Reports of mysterious phone calls to female residents continue to flood police networks, erecting the arm hairs of concerned individuals as thoughts of their impending doom plow through their veil of security, arousing an impulse to seek protection, thousands squeeze their phones and shakily dial the number for witness protection. Indeed, Canadian citizens of Kitchener, Ontario are tempted to flee their homes in terror. It began with Marie Lampartie, who on a typical summer’s eve happily dunked a tea bag into a steaming cup of water, eagerly awaiting the moment to indulge in the warming aroma and taste of the comfortably bitter brew. She parted her lips, the cup clinking against her teeth as the abrasive ring of her phone abruptly detached her from the peaceful arrangements she’d immersed herself in. Her hand hugged the receiver, her ears tickled by the seductive tone of a male with a deep voice. The already calm, yet sturdy countenance she’d gathered from a hard day’s work and the relaxation she aimed for melted into an expression of tender affection. A distant, longing gaze flew from her eyes as her body crumbled in the fire he ignited between her, her voice already softened by the powerful feelings he commanded with ease. She became his, if only for the moment, and she could do nothing but listen intently to the actions he described to her in unbearable detail.
This happened not only to her, but to countless other women. Stranger yet, was that the mysterious serial sex talker was untraceable, as though he existed off of the grid.
The FAWX news team, unable to bear the sheer distraught caused by these unending incidents, responded by tackling the problem with a poorly conducted investigation. We began it by fishing for female candidates on Craigslist, who had to be bribed with undisclosed pictures posted on the NSFW section of the site.
We appeared at her door step, nearly collapsing onto the dirtied concrete below us under the immense weight of our equipment, counting two notepads, a portable video camera, and an aluminum bag of Chitos. She invited us in, her home a simple box of peach walls warmed by the weary touch of coiled bulbs glowing still steadily glowing behind intricate shades. We sat down, and exchanged our sentiments, then began the investigation.
She rhythmically tapped her knees, abating her anxiousness; the phones ring was to be expected shortly. We readied our equipment, while I happily passed the time by tossing Chitos into my open mouth, rudely crunching them between my teeth.
I missed one, startled by the sudden ring of the phone.
“Oh lawd here it is.” I said, alerting the crew.
Her hand trembled as it moved to the receiver, her fingers slipping under the bridge between the headphones. She slowly brought it to her ear, cringing in anticipation.
“Hello?” she asked shyly.
“Hello.” A soothing, deep voice said.
“Who are you?”
“Oh, no one you’d know…”
“Um, why are you calling?” She asked rather politely.
“Because I understand your loneliness; the flesh longs to yield to a gentle, caring touch.”
“Please… go away…” She said, shivering, looking to me and the crew, a shine taking over her eyes as her hungers grew.
“Honey, let’s take the night slowly. Let yourself go, just for a second...” Her body trembled, carnal thoughts consuming any sliver of humanity she deceived herself with, becoming lost like her petite figure were cradled in the gentle wave of a soothing oceans swish, slowly being swept away into its dark, unknown reaches.
“…Master?” she acknowledged in her broken voice. It continued for some minutes, as she carefully clawed her hair with female desires stewing in her mind. She playfully bared her teeth, wrinkling her nose.
“Be a good girl for me.” A deep, crackling voice emanated from the headset. She submissively pursed her eyebrows, irresistibly tugging at her lip with her teeth, invisibly nodding in agreement to her unknown master’s wish.
She stuck her hands between her thighs, as though to stifle a loud beat that strummed her with tingles sent through her body, she tensed like a sturdy string being steadily pulled, her nipples perking against all protest. All she could think of was his tongue, as sharp as a razors edge, cleverly invading her, and she simply clenched with her healthy fruit sparkling, dampened by a warm trickle of nectar, as she gleefully envisioned the mystery man playing with her.
After the strange ordeal, and as we willingly observed her oddly satisfying mannerisms, we attempted to trace the call once more, and alas, this reporter found nothing, ‘twas untraceable. So we did the only logical thing: we hired an expert in the paranormal to help guide us in our inquisition.
Wandering through a creepily darkened forest with nothing but an odd split beam of moonlight appearing through treetops to signal a direction we were unaware of, we met many sounds and sensations – some I even speculated to be molesters fondling us.
Nonetheless, we arrived at the rugged woman’s shack in the woods, her head wrapped in some weirdly patterned bandana, not much more appealing than the chiseled fat on her face. She beckoned us over to her table, and I took note of a similar crystal ball I had in my possession which complimented its surface on a tipi’s skeleton. Initially I was intimidated by having my psychic powers tested by hers in comparison of her demonstration, but I held my tongue, waiting as she removed an Ouija board from a box you’d find a board game in. Her hands hovered over the middle of it, stretching and closing her hand in some magical exercise to energize it. Her hand fell onto a pick shaped piece of plastic, and implored us to touch it with her. Predictably, it glided across the board, spelling out something horrifying to me as I realized my slight dyslexia.
