This story still contains adult content, similar but different from the first part. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

“The night,” said the voice on the other end of the line. It was soft and eerie, like an old recording. Roger strained to hear the quiet voice over the static. “Tonight is when I will come. Leave the door open. I cannot open it. I want to be with you.”

“Tonight?” Roger asked.

“Yes. Leave the door open.” responded the voice. Then, there was silence.

“But how will you know where to find me? You don’t know who I am.”

(Ending Version 1)

There was no response to his question, just static and silence. He thought he might have heard something. Was that a wimper? A moan? Roger became frustrated, as this was evidently some kind of trick. That voice was so creepy, so unreal. Maybe it’s somekind of ad? For a horror movie or something; viral advertising through graffiti. It sounds reasonable enough. Roger terminated the call with a button press. He watched television, checked his e-mail, ate some macoroni and cheese, and settled into his bed to watch more television. The late night talk shows weren’t keeping his attention; all day long he was obsessing about sex, and now it was on his mind again. I should be with a woman right now. It just isn’t fair! I thought for sure that the number was someone’s. Roger wallowed in his self constructed misery until he started watching a movie on Cinemax. It was something about witches and their need for the life giving powers that only a man could provide. It was when the red headed witch was “extracting the life giving power” from a man that Roger heard a loud banging on the door.

It was past four in the morning, and it was unlikely that anyone he knew would be knocking at the door so late. Then he remembered the call; Tonight is when I’ll come my ass! It was a fucking prank. Tired and cranky, he pulled his flat sheet into a makeshift toga and walked to the door.

“I don’t know who this is, but you better fuck off.” He threatened weakly, “I’ll call the cops.”

“I said to leave the door unlocked.” responded a ghostly voice. Roger looked at the door and saw smoke billowing under his door. The smoke was also pouring in through the sides. Someone went through a hell of a lot of work to prank me like this. It has to be someone that knows my voice. Could it be Fat Brian? No way! Roger unbolted the door and opened it in a rage. He was determined to yell at someone over this outrage. The guts someone has to pull shit like this. Fucking asshole is going to…

Outside the door was the form of a woman clouded in a black haze. Her hair lashed around like tendrils; her eyes were white and unseeing. Her slender hand reached out for Roger’s sheet and tugged at it. She smiled coyly as she pulled herself through the open door. She was voluptuous and sensual; rather than be repelled by her, Roger felt himself drawn to her. The woman’s arms wrapped around him as she pressed her lips against his. Roger felt as though he was losing control of himself. He felt her lie him down; he felt her take his manhood within her. Pleasure flowed through his body as he heard one of the witches from the movie fake an orgasim. This is unbelieveable! It feels so good! 

Roger’s life changed that night. Over the next few months, he gained weight. His belly began to sag and he felt like there was something moving inside of him. When he went to his doctor complaining of nausea, they conducted a series of tests that concluded he had a large tumour growing in his stomach. The doctor told him surgery was the answer, and so surgery it was. However, when the surgery was over, the doctor spoke with Roger.

“Son,” said the doctor, ”I don’t know how to say this, so I will be blunt. The tumor wasn’t a tumor. It was something else…”

Roger was startled and aghast. Don’t let it be what I think it is! Please! Please! He silently prayed to God that the doctor wouldn’t say the words he didn’t want to hear. Don’t say that it was…

“a baby.” said the doctor.   

The following story was inspired by a trip to the bathroom while I was at work. There were two telephone numbers written on the wall and I found myself wondering whose they were and why they would be writing their number on the walls of a men’s room.

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Warning: The following short story contains imagery that some may find offensive or distasteful. This story may not be suitable for all audiences, as it involves sexuality, adult-like themes, and some pottyish humor. Reader discretion is advised.  

 In other words: If you are offended by this story, try coming back later. I might have something more to your taste.

Shit! I need to piss!thought Roger as he raced to the bathroom closest to his cubicle. He had put off his trip to the bathroom as long as he could; he was beyond just doing a pee dance. It had become a full blown emergency. He pushed open the door to the men’s room with all the fury of an offensive tackle. He started to unbutton his pants as he slammed shut the stall door. He hated urinals with a passion; he couldn’t see why when in public, he had to relieve himself in such a public way. He let his bladder do its job and felt a nearly orgasmic rush of relief. As he finished, he decided that while here, he might as well tend to other pressing business that had recently occurred to him needed tending. He let his pants fall and he took a seat.

The beige partitions which made up the stall had very little in the way of graffiti on them. His co-workers were proud of their work place; at least most of them were. By the toilet paper container mounted on the wall, a very well drawn cartoon of the secretary at reception drew his eye. She was drawn with massively heaving breasts and pouty lips that Angelina Jolie would envy. A poorly drawn, disembodied cock was furiously discharging onto her head. Roger smirked, thinking about what it would be like to… Wait! What’s that?he thought as he spied a phone number written lightly on the wall in a bubbly, girlie script. He pondered it for a moment, then it left his mind once he flushed the toilet. He didn’t think about it again until lunch time.

He sat alone, reading a book about men stabbing each-other with swords. As his attention waned, he thought about the number. He thought about whose number it could be. It could be a guy, but the writing is so feminine. Well yeah, it would be, because it would be a gay guy. What if it was one of the cleaning ladies? That would explain why the number wasn’t washed off. Then again, the picture wasn’t washed off either. Maybe it belongs to the girlfriend of one of the guys? Maybe he’s looking to share… He thought of the possibilities and his mind raced. Could someone have put it up for revenge? Could it be an ex’s number? Then, a thousand neurons fired in his brain: Is a woman working here so hard up that she would secretly enter the men’s room and scrawl her own number on the wall? 

He thought about that possibility through the rest of the day; hardly able to concentrate on his work, his mind wandered to which woman the number could belong to. There was the young girl two rows over who always wore dresses; she had a very lean frame and long legs. He imagined what it would be like to have those legs wrapped around him. He imagined Irene, a zaftig girl from the third floor, dancing naked in his bedroom. The thought of her voluptuous body glistening in the morning light made it uncomfortable to continue sitting. He went back to the bathroom, furtively taking a sheet of copy paper and a pen with him. He quietly opened the door, and immediately smelled Fat Brian in the stall at the far end of the bathroom. Roger thanked God that the stall he entered earlier was empty. He breathed in small gasps as he wrote the number down. 

Roger heard Fat Brian flush his toilet, so he tried to rush out of the stall. A wave of anxiety washed over him: What if he sees me leave without flushing? He’ll think I left a submarine for another sailor to decommission. Roger flushed the toilet and heard Fat Brian stirring about, turning on the faucet. He knew he’d have to go out there and wash his hands. If he didn’t, he reasoned that Fat Brian would wonder why he flushed and then stood around in the stall. Roger put on his best bathroom face, which was a blank expression, and went to the sink. Fat Brian was violently rubbing a paper towel on his shirt; his big belly had settled on a wet spot on the counter, causing him no end of frustration.

“Look at this! Soaked!” ranted Fat Brian. “You’d think people would wipe the counter if they splashed it, but no! No one ever cleans up after themselves. It’s infuriating, you know?” Roger nodded his head in what could be construed as agreement, though it was more indifferent than anything else. He washed his hands as Fat Brian continued complaining in a never-ending burbling. Roger just continued feigning attention until he found a chance to leave when the boss entered the bathroom. Roger returned to his cubical and looked at the telephone number eagerly. He watched the clock as the last hours of his work day slipped away. He started planning on when he would call the number.

(Continued Tomorrow)