Wrong Number

Many people don’t know this, but Thomas Alva Edison, the light bulb guy, also claimed to have been working on, what can only be colloquially called, a ghost telephone. Historians all seem to agree that no evidence that he did more than talk about the idea exists. There are no plans, no prototype has even been found, and no patent filed.

I was in my final year getting my engineering degree when I had an opportunity to clear out some ancient filing cabinets in my department. Since the job included a small stipend, I jumped at the chance. The work was tedious, at least it was until I found the plans. Yes, I’m saying I found the plans for Edison’s ghost phone. The convoluted chain of evidence that led to the materials being located in this particular file cabinet aren’t really the issue – So I did what any engineer would do, I took them home.

I built the telephone. I admit there were some elements that didn’t make sense to me, some arcane symbols etched into the metal and a lot of wires that had to be configured to make very specific shapes. Once it was done, I celebrated. I didn’t really think it would work; I mean, come on, a ghost phone?

I sat in my tiny apartment, sweltering in the summer heat wearing a tank top and panties finishing off a bottle of cold white wine. I must have been just the right side of tipsy to decide to try calling someone. I wasn’t sure exactly when phones stopped relying on switchboard operators, but Edison’s design included a rotatory dial; granted, it lacked numbers and had a series of occult symbols etched into the plate. I picked up the earpiece and listened.

It was almost like listening to a sea shell, almost. It had that same whooshing sound, but I could swear that I did hear voices, like when my upstairs neighbor had his T.V. too loud. I chose a couple of symbols at random and dialed. I didn’t expect anything. I listened to the clicking of the dial, proud that I seem to have constructed it correctly. The background noise shifted, and now I was sure I heard voices. I almost dropped the phone, when the eerie wails started.

“Hello?” a sonorous voice came through the earpiece.

“Um Hello?” I managed to sputter.

“Who are you trying to reach?” the voice asked. He, I think it was a he, had an accent. Something may be vaguely British? Or perhaps Southern US?

“Is this a ghost?” My voice squeaked. If I hadn’t built the device myself, I’d be convinced someone was just messing with me. But I had built it, and I knew that it was supposed to be connecting to the æther, whatever that meant; I just hadn’t thought the æther was a real thing.

The voice laughed a mellifluous sound that made me shiver. “Oh, you have reached the wrong plane. There's nothing human on this plane.”

I stumbled for an answer when I heard a sound behind me. It sounded like birds all taking flight or a windstorm or a rush of waves, or maybe all of those things.

I turned, still holding the phone, and saw him. He stood over six feet tall and was pale, like milk-white. He was bald, whether it was natural or not I didn’t know. There was something off about his proportions. His limbs seemed too long. He was wearing what looked like a cross between a priest’s robe and something one might wear at a fetish club. And his face was covered by a network of fine scars, not from injury but something that looked intentional. But it was his eyes that drew me. There were black, like no sclera just inky, mind-warping darkness. I think I dropped the phone then.

“Hello human.”

His voice seemed to echo in my head. I couldn’t think of anything to answer with. My head felt like it was buzzing.

“What interesting ideas in this brain of yours,” he said taking a step toward me. His hand brushed my hair back. “You have such wicked thoughts.” He smiled, revealing a mouth full of jagged shark teeth. Before I could step back, his hand grabbed my throat. He didn’t strangle me, just held me in place. “This thought,” he said, his thumb caressing my jugular.

“Please,” I said weakly, but I wasn’t sure what I was asking for.

“You think of this,” he said moving his face closer to mine. “You dream of this.” He squeezed my throat a little.

And I did. I fantasized about breath play or erotic asphyxiation. When I was younger, I experimented with it but the risks had scared me off. “You can’t know that,” I whispered.

“I know all of your naughty, nasty thoughts,” he said and leaned forward to whisper in my ear. He related a litany of my darkest fantasies in tantalizing, terrifying detail. He finished his recitation and ran his tongue from my ear down my face.

I shivered, but couldn’t remember a time when I’d been this turned on. My panties were soaked, and my nipples were so hard they ached. “How do you know?”

