“There are guys thinking that they’re talking to a hottie…”
I interrupted. “He tells them that he looks like Britney Spears when she’s hot.”
He was already laughing. “So they think that they’re talking to a Britney Spears hottie, and they’re jerking off with a four-hundred-pound gay man and his electric toothbrush?”
“Yup.” I yawned.
He laughed more. “CLASSIC! I think I like you having this job. Hey, get some sleep.” His voice got a little softer. “And Emmie, you’re one of the pretty girls. Try remembering that, okay?”
Chapter Three
I loved my job. It gave me a chance to finally pursue the things I wanted. My life was good, better than it had been at the paper. I had a routine. I got up in the afternoon, had something light to eat, and met Dennis at the gym, where he did horrible things to me all in the name of fitness. I went to my classes, did some studying, and then went in for my shift. I finished my homework while I worked on the phone, and I was in bed by daybreak. It was an unconventional life, but it was beginning to be a good one.
I liked the girls I worked with. I had friends, honest-to-goodness friends. Raven was a real-life dominatrix, Taylor was putting herself through school, Kendra was a hospice nurse supplementing her income, and Britt was there because she actually did like talking to guys on the phone. Every type of person seemed to be represented. There were students, mothers, grandmothers, wives, musicians, actresses, a drag queen, and a midget. We went out for breakfast at the end of our shift, we chatted on the phone, and I met the girls who attended the same school to study at the library. No one was harsh, there were no bitches, and no one stabbed anyone else in the back. Who knew that girlfriends like that even existed? I didn’t know any of their first names. We used each other’s character names. I was simply Delilah and it didn’t bother me. I liked being someone other than invisible Emily.
There was only one thing I didn’t like about the job. I hated the company I worked for. Dimensions sucked. I hadn’t been there long when I discovered that the security cameras at the door hadn’t been installed to ensure my personal safety. They were there to make sure I didn’t steal anything. The place was riddled with cameras. There were cameras in the break-room, in the smoking room, and in our work area, pointing down at the cubicles to ensure that we didn’t take the sacred black binders or write down any customer information. If an employee was one minute late from a break, she was paged over a loudspeaker and told to get back to her station. A loudspeaker was hard to explain when I was supposed to be all alone at home, lying on my bed naked, waiting for someone to call. Not only did the switchboard watch us like CNN, but Taylor told me that the whole place was wired so “the boss” could see what we were doing from his home, anytime he wanted. I never met “the boss,” but he was a threatening presence in the office. It creeped me out to know that a man I’d never met could go to the fridge, grab a chicken leg, and chow down while watching me on closed-circuit television.
Our calls were recorded. It seemed strange because I thought that a caller had to be advised if there was a chance of being monitored “for quality assurance.” I’m pretty sure most of the men I talked to would scream and hang up immediately if they knew I was being graded and they were being taped.
There were rules, too, way too many rules to remember. If a man used our service and charged the call to his phone, what I could and couldn’t talk about was determined by where he was calling from. There were times when I couldn’t say one dirty word. I couldn’t imagine that frustration, to call and pay for phone sex, and to have the girl talk about anything but sex. That’s what it’s like for a few horny cowboys in Oklahoma. We couldn’t talk about illegal activities, and I had to memorize every state that had sodomy laws. Dennis got a big kick out of that.
If I had a caller who wanted to do something that might cause him harm, I had to prevent him from doing it. At first it sounded easy, but I talked to a man who liked to insert beef jerky into certain body cavities, and I didn’t know if he used regular or spicy. Tabasco just might do something to a guy’s insides. I had to worry about losing my job because of someone else’s choice in dehydrated meats.
We were told they were all FCC guidelines, and there’d be fines if we were caught doing something wrong. I often imagined a group of federal agents busting down the door and hauling me off to jail because I said “tits” to the wrong guy.
