Technicolor
by Brittany Rodriguez
When I felt the buzz, my forehead broke out in a cool sweat. I
hadn’t expected things to go through so quickly, but I must have gotten
“lucky.” I looked at the number I didn’t recognize and slowly pushed the
green button.
“Hi,” I said, but quickly took on a throatier tone. “I mean, hello.”
“God, you sound sexy,” a deep voice returned.
“Uhm.” I looked at the crisp script between my fingers. “What
are you wearing?”
“A pair of briefs. Satin.”
Satin?
“What are you wearing, gorgeous?”
I looked down, taking in my khaki shorts and oversized, white
supermarket-issued polo.
“A bra.” I coughed and corrected myself again. “And a thong. Red
lace. A matching set.”
I stuck to neutrals, and I hadn’t worn lace since my mom forced
me into a Christmas dress when I was eleven.
“Damn,” he said, and for a moment I heard nothing but
breathing on the line.
I looked at the script again, eager for a distraction. I cringed.
“What do you want me to do to—”
“Your feet,” he interrupted, his voice taking on an urgent tone.
“Tell me about your feet.”
Oh, Jesus Christ.
“My… my feet?”
When I said the word his breathing became quicker and his
response came out in more of a hiss.
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