He let his eyes drop to the phone on the floor. “You didn’t reach the ghost plane, human.” He met my gaze, “I chose this form for you.”

I suddenly recognized him. He looked like a horror movie character that I still fantasized about. It wasn’t an exact copy, but it gave the same feeling. “What are you?”

He laughed again, and once more the sound flooded me. “You don’t want to know.” He tightened his grip on my throat. “Now, we play.”

I found myself nodding, well as much as I could with his hand around my throat. “Yes, please.”

“Stand” he ordered. I managed to scramble to my feet, and he never removed his hand from my throat. His free hand tore my panties away. I gasped as his cold hand slipped between my legs. And he was cold, just a few degrees above ice. His fingers roughly cut through my wetness, ignoring my throbbing clit to plunge inside me. The palm of his hand pressed into my clit as he pounded his fingers inside me. I whimpered as the chill fought my own heat. But he did know exactly what I had dreamed of.

I think my moans made him smile, maybe just a quirk of his lips. And thinking of his lips, he leaned forward and kissed me. His tongue, as cold as the rest of him, invaded my mouth. My own tongue grazed his teeth, tearing it. I tasted my blood in his mouth. And I heard him moan.

His hand tightened on my throat, and I was already breathless from his kiss. I knew this moment. The blackness starting at the edges of my vision, and I gasped for the tiny bit of air still available to me. This was the moment. His fingers continued their assault, and I knew that I was going to come. I was out of air, and the darkness grew. My vision narrowed to his eyes, his already black eyes. The orgasm shattered through me. I felt a rush of wetness down my thighs, as I closed my eyes. My air was gone and my body shuddering from both orgasm and asphyxia. My knees went limp, and he pulled his hand from my pussy wrapping an arm around my waist holding me up. I was pressed against the icy length of him, and he released my neck.

I inhaled violently, feeling the air burn my abused throat. After a few huge breaths, he bent me over the arm of the couch. He moved me like I was a doll, and I loved it. My mind was still fuzzy, but I knew what he was going to do. I knew because he was rummaging around my fantasies.

Bent over the couch, still trying to catch my breath, I felt his knee between my legs. He pushed my legs apart, and hand returned to my pussy. He rubbed his fingers through my wetness, and I heard his clothing rustling. I wasn’t surprised when I felt the pressure against my asshole; after all, he was in my head. He pressed his way inside, his cold cock lubed with my wetness. I groaned as his girth stretched my ass. I was no stranger to anal sex, but this was intense.

His hand collected my hair, pulling my head back. My eyes teared up, “yes,” I murmured, “oh yes.” He kept my hair pulled tight; the position of my neck restricting, but not cutting off my breathing. Oh, he was so cold and so big. His fingers dug into my hip, bruising me. I whimpered and growled as he used my body. My hands clawed at the couch cushions, wanting to touch him, wanting to move, to writhe, to plead. My position prevented any of those options. So I whimpered and closed my eyes, savoring it all.

His fingers ceased digging into my hip and found my clit. With the same brutal efficiency as before he set him fingers to work. There was nothing tender about his touch, but it was exactly what I wanted. Hard fingers ground into my clit, and I squealed my orgasm. I felt his gelid come fill my bowels, and he released my hair. I let me head slump forward, resting on the couch.

I felt him shift away from me, but my legs were too weak for me to rise. I turned my head and watched him stare at me a moment, his inky eyes unreadable. He collected the ghost phone, setting it back on the coffee table. I suddenly understood what he was doing, “don’t.” I started, but he hung up the phone and was gone.

       

A Second Call

I stayed away from the ghost phone for a week before the craving to try it again became unbearable. I still hadn’t told anyone about building it, or what happened when I used it. I spent my days trying to distract myself, working on the filing project, and working on my dissertation. But nothing held my interest for long. My mind just kept coming back to the entity, the ghost, demon, whatever it’d been that I called into reality with the phone.

It had been the most intense sex of my life, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be without it. The biggest problem was that I hadn’t paid attention to the symbols I’d dialed. In my defense, I hadn’t expected it would work, so I tapped on some random symbols.