I was also uncomfortable talking about a few things. I was bad at domination and humiliation. I hated it. I couldn’t do it. I always felt bad about calling a guy names even if he wanted me to, and I couldn’t talk about flogging without flipping through the binder. I understood it was a lifestyle, but it wasn’t my lifestyle, so all the whipping and torture seemed mean to me. I would feel uncomfortable, and my caller wasn’t satisfied. Meanwhile, a real life Mistress was sitting next to me playing the part of a beach bunny, to her disdain, which I excelled at. We took calls as they came and there was no transferring to another girl, even though it made sense.
I felt like a cheat. My pay was based on how long I kept a guy on the phone, and I had to stall the sex part until the last possible moment. If I didn’t, I’d get fired. It was dishonest to talk about movies when he was really interested in something else.
I hated the signs that were posted right over my desk. Two big skulls looked down and reminded me in big bold letters, TED BUNDY AND JEFFREY DAHMER CALLED PHONE SEX LINES. DO NOT MEET YOUR CUSTOMERS. NO PERSONAL CONTACT!
I doubted the validity of the statement. I’m sure that Mr. Bundy did call phone sex lines, but Jeffrey Dahmer? Maybe he called the Butterball Hotline, but phone sex? It just puzzled me. I would mull it over in my mind; did Jeffrey really call phone sex lines? Did either of them kill any phone sex girls? Those signs were up there because “the boss” didn’t trust us. He thought we were up to something. Like we were trying to steal his business. The signs were a scare tactic. “The boss” was a bully.
The thing I hated the most were the evals. I got graded on the quality of the phone sex I provided. It took me a while to wrap my mind around that one.
My first few evaluations went well. How could they not be? After all, I’d discovered that talking nasty was my gift. It was easy. I said all the right things to get them gasping for breath and promising me diamonds for the pleasure I’d given them.
The night Monica tapped me on the shoulder, I should’ve known there was going to be trouble. Middle-management toadies are the same everywhere. Maybe they’re worse in a phone sex factory. She was the one girl at Dimensions whom I didn’t like. She was fake sweet. The kind of girl who smiles with honey dripping off her lips while she twists the knife into your gut. She reminded me of Dani.
She smiled that saccharine smile. “Lilah, can I see you? I listened to a few calls.”
My stomach dropped. I’d just done a domination call, and I sucked at those. I knew I was in for a beating of the verbal variety if she’d heard it. I prayed that she somehow missed that call.
I sat with Monica as she went over each call. “That’s wonderful, Lilah. You engaged him in small talk and you waited for him to initiate sexual conversation twice. You did a great job; he’ll definitely be calling back.” Then she looked at me and gave me a disappointed frown and held her little clipboard to her chest. “I have concerns about your next call.” She restarted the tape.
“Get on your hand and knees, BITCH!” I sounded like an angry Minnie Mouse.
The caller whimpered, “Yes, Lilah.”
I screeched, “What did you call me? How did I tell you to address me?”
He was crying. “Mistress Lilah, I’m sorry. Please, I won’t do it again, Mistress.”
“You bet your ass you won’t, sissy slut!” I growled at him. “Take your paddle and whack your ass.”
I heard him spank himself, and I screamed again, “HARDER!!”
He started to cry, and I felt horrible. Suddenly mean Minnie Mouse was gone, and Emily was b
ack. I heard myself gasp. “Are you okay?”
My caller was surprised. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not a mean person. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But I…” He was stunned.
I understand the whole domination thing in theory. I know that a mistress and a slave have possibly the most trusting of all relationships. But really—this was just mean. I got all kinds of hang-ups when I did domination.
I blathered on. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t mean to be so hateful.”
He hung up.
I couldn’t blame him. He wanted mean. I gave him Sweet Polly Purebred.
Monica clicked her tongue. “Lilah. I’m going to have to write you up for this. Three disciplinary letters in a year and we will be forced to terminate employment.”
