Popped Read online

  Popped

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Popped

  (Call Center Diaries Volume 1)

  By Casey Truman

  Copyright © 2012 Casey Truman

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Image: File licensed by depositphotos.com / dolgachov

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  The call monitor showed sixteen calls waiting to be answered and only four agents logged on as ready or working. It was unacceptable. There were twelve customer service agents on the floor, and each one of them should have been on the phones, taking calls. It was just this sort of behavior that led to a drop in productivity, and I was determined to do something about it.

  Parker Morrison seemed to be the focus of the malingering, so I stood up and strode towards her desk. She was lounging half-on half-off her chair, swivelling left and right as she faced her coterie of admirers—all male, of course. I’d been against hiring Parker to begin with, but was over-ruled by Adrian and Stephen, my fellow Call Center managers—a pair of forty year old boys who thought with their penises.

  Parker had a body that she wasn’t afraid to flaunt. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d been propositioned a time or two on the street going home from work. That was just how she carried herself—all sex and availability. Today’s outfit was comprised of a tight top that would have been more at home in a gym than an office, and a pair of low hung jeans. Her thong was the icing on the cake—visible to the entire office every time she bent over her desk or reached into her handbag.

  “Parker,” I said, stopping next to her desk. “Why aren’t you logged on? There are calls waiting.”

  “Come on, Clara,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We’ll be closing in half an hour. Lighten up.” She threw a bright and cheery smile at the young men who were lounging in chairs around her desk.

  “We may very well be closing in half an hour, but we’re open now, and there are clients trying to get through.” It was insufferable the way she ignored my authority.

  “Ok, Mom,” she said, with an exasperated sigh, as if she were humoring a delusional parent. “They’re probably just calling to wish us all a Happy New Year.”

  “Just answer your phone, Parker, and that goes for the rest of you too.”

  I turned and began walking back to my desk when I heard her half whisper behind me, “Someone needs to get laid.”

  “What was that?” I said, turning to face the crowd.

  “What?” said Parker. “I didn’t say anything. Did you say something, Bill?”

  “Nope,” answered Bill Farris, a lifer who’d worked as a customer service agent in the Call Center for seven years, “didn’t say a thing.”

  I glared at them all before turning away and resuming the walk back to my desk. “Frigid little virgin,” a different voice whispered, and this time I chose to ignore it.

  It was so infuriating. All I wanted was what was best for the company and the clients, and all I got was disrespect and incompetence. To have tarts like Parker insult me like that—in front of everyone. Just because I chose not to make my private life public, or to go out drinking and carousing after work, they all felt entitled to make comments about my sex life. It just wasn’t fair.

  I was thirty one years old, and if I hadn’t had sex yet it was because I’d chosen to wait for the right man, not because I was frigid. I could go out and get laid any time I wanted to, but I preferred to wait until the time was right. I even had a boyfriend; I’d met Phillip Criddle just after my thirtieth birthday, when I was feeling a little down, and we’d been seeing each other for nine months. He was a very accomplished lecturer of Anthropology at King’s College, and unlike so many of the sex crazed kids in the Call Center, he was a grown man of forty three. Every week I had dinner at his mother’s house, and we’d go for a walk afterwards. It was civilized, the way respectable people behaved.

  We’d decided to wait a while before consummating the relationship. Phillip had said that in many cultures sexual relationships were different to our own, and that just because it was the norm to have sex immediately in our culture, that didn’t mean it was a more valid way of expressing our feelings for each other. We kiss sometimes, and there was that incident after the faculty party in October when he groped me in an alley on the way home—all very unseemly, but, he had been drunk at the time.

  No, I was right to wait. I may be a virgin, but I had a boyfriend. I was content with the way things were. Tonight was New Year’s Eve and his mother was throwing a small, dignified party for a few of Phillip’s friends from the university. I’d sooner be there than at whatever sort of get together Parker and her friends would be going to.

  Thirty minutes later I switched the phones off, and everyone rushed about gathering up their things and preparing for the night ahead. Parker waved at me on the way out the door, “Night, Clara. Don’t do anything too wild now.”

  I didn’t dignify that with an answer. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere—parties in flats or houses, drinks in bars or restaurants, meet ups on street corners across London. For me, it was Mrs. Criddle’s party, and maybe a kiss from Phillip later, once he’d had a few drinks. I gave my glasses a quick clean, then lifted my briefcase and walked briskly out the door. I had a train to catch.

  Chapter 2

  New Year’s Eve in London gets a little crazy. Everyone is either drinking or going drinking, the tubes and trains are packed, and people are all dressed up in their Saturday evening party outfits. It was standing room only on the District Line to Chiswick. I was sandwiched in between a young man wearing a scruffy suit and a trio of ditzy blondes who’d already made a start on the evening’s festivities.