I’d spent the afternoon trying to find out more about the symbols, but all I got from my internet searching was a conviction that there were way more people into occultism than I’d even thought. I’d only found quasi-reliable resources for half the symbols and even that didn’t help me know what ones I’d need to find him again.

So I gave in one night, with a bottle of beer, alone after midnight staring at the ghost phone. I set up my cell phone to record and placed it on the coffee table. It would capture me dialing this time – and possibly it would capture the entity too.

With one final gulp of wine, I picked up the receiver and started to dial. The first time, I’d heard what sounded like the ocean, a rhythmic white noise. This time I heard what sounded like voices, somewhere crowded like a train station or convention.

“Hello?” I called into the receiver.

The background noise continued; the voices and commotion becoming less distinct until I wasn’t even sure it was voices I was hearing. Before I could hang up and try again, I heard a laugh. It was a lush, throaty laugh – the type of laugh I associated with film Femme Fatales.

And then I wasn’t alone. I set the receiver on the table and turned to face what I’d called forth. My mouth fell open when I saw her. Clad in some sort of diaphanous robe, she was beautiful, like Helen of Troy beautiful. But there was something sinister, unnatural about her beauty. It was too perfect, too much. And then her gaze found me. Her eyes, ice blue, wandered over me, and she smiled.

I felt my heart lurch at that smile both wondrous and terrifying. I couldn’t move; I just sat gaping at her. Until her eyes flicked up to the ghost phone.

“Another mortal has created that wretched device,” she said and her words were like music.

I managed to nod, “I… I made it.” I felt her hand on my chin, twisting my face to look at me. Once again, the full weight of her attention fell on me and I shivered. Her other hand caressed my temple.

And I knew that she too was something more than human. “I see,” she said. “What a wicked girl you are.”

My face flooded with heat, wondering if she too could read my thoughts – did she know what I’d done with the other one? Did she know how much I craved to have the experience again?

“I see,” she said without my asking, “I see all the salacious things you did. And all the things you want.”

Her fingers continued to hold my face, not letting me look away from her. It felt like she was rifling through my memories, my dreams, my darkest, dirtiest fantasies. Then she stepped back from me, releasing me. She cocked her head at me, “Take off your clothes.”

I fumbled with my t-shirt, pulling it over my head and laying it aside. My bra was quick to follow. I knelt on the floor, trying to scramble out of my shorts and panties. I started to move, maybe to stand, but she shook her head. So, I stayed naked on the floor. I felt her gaze on me, but I kept moving my own eyes – looking at the floor, the ghost phone with its receiver resting on the table, the beer bottle.

“Spread your legs,” she ordered.

I didn’t hesitate. I spread my legs, leaning back against the table. I was already wet with wanting, and I wondered if she could tell.     

“I can see what you are thinking,” She said, unmoving and watching. “I see the wicked things you want,” and I caught a flash of something in her mouth, something not human. “Those,” she nodded to the table and my forgotten electrical clamps.

I looked at her a moment and reached for the clamps. The edges had teeth, and my hands shook as I considered what she’d have me do with them.

“You know what to do with them,” she said.

I fumbled with the clamps, dropping two of them before I managed to open one and capture one of my nipples between its teeth. It closed, biting into my flesh, and I moaned, my hand fumbling for the clamps I dropped. I found another on the floor between my legs. The burning bite of the clamp was a constant distraction, and I felt my hips rocking softly. I pinched and tugged on my other nipple before attaching the clamp. I arched my back as the burning pain lit a fire in my pussy.

“The final clamp,” she said with a smile.

I bit my lip as I picked it up. I knew what she wanted because I knew what I wanted – but I was nervous about a clamp there. My fingers slipped between my wet pussy lips, opening me wider for her. I felt the clamp’s edges brushing my most sensitive flesh.

“Now,” her voice flowed like honey and my fingers released the clamp. The pain that exploded through me was exquisite. I clutched at the floor and arched my back, my hips, everything in a jerking rictus of pain and the pleasure I found in it. I heard her steps and saw the toe of her boots grow closer to me. “Tell me,” she ordered squatting to perhaps see the clamps more clearly.

