'Wrong Number' comes to light after years of neglect: Elizabeth King submitted this delightful piece of prose poetry to the Erotic Review 18 years ago, when it got a rather frosty reception from whoever was on editorial duty that day and was turned down. We feel it has more than stood the test of time: it has matured.

A man rang me up by mistake, he got the number wrong. And  that thing happened that never really happens: we didn’t hang up. We could not. My body, which had been carted about by me with unloved indifference for years, became a poised centre of unexpressed longing for this unmet man. Not absolutely immediately, of course.  First he said sorry to bother you, I said no no don’t worry, there was a pause, he said you’ve got a very sexy voice you know, I said so have you actually, he said my name’s Mull, I said mine is Elizabeth.

We talked.

We talked for nearly three hours, and apart from that small recognition of vocal attraction we were very pure, with quite clearly an infinity of relaxed conversation between us.

I came off the telephone happy. I thought, this contentment will keep me going for weeks. We’ll probably never speak again but it was enough, it was one of those sustaining Chinese moments that you just accept and be grateful about.

My fingers dialled 1471 without consulting me. They called him back. My mouth said “Mull?”

He said, “Ah, how are you?”

I said, “No, how are you? And those friends whom you were telling me about?”

He said, “They’re probably the same as they were since we spoke three minutes ago. ”

“I know,” I said. “I thought I’d leave it a while before calling you. I am famous for my restraint. Also for my Shepherd’s Pie, which I make with real shepherd.”

I want to roam my loving fingers over you, I want to place my mouth on yours and ease my tongue between your lips to lick your tongue and teeth, I want to receive your cock with pleasure with gratitude with love into any part of me you care to plant it, dear man who has unfastened me. I like what I hear of your mind. I like its thought, its expression, its voice. Your voice. I love your obvious human-ness, and humanity. Your cheerful ease. And way with a story. Your lovely atmosphere comes woomfing along the wires to me when we speak.

I am awake, and hungry.

I’d like to kiss your neck, gently, all over. The nape of it. And your nose, its tip.

Open this clothing, throw it away. Shove your hand between my shaking thighs, draw your sticky fingers up my body, stick them in my mouth. Press your prick into me, straight up, bury it deep, high, take it out and I’ll complain, I’ll whimper. Make me wait, do it suddenly again, and again, and again so that I scream ah, Jesus Christ, ah, don’t stop, please never stop. This bliss. And put, oh please, your finger in my arse. I will be wild. I will soak you with my cum.

Take your prick out. I’ll take you in my mouth and roll my firm tongue round this lovely cock of yours and suck until you overflow my mouth with cream, and I will drink you down.

Be me, and let me enter you. There’s nothing like it, being fucked, not when there’s affection. There’s nothing like yielding and saying “I am yours.” Laying bare your diffident self before a self who loves what’s being given.

Let your diffident self get dirty.

Lie down. On your side. I’ll kiss your knob and make my tongue hard at the end and stick it into your sensitive tip, at the top, and listen to you gasp and say “Oh.” So I’ll go on, licking and stroking and tasting and all the time encasing your balls with my palm, tickling them, furling my whole tongue around them until suddenly I’ll rock you onto your belly. And draw apart your bum cheeks. And dip my tongue into your arsehole. You are motionless, barely breathing. I am wet, Mull. This is making me wet, an ocean, I am sliding my fingers into my cunt and covering them with juices which I’m putting in your bum. So I can pleasure you with my vibrator. Get up on your knees. I’m underneath you. I’m jabbing you with the vibrator, feel it? Have you ever felt this before? Open up, and let it in. You’re breathing out loud, and making small sounds. In, gently in, and in, and in, and I’m drawing it out… “Don’t take it out!” you cry. I shan’t, it was a tease. Relax, and feel. I’ll withdraw it, to the edges of your anus, and plunge it hard back in, over and over again, and your cock in my mouth, and my other hand running its fingers over your testicles until you are hoarse with joy and cream yourself right down my gullet, roaring as you come.

I think that I have not exposed my absolutely natural self before and now I do, before you whom I have never met.

