“What are you wearing?” asked the raspy male voice at the other end of the line.
“A black lace bra. It looks so dark against my creamy white skin. And a matching thong,” I said, letting out a little giggle.
“And black thigh stockings? And high heels?”
“Five-inch heels,” I purred, making my voice low and throaty. “I’m wearing them just for you, Rick. Do you like that?”
“Oh, yes. That sounds so fucking hot. I bet you look incredible. Run your hands up and down your tits.”
“Mmm, that feels so good,” I moaned from deep in my throat, and the heavy breathing in my ear sped up. “I’m cupping my breasts, holding them up for you.”
“Does that feel good, Summer?” Summer wasn’t my real name, but I’d gotten used to answering to it.
“Oh, yes… but not as good as if you were doing it.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m squeezing my nipples, tugging on them, making sure they’re extra hard for you.”
“That is so hot. Squeeze them again. Hard.”
“Mmmm, you get me so hot and bothered when you say things like that,” I purred. “What do you want me to do next?”
“Run your hand down your belly, honey, and—wait, what was that?”
“What was what?” I asked, still using my sultry voice.
“That clicking noise,” he said.
“You heard that? I mean, that was… that was me banging my fingernails against the headboard. I just can’t help it… you’ve got me so turned on. I wish you were here on the bed with me. Would you like that, Rick?”
“Fuck yeah. You’re so sexy, Summer. I’d throw you onto the bed, and then I’d...”
I sighed in relief as Rick launched into a rather exhaustive list of not-very-inventive things he’d like to do with me. I still couldn’t believe he’d heard the sound of my knitting needles clanking together. Yes, I was paid to provide a fantasy for the men who called the Sultry Sirens hotline, but it wasn’t exactly rocket science. Most guys wanted the same thing: someone to listen to them. Someone to tell them how wonderful they were. Someone to make them feel special and sexual and masculine. Mostly, they wanted attention.
And, well, an orgasm.
So that’s what I provided. It paid well, and I needed the money. Three nights a week, I sat at this desk in my sweats—knitting, doodling, sometimes even playing solitaire online—and pretending to be the ultimate male fantasy. And in those three sessions, I earned almost as much as I did from waitressing five days a week. Plus, I was averaging five scarves and two hats per month. If one could measure wealth by knitted winter headgear, my sister and I would be considered richer than 99 percent of the population.
When Rick ended the call—another satisfied customer—I didn’t have to wait too long for my next client. I’d only finished another half row on my current project when my computer chimed, signaling another caller. The laptop screen indicated that this was a new caller, and that he was interested in talking to a submissive woman. When clients called the Sultry Sirens fantasy hotline, they were given a choice of nine different fantasy women:
1. Girl Next Door
4. College Coed
5. Naughty Nurse
7. Exotic Dancer
My prior caller, Rick, had chosen Girl Next Door, which I could do in my sleep. But my new client wanted something different. A Submissive. Pretending to be a Submissive was a little trickier. For one thing, I had to use props. He wanted to hear me spank myself. I accomplished that by taking a Ping-Pong paddle and smacking it against a bag of flour wrapped in a towel. I also had a flexible little plastic rod I could use to simulate a whip. It used to be part of a cat toy.
It wasn’t easy, but the submissive one wasn’t even the hardest of them. Seriously, how was one supposed to sound like a Naughty Nurse? I’d truly love to get my hands on the person—most likely a man—who’d come up with those nine options for new clients. But that’s how the job worked, and there was a manual which I dutifully kept open on the desk next to me. It provided samples of opening lines, hints and tactics for each role.
About sixty minutes before my three-hour shift ended, another new client called. He’d chosen Cheerleader, so I assumed a perky, excited, breathy voice when I answered. “We won the game! I’m so excited! Are you going to help me celebrate?”
As it turns out, he did want to help me celebrate. Surprise, surprise. But he also wanted to hear me do some cheers. I’d memorized a few simple ones when I’d taken this job, but this guy wanted it to be even more authentic than that.
“I want to hear you, baby. I want to hear you jump up and down.”
“I am. I can’t help it, I’m so excited,” I claimed, trying to sound a little winded. “And every time I jump, my tiny little skirt flies up. And everyone around me can see my panties...”
“I can’t hear you,” he said.
“I said, everyone can see my panties.”
“No, I can’t hear you jump. Are you on your floor? Get on the bed instead. Jump up and down on the bed.”
Rolling my eyes, I glanced around at my desk. There was nothing I could use to simulate bedsprings creaking, so I got up and climbed on my double bed, feeling extremely foolish. Sitting up on my knees, I tentatively bounced up and down. “Can you hear that?”
“No… hold the phone down so I can hear the mattress squeak.”
That wasn’t possible, since I was using a hands-free headset, so I bounced harder, hoping the people next door couldn’t hear it. The walls were thin in my apartment. “Can you hear it now?”
It got a little tiring after a while. Soon, I didn’t have to fake being a little breathless. “Do you like seeing me jump in the air?” I panted. “Seeing me bring my legs up to touch my hands?”
He did. And ten minutes later, he hung up, another happy customer. I sat on the bed and turned on my laptop around so that I could see the screen. I still had about half an hour left on my shift, and I’d likely get at least one more call.
It felt odd sitting here instead of at my desk. At my desk, it was business. It was a job. I put on an act and I got paid for it. In the bed, well… it felt strange to be waiting for a man to call me when I was on my bed. There hadn’t been a real, live man in my bed for quite some time. Actually never, now that I thought about it. My sister and I had moved to this apartment a few years back, when I was twenty. I’d had one real boyfriend since then, but the few times we’d managed some alone time, we’d gone to his place. And I’d never stayed the night—I would never leave Cara by herself all night.