“It hurts,” I moaned. “It’s like needles or teeth,” I groaned still writhing while she watched. “But I like it,” I hissed. “I want more,” I whimpered and flicked the clamp on my clit. The pain seared and I writhed on the ground before her. I must have bumped the table because the bottle toppled over. I barely heard it over the unceasing pain/pleasure flooding through me, but I felt it thump on to the floor next to me.

 “Take the bottle,” she said, her eyes watching my every move.

I picked up the bottle, fighting the desire to close my legs, to get the pain to stop.

“Use the bottle.”

My hand closed around the bottle, and I knew what she wanted. Her inhumanly beautiful face remained impassive as she watched me. I rubbed bottle the over my cunt, squealing when I jostle the clamp on my clit. I knew that the bottle would stretch me, would pull my skin taut and the clamp, that horrid clamp would bite deeper into my flesh. But I pressed the bottle lower, the neck finding my pussy.

I started to press it inside, but her voice stopped me.

“The other side.”

I knew what she meant; I’d know from the start. And I turned the bottle around and rubbed it over my pussy. She knew what I wanted. Just like the last time, this creature, whatever she was, knew everything in my head.

I pressed the bottle against me, and I felt my cunt stretching over the cold bottle. I blushed at the intensity of her stare. It wasn’t that she was staring, although that was incredibly hot, it was her lack of expression. She wasn’t staring with any lust or desire – or even joy. Her expression was bland, almost bored. And something about that only made me more aroused. Here I was debasing myself at her command, and she was bored. I felt a rush of arousal as she watched the bottle slowly disappear into me.

And the clamp on my clit pulled harder as my skin stretched to take the bottle. It was exquisite, the burning of my clit and the stretching of my cunt. I quivered on the edge of orgasm. I slowly started thrusting the bottle, sliding it back and forth while I whimpered on the ground before her.

I wanted her to react, wanted to see something on her face as I fucked myself for her. Instead, she stood above me, her features placid.

“Remove the clamps,” She said once again squatting to watch me more closely. I nearly came just from her increased attention and the anticipation of removing the clamp.

I slid the bottle deep and grasped the clamp, the agony was intense. And when I removed the clamp, the stinging rush blood back to clit made me scream. And I felt my cunt spasm in orgasm around the bottle pressing nearly out of me. I pressed it back, groaning as the removed the clamps from my nipples as the orgasm still rippled through me.    

I lay panting before her, the bottle still hanging out of my pussy, waiting for her next order.

She cocked her head at me, and it was like I could feel her fingers in my brain. I shivered at this the most intimate caress from this creature. And then she smiled and I wondered what desire she’d found.

“The device,” she looked at the table, and I followed her eyes. She was looking at my phone, not the ghost phone. And the realization cascaded through me, and it was terrifying and so very hot. My phone had recorded everything including me. I could see that my face wasn’t in the frame, but I could see the bottle still in my pussy. “You will send your vulgar performance to the audience.”

I knew – she was ordering me to post the video of masturbating with the clamps and bottle to an amateur porn site. I knew that was the fantasy she’d found. The one where I’d post a video and got off on the idea of strangers watching me – and the video being online forever.    

I picked up the phone. Without even watching the video, I called up the site and started the upload.

I felt her moving behind me, and I felt her hand wrap around the bottle. She pressed it deeper inside, fucking me while the video uploaded. I groaned, the bottle, the fantasy finally happening – I moved my free hand to my clit, rubbing frantically as I made the video active on the site.

She pulled the bottle out, and I gasped at the empty feeling as I came again. She pressed the bottle back in and looked at my phone. She sawed the bottle in and out, “No touching” she said, and I rested my hands on the table. “Imagine how many will see your performance,” she hissed into my ear. I moaned at the idea, the bottle driving me mad with need.

And then the number of views clicked. I person had just watched my beer bottle masturbation. I was flushed with shame and burning with desire thinking about.