That’s right. Three mistakes and I was outta there. I could make three mistakes in one phone call. It was another reason to hate Dimensions. I was beginning to suspect that they set up impossible standards and enforced them only with the girls who were good. The girls who were making more money.
The truth is, Dimensions was nothing but a phone sex sweat shop. We were chained to our desks with a telephone cord and kept under lock and key. It was obvious we weren’t trusted. I doubt that we were even liked. I loved the girls I worked with. I didn’t even mind the work. But I hated my unseen employers more every day.
One night, as we were walking out together, Taylor slipped me a card. “I’m leaving this place. I can’t take it. It’s like a prison. You should go, too. You’re too good for them.”
I started to ask her a question, but she “shushed” me and gestured at the camera positioned above us. When she got into her car, she looked at me. “Tell Leena I told you to call.”
I looked down at the card she’d slipped me. All it had on it was an 800 number. I felt like I was in a spy novel.
When I got home, I went to bed thinking about Taylor and her mysterious number. I knew I was going to call the second I woke up.
Chapter Four
I dialed the number Taylor gave me first thing in the morning, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about the whole thing. While the phone rang, I considered hanging up, but I knew Taylor wouldn’t steer me wrong. Okay, technically we weren’t on a real first-name basis, but I felt like she was my friend.
“Hello?”
From the sound of it, the person on the other end of the phone sucked helium on a regular basis.
“Taylor gave me this number. She told me to call you.”
The voice gasped. “Oh! You must be Delilah! What’s your real name?”
“Emily. Emily Winters.”
“What did Taylor tell you about me?”
“Honestly, she didn’t tell me anything; she just said I should call you.”
The voice giggled. “You work for Dimensions, right? I love Dimensions; they train all my best girls! I don’t have to teach anyone who worked there anything! I own Phone Kittens — it’s a phone-sex company, all Internet-based. Do you know what that means?”
“Not really.” Okay, she had a helium voice, but she also had a certain charm, a cute directness I liked.
“Here’s the deal. Two of my girls quit, and I’ve got to fill their positions as soon as possible. Taylor’s been waiting for a job to open up, and she recommended you for the other. She said you had a sexy voice and you’re good. Listen, working for me isn’t like working for Dimensions. You don’t have to change your girl’s appearance, accents and all that. I post a picture of a model on the site and that’s who you are. Guys check you out and call, if you’re the type they want to talk to. I hate that one-minute-you’re-blonde-the-next-you’re-Asian bullshit. It’s just easier to keep track of one personality, don’t you think?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer.
“Anyway, they call an 800 number and an extension that goes to your home phone; you take a credit card, run it, and chat away. You can talk about anything you want. Since it’s actually taking place in your home, there aren’t any restrictions. If you don’t want to talk about something, if it makes you uncomfortable, then you don’t have to talk about it. If there’s a caller you don’t like and don’t want to talk to him, I get that too. You don’t click with everyone. We charge two dollars a minute, and it’s a fifty-fifty split. A dollar a minute, not bad, huh? All you need is an Internet service that allows you to be on the phone and on the computer at the same time. So what do you say? I hope you say yes, because I have the perfect girl for you. She is fuckin’ hot. ” She whispered like she was telling me a secret. “I’ve been saving her for the right voice. She’s a little money-maker. If I had the time, I’d be her.”
The pay was better. I had DSL. I could work from home. I had to ask. “Are there evals?” I hated getting graded on my dirty talk.
“Oh, honey, this is just my side job. I’ve got real work to do; I don’t have time for that. If you aren’t doing a good job, the callers will tell me about it.” She paused for a moment. “With your voice, you’re going to get repeat callers. Dimensions didn’t give you that. There are going to be men who call you every week like clockwork. It’ll be cash you can count on.”
I really didn’t need any more convincing. “So when do I start?”
She squealed with delight. “I’m going to send you a picture of the model you’ll be using. Do you mind using the name Peyton? That’s the name of one of my favorite characters on my soap. Make up a back story, what turns her on, all that stuff — and KNOW it. Believe it or not, the guys want to know about personal shit, so give her a family. All my girls have big brothers, huge hulking death-match wrestlers. Callers don’t get too personal after hearing that.”