  One of the disadvantages of being short was that even average sized men towered over me. I was about half an inch shy of five foot, though whenever anyone asked I said I was 5’ 1”. My short stature meant that men were always looking down at me on trains, and tonight was no exception. I was trying to read my book, but the suit guy kept jostling me as the train lurched from side to side, taking bends at speed as if it too were on the way to a party of some kind.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. I smelled alcohol on his breadth and said nothing, contenting myself with a brief smile in his direction. Talking to drunken men on trains never led to anything good—best to just smile and look non-threatening, or take out a phone and pretend to be texting someone. He was looking down at me and disguising it with a vacant expression, as if his head were simply pointing in my direction for no reason, but I knew that he was staring down my blouse, trying to catch a glimpse of my boobs.

  I usually wore a pant suit to work, but today I’d worn a black skirt and matching jacket from Dorothy Perkins—I really didn’t want to change before going to the party, and I thought a skirt was more feminine. Unfortunately, it seemed that my lecherous train companion thought so too. As we pulled out of Earl’s Court station, the influx of new passengers forced us both into a corner, and he was pressed up against my back, moving against me in synch with the train’s movements. It wasn’t long before I felt the growing presence of his coc
k. Great, I thought, here we go again.

  Men are dogs. I learned this at an early age, when I used to catch a bus to school every day as a teenager. I’d be standing at the bus stop in my school uniform, just minding my own business, and every second male driver would stare at me as if he wanted to do things to me. It was disgusting. I don’t have the figure of the Parkers of the world today, but back then I was like a stick insect, short and slim, with nothing to look at, tiny tits barely visible, hardly any hips to speak of. When I was fifteen I looked twelve, but that didn’t stop them—perverts one and all—and many of them would have their own kids in the back of the car, on the way to school.

  Lecherous suit guy’s behavior was not a surprise to me. Some days I wished I had the courage to do something in situations like this, but it wasn’t worth the hassle—we’d be pulling into Chiswick Park soon, and I’d be free of the growing cock and the heavy breathing. In the meantime, I returned to reading my book and tried to ignore the penis that moved against my lower back.

  Chapter 3

  It was seven o’clock when I arrived at Phillip’s mother’s house on South Parade and rang the bell. The lights were on in the downstairs living room and classical music was drifting out of a partially opened window. Winter hadn’t started in earnest yet—it seemed to get later and later every year—and the weather was mild. Joyce opened the door and offered me a welcoming smile.

  “There you are, dear,” she said, genuinely happy to see me. She stood to one side and motioned me in. “Phillip’s in the kitchen trying to sort out the wine.”

  “Speaking of wine,” I said, and handed her a bottle I’d picked up on Chiswick High Road earlier.

  Joyce was sixty nine years old, and she ran her son’s life as if she were his wife. Phillip had never left home. He’d gone to university in London, and studied for his doctorate at the same college. He’d been on the faculty at King’s for twelve years and looked like he was going to stay there forever. If things went well between us, I’d probably move in here after she died. It was one of those things that was understood by all of us, but never mentioned or discussed openly. I was to be the new Joyce, taking care of Phillip when she died.

  The party was boring. I wish I could say it wasn’t, but the dozen or so middle aged academics were about as dull as a well-educated group of human beings could possibly be. The men were all dressed in tweed and mismatched jackets, and they stared at my bottom whenever I turned my back. The women were shrill and nervous, and they hugged their wine glasses as if they were life jackets. This was to be my life if I married Phillip. These people would be friends and these parties would be fun. As the clock counted down to midnight, I wondered what Parker was up to. Was she standing in a room full of drunken professors talking about the indigenous populations of tiny African countries? Or was she laughing and kissing and drinking foreign lagers and having fun?

  Phillip had crept up beside me without my noticing. He bent over and whispered into my ear, “Clara, come up to my room, I have a present for you.”

  I followed him up the stairs, noticing as I did how badly he was in need of a haircut. It really would be a full time job taking care of him, and I began to pity his mother just a little. I wondered if he was the man he was because of her, or did she give up her life for him? Something seemed to have been wasted but I couldn’t identify what.

  Phillip’s bedroom hadn’t changed much from when he was a child. A single bed occupied the center of the room, and the walls were decorated with pictures taken from various National Geographic Magazines. I wondered if he’d ever had sex in that bed. Probably not. While I was musing on Phillip’s previous sexual history—something we’d never talked about—he closed the door behind me and pressed me up against it. He was drunker than I’d thought, and his five o’clock shadow grated against my cheeks as he rubbed his face against me. I felt his lips slide over mine and his tongue snaked out and forced itself into my mouth, between my teeth. He needed to brush.

  “Mmmm, sweetie,” he mumbled, sliding his hands down my body. His engorged cock was evident. That was new. We’d kissed many times, but it had never led to anything solid on Phillip’s part. In all the months we’d been together, I’d never even noticed that he had a penis, but tonight it seemed to want to put in an appearance. His breath smelled of garlic and alcohol, and his hands reached around and grabbed my bum—another first. It was all happening tonight.

  Those mean words from earlier came back to me as Phillip ran his hands over my body. “Frigid little virgin.” Was that what I was?

  I turned my head a little so I could speak. “You said you had a present for me, Phillip.”

