PROLOGUE
Call Log:
11:51 PM
Name: Katherine (1st-time caller)
Notes: None
Rush used to hate when they left the notes empty. Back when he first started the job, knowing what a caller wanted from him helped chase away the niggling uncertainty he'd felt about the job as a whole.
After all, it was one thing to dirty-talk a woman in bed, in the heat of the moment. It was a complete other to have one cold-call you, give you nothing to work with, and come up with a one-sided script right on the spot.
He'd learned fast that the reasons a woman called varied from one end of the spectrum to the next. Some just wanted to chat about their days, about their stress level, have someone who would actually listen to them, even if they had to pay for it.
Others, well, others wanted you to pretend to be their Dom, telling them they were bad girls who needed to be punished, and all the ways you intended to do that to them.
Rush had needed to brush up on his kink knowledge pretty soon after signing on with Fee. He spent his time between calls online looking at BDSM toys and protocols.
Fiona had been a proactive boss, handing him a welcome package the day of hire that included dozens of pages of different kinks, lists of euphemisms, anything she had come across during her time as a phone sex operator that she thought might be useful to someone new at the gig.
Maybe the information would have been enough for the male callers. But Rush quickly found that the women had higher expectations, that he wasn't selling them a quick orgasm, but rather an entire experience, a full-blown fantasy.
So he delved deep into his studies.
He couldn't claim to have been the best student in school. He'd always been half-ready to get onto the next thing, always chasing something.
Then again, the subjects in school weren't nearly as interesting as all the different ways you could turn a woman on with only your voice, your words.
Research, that was what the book on his desk was all about. The one with the half-clothed dude and the woman with a mask on her face.
It was some story about a sex club.
If he were being completely honest with himself, though, he would admit that he actually found himself enjoying the books he'd been reading as "research."
He'd never been much of a reader in the past, either. Then again, these books were a lot more... stimulating than anything else that had been forced on him at school.
Taking a deep breath, then a sip of the coffee he'd been sipping to keep him up on the night shift, the time when women were much more likely to call, he hit the button, accepting the call.
"Hey, baby," he crooned into the receiver.
He'd tried all sorts of pet names for callers, but "baby" had overwhelmingly produced the best results.
There was a long enough silence that his brows furrowed, that he glanced down to make sure it was still ongoing.
"You there, Katherine?" he went on.
As much as women liked "baby," they also really fucking liked it when you used their names. At first, he figured it had something to do with building some intimacy when the situation could sometimes make it difficult.
After trying it out in his personal life—with his very casual interactions with the other sex—though, he concluded that it was just a quirk, something he was grateful to the job for figuring out.
"Yeah," a small voice whispered.
A lot of them started off quiet, unsure. He couldn't figure calling a phone sex line was something most women could ever see themselves doing, no matter how hard-up. It could take a bit to get them out of their shells.
Luckily for him, he'd never been shy, had always been good with women. That was why Fee thought he was good for the job in the first place.
"Good. How you doing, baby? Had a long day?" he asked. They usually did. Hell, who didn't? Adulthood, he found, was just one long day after the next.
He'd grossly underestimated that fact until recently, had taken Kingston for granted for always shouldering that pain-in-the-ass adult shit.
Now, though, he was on his own.
So he knew a thing or two about having days he wanted a break from. Which was what these women were looking for, to slip away from their worlds for a little bit, to fall into the fantasy he provided.
"Yeah," she told him in that small voice.
"Well, I'm here now," he told her, leaning back, resting his legs on his desk, crossing his ankles. "I will make you forget all about it," he told her.
He started by telling her about his day, about how he was stressed, then segued into how when he was stressed, how he needed release.
On the other end of the phone, he could hear Katherine's breathing getting a little quicker, a little more uneven, getting into the mood, getting turned on.
It was a job.
He'd taken a bunch of calls since starting.
Even when things got heated, it had always been what it was.
A job.
There was detachment.
But, he found as this client's ragged breathing became little whimpers, he could feel a telltale tightening in his chest, his own breathing getting more ragged.
Turned on.
But no.
That didn't seem possible.
She wasn't even saying anything, wasn't filling his ear—and mind—with some filthy-ass shit he hadn't even thought of before like some of the callers did.
He was probably just hot, he tried to tell himself, fanning himself with his book. Whoever was in charge of the thermostat at the office kept it at like seventy-five degrees.
"Are you wet for me?" he asked a moment later, hearing a throaty mewling noise. "What was that, baby?" he asked. Not usually one for nagging, he wanted—needed—to hear it.
"Y-yes," she whimpered.
There was no use denying it after that, though.
His cock was thick and straining in his jeans at her little admission.
"Fuck," he hissed to himself, then remembered where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. "Are you going to work your clit for me?" he asked, taking slow, deliberate breaths, trying to ease the aching need.
This wasn't about him.
This was about her.
The caller.
The fucking client.
If he was going to start getting hard on the job, he might as well get a job as an escort instead of a phone sex worker.
His gaze moved to the clock on the wall, trying to listen to the irritating ticking instead of the whimpers on the other end of the phone.
"Yes," she whispered in response.
"Are you thinking about my hand?" he asked, voice getting thicker. "My tongue?" he pressed. The response to that was louder, throatier. "Yeah," he agreed. "How do you like it? Slow, fast?" he asked, trying not to let his mind go there, create a scene as well. His cock was already straining. It didn't need any more ammunition.
Still, he couldn't seem to stop himself from wondering about her.
She sounded younger, but plenty of older women had sweet, small voices too.
Was she blonde? Brunette? Long-haired? What did her eyes look like when she was turned on? Did she arch her back, writhe her hips? Was she the type to run her hands up and down her body, feed into the fantasy, roll her nipples, squeeze her breasts? Or did she close her eyes, grip the sheets, get completely wrapped up in the moment, in the sensations?