August MacGregor

Celebrating Sensuality. Intended for mature audiences, 18 and over

Butt Dialed

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No verbal answer came to Pamela’s “Hi hon, what’s up?” Instead, she was answered by the sound of clothing shuffling.

He butt-dialed me again, she thought. What is it about his phone?

She knew it was her husband, due to the caller ID showing up on her smartphone.

“Mitchell!” she said. “Pick up your phone!”

After more shuffling, the unmistakable sound of his zipper. Mitchell kept his cellphone in his right front pocket, so it was close enough to the zipper to pick up the noise it made. Either him zipping up or zipping down.


“Mmm. What’s in here?”

Pamela froze. The female voice coming out of her cellphone didn’t have a name or face attached to it in her memory. It was simply a voice from somewhere out there. Somewhere where Pamela’s husband was. Unless he loaned his phone to someone else.

Which was so highly improbable, it edged to impossible.

“Happy to see me?” the woman asked.

More shuffling, then “Always am.” Mitchell this time. Most certainly Mitchell.

Oh my God. No. No. No.

“Mitchell!” Pamela yelled. “Mitchell, pick up the fucking phone!”

Shuffling, then a thump. At first, Pamela thought the call was disconnected — but then there were other sounds. Muffled talking that she couldn’t make out.

She pictured the scene. Zipper down. A woman’s hands down Mitchell’s boxers. His pants being pushed down his legs, then punted off. Had to be. The phone was still on, but it wasn’t close to the action any more.

Action? Yes, this was action, and the muffled sounds of it came through. Sounds of moaning. Sounds of pleasure. Sounds of sex.

The very short conversation echoed in Pamela’s brain: Happy to see me? Always am. Always am.

How long is always?

“Fuck you Mitchell!” she screamed, threw the phone to the kitchen counter, and burst into tears.

At some point in her sobbing, she realized that she hadn’t tapped the red button to the end the call. Before she tapped the button, she screamed out another “Fuck you!” Which felt a little good to do, but she knew that after he returned home, screaming that to his face was going to feel even better. To see him realize he’d been caught.


Author: augustmacgregor

I'm a writer of erotica and romantic fiction.

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