Hotline Fling

8: Whack the Bush

Juneau's POV

"Oh fuck, you're a person," a strained male voice greeted my desk phone.

"Yes, I'm a real person." I fought back the giggle that wanted to erupt at his surprise, which was an understatement. The guy sounded shocked. "I can try to sound like a recording, but somehow I doubt that's very sexy."

Nerves rattled his voice as if I'd caught him masturbating in person. "Right, I, oh–shit, I'm not–"

"Let me try to make this a little easier." I shifted to a soft, coaxing tone. "I'm here to make you feel good. It's just fantasy play. Do you have any fantasies?"

"I do," he replied right away, then silence hit my ear. When I thought he'd hung up, he coughed. "It's embarrassing, though."

"I'm sure it's not." The shy ones always piqued my curiosity. "Whatever you need from me, I'm here. I'd love to hear about your fantasies. We might have some in common."

After a long, long pause, he coughed again. "Uhh...Game of Thrones," he said in the most uncertain voice, one where I heard the blush on his face. Adorable.

My shoulders relaxed. Thank fuck, he didn't say Avengers. Adam was better at character role-playing, but the Marvel universe had too many fucking characters dying and being resurrected for me to keep up with. But political anarchy, imaginary dragons, dead zombie ice kings, and a disappointing last season? That I could do.

"You are talking about my kind of fantasy." My words earned a sigh of relief. I sat back in my chair and typed for Game of Thrones roles. "There are so many good or bad girls in Game of Thrones. Who's your favorite girl in the whole series?" Nine times out of ten, with fantasies related to GRR's work, the guy picked–

"Daenerys Targaryen," he rushed out the majority pick. That one.

"Ohh..." I moaned into my mic and pulled up a lot of blonde wig hairstyles. "She's beautiful. Put her right into your mind with my voice. Long, curled white-blonde hair, piercing eyes, pink, perky breasts waiting, heavy, and aching for your attention."

My inner geek removed the color of her eyes. In the books, they were purple but green in the TV series. Either way, with his hitched breaths, he seemed like the type that whacked off to the earlier seasons' nude scenes. Maybe he needed a slight nudge. "But who are you?"

The caller was silent as if he considered his options. "Are you the strong, muscular Khal Drago, who takes what he wants and savagely pounds me from behind, or the stoic, rugged man of duty Jon Snow, who's going to make love to me in a snowbank in front of two horny dragons?"

"Jon Snow," he groaned, then followed with a terrible, strained accent, "You are my queen."

My desk chair groaned under my lean back, and I outlined a leaf on my desk plant with the tip of my finger. Not my kink, but let's see.

"Hmm, Jon Snow. I'd be lying if the sight of you, clumsy and awkward at first, riding my Rhaegal is quite a turn-on, even for a queen. Especially when you tame him and soar higher and faster, wings beating the air, rolling and diving lower." I paused at his elevated breaths, unsure if the dragon did more for him than my voice. "The way you ride him is terribly distracting, Jon Snow."

"Go on," he breathed. "P-please."

"The sight of you taming that savage beast pulses a hot, demanding sensation between my legs. No one rides a dragon until they've ridden a dragon."

At this point, I ignored the soft snorts on my left from Adam's vicinity and continued, "There are no saddles but the rough, scaly texture of Drogon rubs against my thighs, creating a hot friction that's very distracting. I can't even feel the icy wind that cuts into my face, this damn North is chilly and unforgiving, but I'm only hot for you, my King in the North."