She squealed again, sharper than before. “I’m so glad you’ll be working for me. I’ll send you an e-mail with my fax number so you can get your social security card and all that to me ASAP. I’ll have Peyton on the site in a few days.”
I felt bad about not giving Dimensions two weeks notice, but then I remembered the skulls above my desk, the constant surveillance, and suddenly it didn’t bother me so much.
“So I’ll talk to you soon!” the voice said.
“Wait, you didn’t tell me your name.”
She giggled again, “My real name is Melissa, but people call me Leena. Leena Von Lash. I’m a professional Mistress. I’ll send you a link to my site, so you’ll know who your boss is.” With that she was gone.
Tinker Bell. That was the first thing I thought when I went to Leena’s web site. She may have been wrapped in leather and wearing thigh-high boots and a stern expression but she was a whip-wielding pixie. She was a Tinker Bell dominatrix, but Tinker Bell all the same. My new boss was a sexed-up Disney character.
I caught my breath when I opened the e-mail that had Peyton’s picture. Peyton was jaw-dropping gorgeous. She had long blond hair that fell in perfect banana curls, her eyes were a light green, her figure was perfection, but what I liked most was the spray of freckles that covered her shoulders. One thing I’d learned at Dimensions was that phone sex was show biz. In show biz, you gotta have a gimmick. Those freckles would be my gimmick. I’d leave the belly rings and pierced nipples to other girls. I like simple and organic. No man would be able to resist when I whispered, “That’s where the sun kissed me.”
Later that day I went to the library. I made copies of my driver’s license and my social security card and faxed it to my Tinker Bell boss. Then I settled down to study. It was always easier at the library than at home.
My mind wandered back to Peyton and the type of girl she was going to be. I liked the thought of having one girl, with one face and one personality. It would certainly be easier to be one person than the porn brigade I was used to portraying.
I knew how I wanted to play Peyton. She wasn’t a horny little bimbo. Something told me that she was as smart as she was sexy. Peyton was nobody’s fool. She was more than a phone kitten. I began scribbling, writing down what I discovered ab
out Peyton in my notebook.
“Hey.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Rick Diaz. I’m in your history class. I sit next to you.”
Rick Diaz needed no introduction. I knew exactly who he was. Every girl in my class knew who he was. I’d bet a fair number of them had fantasized about him “conquering” them when we studied the Spanish exploration of America. I knew I did. In a word, he was hot. He had skin like caramel, dark hair, and dark eyes that I knew smoldered under the right circumstances. He was my age and in my imagination he was a fireman, not the kind that actually fights fires but the kind who travels the country shirtless posing for calendars. On the first day when he came into class and sat down in the desk next to me flashing his I-should-work-for-Crest smile, it took all my strength to concentrate on class and not let my mind wander into some exotic fantasy.
“I know who you are.” I winced inside. Why, oh why, did I always have to be such a dork?
He sat across from me. “I wasn’t sure if you would. You’re so quiet in class. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk. Your name is Emily, right?”
How did he know my name? Normal people didn’t remember my name, much less Latin fireman gods.
“Yeah, Emily. That’s my name.” Spontaneous combustion. That was all I wanted. Only by exploding into a pile of ashes would I escape this conversation with my dignity intact.
He smiled again. “I missed class yesterday, and I was wondering if you’d taken notes.”
“I did, but I don’t have that notebook with me. I just thought I’d work on my math. It’s cooler here than in my apartment. Libraries are always cold, I guess.”
“The good part is you don’t have to pay the bill.”
That’s my life, the best looking man in St. Petersburg, maybe the world, was sitting in front of me, and we were discussing the merits of the public library’s cooling system.
Phone Kitten: A Cozy, Romantic, and Highly Humorous Mystery Page 3