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“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you tip better at Galileo’s?” I demanded truculently.
Florence threw her head back and roared before giving me some additional details. “The number to Devil’s Lair isn’t published anywhere except on the dark web.”
“Oh. So, we’re not going to get some perverts?”
“Don’t you worry. You’re definitely going to get those. They’re just going to be extremely wealthy perverts.”
Truer words were never spoken.
Crossing my legs, I admire the roomful of independent phone sex operators who pay Florence a cut for technical assistance, anonymity, and health care, of all things. This isn’t what you learn in high school, I admit to myself wryly. It’s one thing to tease and flirt with someone you’re interested in.
It’s quite another to do it with anonymous strangers.
It shocked me I had to study, take an exam, and train for weeks before Florence would let me even listen in on one of her calls. She sniffed. “Devil’s Lair has a reputation to protect.”
Counting thirty-five of us on shift at the time, I murmured, “Apparently, a good one.”
After acing Phone Sex 101, I was trained by “Becca,” Florence’s manager, who informed me, “None of us use our real name here, doll. You need to pick one to go by.”
“Such as?”
“Anything you want.”
Whipping out my phone, I Googled the Latin translation for daughter. Then I pronounced my alter ego to be “Filia.”
Becca noted it before giving me a set of milestones, including, “Prepare a character profile because you will be asked about what you look like.” Not to mention the psych and medical evals, plus a security briefing in the event we got any whack jobs.
I admit I balked a little. But then I was reminded, “These men and women are elite,” Becca emphasized. “It’s why we charge such a ridiculous initial five-minute rate and our per-minute rate after is twice the national average.” She then went on to explain pre-payments, gift cards, and other options first level operators offer our callers.
“What happens if you get someone who can’t pay?” I questioned.
Becca’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Well, let’s just say they’re welcome to find their own ‘happy ending.’”
It didn’t take long to settle into my routine—working at the museum or taking Mama to treatment during the day, Devil’s Lair by night, and calls and texts to Ethan through it all.
So far, it seems to be working.
Men, women, aliens can spend as little or as long as they want on the phone in an attempt for me to pull from them anything, be it a prolific conversation about art history to a “cum-and-go” where the person just wants a quick jerk off before they hang up. Nothing’s taboo on a Devil’s Lair call. “Your job is to keep them talking,” Florence reminded me pragmatically.
* * *
For the last four months, I’ve taken part in all kinds of kink calls from the basics where a woman wanted me to describe what I would do if I was in front of her and ordered to drop to my knees before sucking her clit until she came.
I’ve vocally described how I’d give a blow job—with or without prostate massage.
I’ve indulged caller’s fetishes, including being a hunter and capturing my prey, tying them to a table, and cutting off their clothes with my Bowie knife.
And I had a baby who soiled his diaper and who wanted to... my stomach churns when I think about what he used as a lubricant.
Then I went home, called Ethan, and let out my emotional turmoil—couching all of it beneath worrying about my mama and how a little humiliation is worth the one thing I need.
My mom.
Everything’s worth that.
Focusing on Whiskey, I reach over and open the top desk drawer to find my “toys” and suffer mightily for it. My clit, which reacts to no other caller, grazes my jeans. A moan escapes. My nipples pebble up. Since I have no face to go with Whiskey, I conjure up Ethan’s image as I reach for the lawnmower-loud vibrator I purchased off the web.
