Of course he didn't want you to know who he was... You're a phone-sex worker... This is supposed to be totally anonymous.
It'd never occurred to you that when he said his name was Mr. Farenheit, it wasn't just fun and games...
It's because THE fucking Freddie Mercury himself had called you to get his rocks off over a phone.
Deep breaths... Deep breaths... Don't panic...
It's not like he knows you know. ...Right?
Hell. What would he do? Come kill you because you know too much?
It's fine. It's totally fine.
This is just a client.
You don't ever have to talk to him again.
It'd be easy.
Just pretend it never happened...
"Excuse me?"
The cashier knocked you out of your thoughts.
"You okay?" he asks. Apparently you were staring into space instead of handing him payment.
You apologize, quickly paying the cashier before grabbing your things, embarrassed.
...And you walk right into the automatic door as you exit the supermarket.
Your snort, and you rub your nose to ease the pain as you curse.
"Uhh, do you need help?" the cashier says to you, but you just wave and exit the building, toting your groceries.
Honestly? Even the wonderful weather couldn't brighten your day.
You knew what this job could entail when you started it. You'd just never thought of this as an option.
If anyone had told you you'd get to beg the real Freddie Mercury to fuck you silly over a phone, you would have laughed until you cried, then called an asylum.
You lived on the same side of town. Hell, you walked past his flat on the way to the market this morning!
You were petrified at the thought of him seeing you in the streets. You took a different route home.
He's just a client!
It's not that easy...
Sure, he had been some regular Joe Blow at first.
But as you two had gotten closer, with every small confession, every gentle sigh, every tender moment where you talked about real life and not just sex...Something changed. It got personal.
And you did have to admit: you'd caught feelings. It was hard not to, when he'd talk so sweetly. He actually liked the way you described your face... the flaws on your body...
He thought your laugh was cute, tried hard to make you laugh, to cheer you up after hard days.
Your cheeks darken in fondness as you keep walking.
And he got so genuine with you. It doesn't match his public persona, you think when you see him on the cover of magazines. You imagine that face of his, telling you that his cock was dripping just thinking of your pussy. That he wants you so bad.
"Come on, Kitten, cum for me-"
You shake your head, blushing hard. Fuck no, that was impossible.
Yet, that's him. You're sure of it. Isn't it?
Even when you get home, it's like he's following you.
