I snatched it to wrap it around my legs.
I had another call in exactly ten minutes, and this one I was actually looking forward to. Ezra had this deep, throaty voice, and his laughter sent electric sparks straight to my clit. His fantasy was of the milder variety—your standard degradation mixed with praise—but I never had to fake with him. Truth be told, I think I got just as mu
I got off and I got paid. How could it get better than that?
At the rhetorical question, my stomach sank a millimeter and my palms grew damp against the blanket. I forced each knuckle to release the tempting fabric, smoothing it out along my thigh.
No one but my best friend, Amelia, knew I was a phone sex operator, and I wanted it to stay that way. Truly, I couldn’t imagine my parents finding out what I did for a living. I told them years ago I was getting into interior design consulting, hence why I sometimes traveled to places all around the world: to learn about culture and trends, and to network. They never even hesitated to believe me. Why would they? I’d never lied to them on this scale before.
Well, I supposed I had.
They were so proud to see me walk across that stage five years ago, graduating with my bachelor’s degree in marketing. I couldn’t break their hearts and tell them that their income had been just above the threshold of the salary needed to qualify you for all those scholarships. The day my acceptance letter came in, their faces were so proud. I hadn’t seen such genuine excitement on either of their faces in years. My mom had tears in her eyes when they dropped me off on campus four months later, standing numbly in front of a grand quad, with a fair of booths and groups with fliers being passed out. Sports, activities, community . . .
With three boxes of dorm-friendly appliances and clothes on the ground next to me, I held tightly onto my mother’s frail shoulders as my dad ran back from the car, shower-slippers waving in his hand above his head. He’d cursed when he realized I’d forgotten them in the car, parked two blocks away. Key word: forgotten. The redness of his face was concerning by the time he’d reached us again.
I’d laughed it off, but in my bones I knew that was how he showed me he cared. One last task he could do for me, to help me, while he was still close enough to do so. I don’t think I ever used the slippers—I wasn’t trying to stay a virgin—but I kept them in my room as a reminder of their support and love.
Tucked incredibly deep in the back of my closet, but they were there.
Even still, that first day was nothing compared to the pride on their faces when I graduated. My newly fifty-thousand-dollar-caged smile shone brightly back at them, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was on top of the world.
But then reality sank in and no one was hiring, no matter where I applied, no matter the fact that I had a college degree. And suddenly, it was time to start making student loan payments and I didn’t know what to do . . .
Now it had been over four years of holding empty conversations—if you could even call them that—to fill an otherwise empty life. I’d worked so hard in the beginning—even taking a few trips here and there, you know, whenever I could justify them—but I never let up. This was my life now. And for the most part I didn’t mind it.
Amelia understood, thank god, and she never made me feel less for choosing this path. We took a few trips together over the years, and I saw her fairly regularly for two adults in their twenties. She was the only other constant in my life, other than dodging questions like a pro when my parents asked for details on my job.
But I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t enjoy it. I liked knowing I was financially taken care of, with my student loans and credit cards paid off.
I loved knowing I was making a total stranger so hot he had to beat off.
A shrill ring broke the silent tension, and I snapped back to attention. Blood rushed in my ears, my pulse picking up pace and buzzing beneath my skin.
The cool plastic shell of the phone only heightened my awareness of what was to come.
Ha.
My lips sealed to stifle the chuckle at my own stupid joke.
“Harper,” a grumbling charcoal voice slipped into my head. His deep breaths filled the empty space between us, and my fingers twitched. I could only hope he was as good looking as he sounded. But shit, if he sounded like that, I almost didn’t care what he looked like.
And hell, I wouldn’t mind a blindfold or tie, if the occasion called for it.
Leaning the phone against my shoulder, I made a split decision. The elastic around the coiled phone line was the first to be untied, allowing the line to be used to its full length. Quickly, I grabbed the phone and crossed the tidy living space to my bedroom door.
“Ezra,” I whispered sensually, bumping my door open with my hip and cutting across to settle into my large bed. The duvet felt smooth on my skin, its fabric inviting like a lover.
“You’ve been naughty, darling.”
My pussy throbbed, slick already gathering. His voice was like rocks crashing around in a tumbler and his words demanded my response.
“But I thought I was always your good girl,” I teased.
His dark chuckle reverberated in my pulse, it’s racing rhythm daring me to chase. “Oh, darling, you most certainly are.”
My head tilted to the ceiling, my lips parting as I felt his words roll over me.
Thirty-five minutes later and I was out of breath, my chest heaving as I recovered from the last orgasm. Ezra’s time had been up for over five minutes, but I could never bring myself to call it with him. My soaking pussy pulsed as aftershocks hit me one after the other. Twin pants matched mine as Ezra came down with me.
“Friday?” I asked, still trying to catch my breath. Fingers from my left hand trailed up my body, tweaking my right nipple as my hips bucked. It was only Monday, and I waited with baited breath for his response.
“It’s a date,” he chuckled, before hanging up. The dial tone buzzed in my ear, a crushing reminder that I was alone. Had been alone. Will be alone.
And I was still horny.
I groaned and my teeth found my bottom lip in a rough embrace. The spark of pain reignited my fire, and juices from my pussy slipped through my crack, puddling beneath me.
Thank god for mattress protectors.
I slammed the phone onto the receiver, cringing slightly at the sound of plastic cracking. Shit.
I lifted the phone again, inspecting for any damage. It couldn’t be broken, right? My fingers wobbled at the thought.
Its two bulbous heads appeared fine, and the seam didn’t look broken. The slim handle also was undamaged, the plastic grooves computing as something entirely different in my mind while I was still under Ezra’s spell.
Did Ezra have a six-pack? I wondered as a finger traced the grooves of the handle and over the top of one of the bulbous heads.
Did Ezra have a fat cock?
My curious finger turned into a seeking hand. While I held the phone from the other end, my right hand caressed the top of the phone as if it were a cock, twisting and squeezing the length as if it were flesh and blood. Lightning crackled under my skin, my hips rutting as I jerked off my phone.
The phone that had been there for me every minute of every day for the last four years. The phone that listened to my most intimate conversations.
The absurdity of my actions eclipsed me. I didn’t know what came over me.
Trailing the top of my phone across my body, I circled my needy nipples one after the other. Goosebumps rippled over my skin, my hairs standing on end. As the phone traveled down the curve of my body, I fell into what I could only describe as a state of bliss.
When the tip pressed against my opening, I moaned like a needy whore.
When it slipped into me straight to the bottom receiver, I nearly blacked out.
Fucking myself with my hot pink princess phone, I turned the phone so the head was facing upwards. The curve of the phone hit my G-spot on every thrust, as I cried out and bit my plump bottom lip.
My free hand slithered down my body to press against my lower abdomen, pushing gently against the soft skin. Through my belly, I felt the curve of the phone inside of me. It was so obscene . . .
I fucked myself harder, rubbing my clit in tight circles as I thrust the phone inside of me. Drawing up to that edge, I threw myself over without a second thought.
Light went dark, sound went silent, and I came harder than I’d ever come before. After a few breaths, I slowly pulled the phone from my cunt. It was dripping with my cum, and I . . . was curious.
Slowly, I stuck a hesitant tongue out. I was . . . salty. I was sweet?
Fuck, I was good.
My lips parted and I wrapped them around the head, as far as I could wrap it, sucking my cum off the phone. It was like something had awoken in me.