“O whatever you are, why do you enslave good women with your sex talking? What is your name? Are you alive?”
“No.” An apparition floating over confirmed with a long, ringing voice.
“Oh. It’s a ghost. So I guess that solves that.”
“Wow it does. There’s fuck all you can do about ghosts. We’ll forever be afflicted by heated women, subdued by sex-talking ghosts. Mystery solved.”
This happened not only to her, but to countless other women. Stranger yet, was that the mysterious serial sex talker was untraceable, as though he existed off of the grid.
The FAWX news team, unable to bear the sheer distraught caused by these unending incidents, responded by tackling the problem with a poorly conducted investigation. We began it by fishing for female candidates on Craigslist, who had to be bribed with undisclosed pictures posted on the NSFW section of the site.
We appeared at her door step, nearly collapsing onto the dirtied concrete below us under the immense weight of our equipment, counting two notepads, a portable video camera, and an aluminum bag of Chitos. She invited us in, her home a simple box of peach walls warmed by the weary touch of coiled bulbs glowing still steadily glowing behind intricate shades. We sat down, and exchanged our sentiments, then began the investigation.
She rhythmically tapped her knees, abating her anxiousness; the phones ring was to be expected shortly. We readied our equipment, while I happily passed the time by tossing Chitos into my open mouth, rudely crunching them between my teeth.
I missed one, startled by the sudden ring of the phone.
“Oh lawd here it is.” I said, alerting the crew.
Her hand trembled as it moved to the receiver, her fingers slipping under the bridge between the headphones. She slowly brought it to her ear, cringing in anticipation.
“Hello?” she asked shyly.
“Hello.” A soothing, deep voice said.
“Who are you?”
“Oh, no one you’d know…”
“Um, why are you calling?” She asked rather politely.
“Because I understand your loneliness; the flesh longs to yield to a gentle, caring touch.”
“Please… go away…” She said, shivering, looking to me and the crew, a shine taking over her eyes as her hungers grew.
“Honey, let’s take the night slowly. Let yourself go, just for a second...” Her body trembled, carnal thoughts consuming any sliver of humanity she deceived herself with, becoming lost like her petite figure were cradled in the gentle wave of a soothing oceans swish, slowly being swept away into its dark, unknown reaches.
“…Master?” she acknowledged in her broken voice. It continued for some minutes, as she carefully clawed her hair with female desires stewing in her mind. She playfully bared her teeth, wrinkling her nose.
“Be a good girl for me.” A deep, crackling voice emanated from the headset. She submissively pursed her eyebrows, irresistibly tugging at her lip with her teeth, invisibly nodding in agreement to her unknown master’s wish.
She stuck her hands between her thighs, as though to stifle a loud beat that strummed her with tingles sent through her body, she tensed like a sturdy string being steadily pulled, her nipples perking against all protest. All she could think of was his tongue, as sharp as a razors edge, cleverly invading her, and she simply clenched with her healthy fruit sparkling, dampened by a warm trickle of nectar, as she gleefully envisioned the mystery man playing with her.
After the strange ordeal, and as we willingly observed her oddly satisfying mannerisms, we attempted to trace the call once more, and alas, this reporter found nothing, ‘twas untraceable. So we did the only logical thing: we hired an expert in the paranormal to help guide us in our inquisition.
Wandering through a creepily darkened forest with nothing but an odd split beam of moonlight appearing through treetops to signal a direction we were unaware of, we met many sounds and sensations – some I even speculated to be molesters fondling us.
Nonetheless, we arrived at the rugged woman’s shack in the woods, her head wrapped in some weirdly patterned bandana, not much more appealing than the chiseled fat on her face. She beckoned us over to her table, and I took note of a similar crystal ball I had in my possession which complimented its surface on a tipi’s skeleton. Initially I was intimidated by having my psychic powers tested by hers in comparison of her demonstration, but I held my tongue, waiting as she removed an Ouija board from a box you’d find a board game in. Her hands hovered over the middle of it, stretching and closing her hand in some magical exercise to energize it. Her hand fell onto a pick shaped piece of plastic, and implored us to touch it with her. Predictably, it glided across the board, spelling out something horrifying to me as I realized my slight dyslexia.
“O whatever you are, why do you enslave good women with your sex talking? What is your name? Are you alive?”
“No.” An apparition floating over confirmed with a long, ringing voice.
“Oh. It’s a ghost. So I guess that solves that.”
“Wow it does. There’s fuck all you can do about ghosts. We’ll forever be afflicted by heated women, subdued by sex-talking ghosts. Mystery solved.”