  He looked confused as I interrupted his activities, and leaned into me so that I had no choice but to notice his hard cock.

  “Yes, haven’t you noticed it?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A fellow in the History Department had these blue pills, so I tried one earlier. That tight skirt you’re wearing Clara—I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Viagra,” I said. “Is that what you’re saying? You took some Viagra, and you want to... what?” This was unbearable. I’d thought he might have a typical Phillip present for me—a book, or a CD of weird music from a breakaway Russian republic. I never even suspected this, in his bedroom, in his mother’s house.

  “I want you, Clara,” he said, breathing heavily, his hands fondling my bum.

  “But we said we’d wait Phillip. Until we were both ready,” I said, lowering my voice in case one of the guests heard as they passed by on their way to the bathroom.

  “I’m ready now sweetie. I need to... you know.” He reached a hand inside my jacket and cupped my right breast, squeezing the nipple and moaning. There wasn’t much for him to grab hold of as my boobs were barely above an A-cup. Some days I didn’t even bother wearing a bra.

  “Phillip, no,” I said, moving to pull away.

  “Please, Clara. It’s a new year, time for changes. Why not?”

  He unbuckled his pants and pulled them down a little, exposing his white underpants, barely holding in his bulging cock.

  Why not?

  I had reasons, but were they real reasons or did I just make them up because I didn’t have a decent boy friend. It’s easy to be a virgin when you’re alone on a Saturday night, or when the only guy you seem to be able to land is a nerdy forty three year old who lived with his mother. I was probably the only virgin in the office—all those younger, sexier people who I bossed around each day had real sex lives. They had boyfriends and girlfriends and they went to real parties on New Year’s Eve, not old folks gatherings like this one.

  Just then, I decided that I’d had enough.

  Enough of pretty people like Parker who lived exciting lives while I stood on tube trains with pervy guys behind me. Enough of a life planned out and dull days ahead as I turned into Phillip’s mother. I needed to change things. What was sex anyway? Insert A into B and wait for the grunting? Why not just get it over with?

  I reached out with my right hand and touched Phillip’s underpants where his cock was most prominent. It jumped at my touch, moving forwards to meet my small fingers. I was going to do this—get it done with once and for all. No more virgin or frigid labels that hurt so much.

  My skirt stopped just above the knee. It was trim and black, molded to my narrow hips. I reached behind to undo the button, and pulled the zipper down. Then I turned around so that I was facing the door, presenting my bum to Phillip. I didn’t know what to do, so I guessed he was going to have to take the lead. I doubted he’d had many girlfriends before me—if any—but I was betting he’d at least paid a prostitute at some point.

  “Pull my skirt down,” I said, a nervous quiver entering my voice. I raised my hands so that they were flat against the door from palms to elbow, ready to support me in whatever happened next.

  He didn’t waste any time, tugging at my skirt until I felt it slide down my hips, over my white, utilitarian panties, a
nd down the backs of my legs. He let it fall to the floor as his hands rose again to caress my bum, mauling it before pulling my panties down and exposing it to the room. No man had ever seen my naked bum before, much less touched it, and in all my dreams and fantasies I’d never pictured a nerdy guy like Phillip as the man who would have that pleasure.

  “Step out of your panties,” he said. I did what he told me, and I heard him behind me fumbling with his own pants, kicking them off of his feet and then pushing forwards until he was rubbing against my bare bottom. His cock was real now, hard and insistent and his balls tickled my bum. His hands reached around until they rubbed up against my unshaven pussy. Why would I be shaven, when there was no prospect of anyone seeing it or playing with it? His fingers slid down through my pubes, tangling and pulling on them. They were moist from a day’s sitting down at the office, coated in sweat and whatever, and his fingers slid through them until they found my vagina.

  I wasn’t sure what would happen next, but I wasn’t ready for the fingers that were pushed inside me. First two, then three and then four, opening me wide while Phillip moaned into my ear.

  “That’s it baby, oh yeah,” he said. “You’re such a slut.”

  Was it possible to be a virgin slut? I didn’t know—maybe I was. A virgin slut. Was this what men were like when they fucked you?

  He pushed my legs open with his knees, and slipped his cock between them, seeking out the entrance occupied by his waiting fingers. The fingers slipped out and the cock slipped in—into my waiting hole. I had no hymen to worry about. I may not have had a man before, but I did know how to get myself off, I’m not that sad and desperate.

  Phillip must have been squatting down to get his cock inside me, as he wasn’t a small man by any means. And then he thrust into me, forcing his hard cock deep inside my pussy while his hands held onto my hips and pulled me backwards to meet him. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t pleasurable either—it was as if something had filled me up when I didn’t realize I was empty, like a screw tightening in a hole, or a plug being inserted into an electrical socket. My body must have known what it was doing as there didn’t seem to be any problem with lubrication. Phillip pulled out of me and thrust himself forwards again and again, harder and harder each time until I began to lift up off the floor, my hands and arms sliding up the door, which shook in its frame with each movement.