But you have warmth, I hear and feel it. And fear, I hear and feel that, too, and so with warmth and trepidation but no shyness at all because you banished that into the vapoury air, you talked it away from me, I give you this story of us which I sense is hanging about somewhere wondering what to do with itself.

I have an image of us walking together in the long still heat of an afternoon, I have no idea where, and we stride out in peaceful silence breathing deep, and in three or four hours there’s bread and cheese with wine, deep red I hope, and that is that. Enough.

There is no traffic.

Just cicadas. Puffing on their cigarillos,crooning into their guitars. Us, eventually languid underneath the moon, in sheepskins.

You on the telephone, transforming me into the Mississippi River, slow on its surface and a great slow tug below. I cannot speak: your words fluctuate my edges. So that I rise, exceed my sides and flood the flood plain.

The city is drenched.

There is no safety in these thoughts except for the certainty of the thoughts themselves. To be alive at all, and able to conjure them up. Perhaps it is enough. Perhaps.

I think that I am made of mostly water, nonsense and chocolate. That’s what I was. But now I am without the chocolate. Now I am your cellarful of vintage claret.

Drink me. Velveting between your lips, around your palate, deep crimson heat hotting through your mind and body.

I am a hot heat.

Suddenly sink your prick into my arse. Don’t ask, just do it. Grasp me tightly, pinch my nipples hard, very hard beyond the points of pain, to pleasure. I’ll roar, I’ll grunt, be guttural. Come with me, come loudly into me. The great wet mess of us. My clitoris exploding on your finger. And again, against your dancing tongue.

We’ll have a bath. Passing soap over each other. Feeling, slowly. And looking. Into your into my into our eyes. Which are blue grey green, and clear.

Shave me, between my legs. I’ll be as naked as I can for you. Rub cream into me, where you’ve shaved. Or kneel between my thighs and wank on me, in my hair, on my face, my neck, my breasts, into my mouth, all over my bare cunt. I’ll rub you into me, like balm. And kiss you, with my spunky lips.

We are a hot climate, you and I.


Bend me over the kitchen table, shove aside the cornflakes and the unwashed supper dishes, inflame my bum with the palm of your hand. I may yell no, but I’ll mean yes. Lean over me, dig into my quivering crack, stick a thumb up my bum, stroke my clitoris with your finger, I’m breathing fast and you’re making me cry, it is a crying I like, it is release, please do not put me down, do not let go, I’m climbing, I am ferocious with pleasure, I am not me I am a heavenly body.  Christ Christ Christ this in and out and sharpness of your prick and softness of your finger and deep and subtle secret of the feeling in my deeply excited very tight arse.

We’ll come together. I couldn’t come without you. It wouldn’t be polite, not on a first meeting. I am yelling, I can’t help it. I’m coming on your finger, on your cock, can you feel me clenched and clutching at you, my bum insane with orgasm. Everything jerking.

We are entangled on the kitchen floor with toast crumbs and dust in our hair. Slippery with what we have done to each other. We can only say “mm”, and be still.

I’ll raise your hands to my lips, and kiss your fingertips, and thumbs. I’ll massage your palms with my thumbs. And stroke your knuckles with my lips. I’ll lightly kiss my way down the length of you until I reach your feet, and I shall lay my cheeks against their soles. And kiss them, and massage them until you are quite dazed with heavy peace and longing.

I have been missing you for years, and we’ve never even met.

Let’s eat some Shepherd’s Pie.

And later, a bit….lie down and let me ride you. Set me astride you, lift me slightly, slide me down onto your prick. Lean towards me, swallow my breasts, they’ll drip you wine.

Be inside me, motionless and hard. Roll me over till I am beneath you, lie heavy on me, I like your heaviness. And we will move together imperceptibly, slowly, and kiss each other’s mouths all over and softly, tenderly, with open eyes. And grow fast and urgent and burst our juices just once more today into each other’s bodies so we are briefly one great machine. Before we calm and separate into our separate engines toughened, sensitised, drunk, calmed.

I wish I had a bladderful of champagne, I’d be your aperitif. You could say to your friends, “I have always liked beer from the tap but preferred my champagne straight from the cunt.”

We have not met but we are not unknown, I sense it.

Come off the telephone, and into me.