🥵this book is very spicy. 🔞 mature content only. 🔞 if you're not comfortable with that, do not read this. this is your final warning... 🔥
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It's a bit weird being a phone-sex worker.
But you keep a day job still. And for this, you have "working hours."
They're listed on your ad. It felt weird to make a whole ad about it. You try to forget you did.
They're up around hotels, bathroom stalls, clubs.
You're clear to your customers about exactly what they're getting.
You like your system. You take the call, having a small fee for just picking up, and you give ten minutes to discuss what the client wants.
You negotiate kinks and scenarios, get their names and payment info, easing into the actual sex bit. Sometimes, they'll politely ask for a kink you don't jive with and you have to decline, but you can usually offer something that works for both of you.
They're much happier when you figure this out ahead of time before you get into character. They pay almost exclusively in prepaid cards, giving shitty fake names or asking to be called a particular title. That's fine and good. All that matters is getting paid.
You do get the fucked-up callers. The ones already worked up, already panting, trying to get you to pretend to be something that makes you a little sick. Or worse, downright scared.
You hang up without question when that kind of person calls. No thanks. But most people just have strange kinks they can't act out in their real lives.
One calls occasionally wanting you to pretend he's a plant, just talking about watering him, moving him to get sunlight on all sides. He tries to keep silent, and you encourage him to be quiet since plants don't speak, but he can't help it. He loves when you scold him for moaning, orgasming when you say he's a horrible plant. It's weird, but he pays.
Sometimes you get paid to pretend someone is a celebrity. That's not totally unusual, so you act however they want, often an adoring fan. They love fucking their cute little groupie backstage, and you squeal and cry out at how grateful you are to be their fan, to be given this privilege. So, one day, when you get an awkward-sounding caller pretending his name is Mr. Fahrenheit or something, you jump in.
"You want me to be a big fan, begging you for your autograph, right? Can do mister, I-"
"No, no definitely not." he interrupts.
You blink, walking around your apartment to pour yourself a glass of water. That's unusual. "Okay, gotcha. If that isn't what does it for you, totally fine! What would you like?"
He's silent on the line. You get this kind of customer sometimes, the ones that are either new or just sheepish.
"Nothing in particular?" you ask, then offer suggestions, "We can just have a nice conversation sitting on a couch, slowly working up to fucking against the arm of it? Or maybe waking up together? Finding me somewhere, out of my mind-"
You hear a grunt on his end. Bingo.
"That-that last one. Could I maybe, just run into you? And you're drunk in an alleyway after coming out of a bar, and beg me to take you even though you can't see straight..." his voice trails off. You smile.
"Sure thing, Mr. Farenheit. Want me to beg for a stranger's cock because I'm too aroused to think? Anything else? Want me to leave your name out of it?"
