Page 3 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Oh, look,” I say, checking my nonexistent watch. “It’s time for me to go outside and have a cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke.” She sighs. “Take this guy. Make it quick. You’re allowed to have a call that lasts less than an hour once in a while. I parked him on your extension.”

I grumble, but twenty minutes later, I’m back at her desk, waiting impatiently for my cookies.

Hunter hands me a Sumo orange, my absolute favorite, and a Red Bull.

I accept it, but I probably shouldn’t. “I’ve had enough caffeine to power a heroic group of nerds pulling an all-nighter to save the planet from rogue hackers.” We have few absolute rules here, but not falling asleep on calls is one of them. Along with showing up on time and no outside contact with callers. But no dress code, so, yay? “I should be perky, but I feel like I’m walking through quicksand.”

“Don’t say that. You’re going to summon that guy.”

“That’s fine. I like Randy.” He’s highly entertaining.

“You have paint on your ear.” Another perk of phone sex. I can paint and talk about how hot using mayo for lube is at the same time. She flicks at the offending blob before inspecting the end of my ponytail, where it looks like I dipped it in ochre. “You know it’s okay to take a break, like in a normal job.”

“I solemnly swear I will take care of myself.” I make the Scout’s honor sign. “I feel like crap. The dudes are giving me a headache. They’re bonkers tonight, and I feel terrible about firing Heather.”

“We only have one real rule around this place, other than show up for your shift: talk to a caller outside of work, you’ll be fired. Period. No discussion. She knew exactly what would happen,” Hunter says, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth. She probably feels as bad about it as I do. “It’s a safety risk, and we promised Anastascia that we would have a zero-tolerance policy.” And she’s not wrong. Stalkers are bad.

Ana doesn’t do calls. She’s our financial guru and keeps everything running smoothly. In our earliest days in business, we learned the hard way that if one phone ho—ahem, actress—meets a caller in real life, he can follow the bee back to the hive. That’s why we shitcan people who do it. On the upside, Ana’s run-in with a caller led to her meet-weird with the cop handling our case, and she’s currently living happily ever after. It could’ve gone down very differently though, and we always keep that in mind.

The phone starts ringing again, and Hunter groans. “This shit is out of control.” The caller was waiting for his preferred girl. She connects them and hangs up.

“I’ve had sex with zombies, I gave a thirty-minute sloppy rim job, I had a small-penis humiliation that went on forever—after twenty minutes, I have to repeat insults, and that’s not me doing my best work. Then that guy who likes to go into extreme detail about attacking me. Last but not least, I had to fire one of my favorite people. I’d like to place an order for a human golden retriever, please.”

“So you want something to take the bad taste out of your mouth?” she says with a naughty snicker, and I can’t help but giggle.

“I really don’t like you.” But I do.

“I really don’t like you either.” But she does. She even boops my nose to prove it. “Go take your next call, and I’ll try to find your golden retriever.”

Sigh. “Maybe he’ll be quick?”

“Mo’ minutes, mo’ money,” she says, sounding a little too much like me.

I wander back to my room and talk to a guy who lasts three whole minutes—so much for more money—followed by one who wants me to play his real-life nanny, and then it’s cookie time. I stealth deliver warm, fresh-baked goodness to the sounds of fake orgasms and sexy banter. The whole place is filled with the smell of brown sugar and chocolate.

Playing snack elf brightens my mood. The look of joy in the eyes of the other phoneys is nice too. My love language is carbs and caffeine. Alexandria—real name Sarah—pretends to bow while she fakes a blowjob. The mouthful of Brownie Bite Delight probably helped. I return to Hunter’s desk and drop off the remainders.

“Perfect timing,” she says. “I have your palate cleanser on line three.”

She looks serious, but she’s yanking my chain. I cough-mumble, “Bullshit!”

“And three bingo squares minimum.”

I do the bullshit cough again. “To say that I’m suspicious is an understatement. A real-life palate cleanser and three bingo squares on the hook? That’s a statistical impossibility,” I say, nodding seriously. “I’m tired, but I’m still aware it’s after midnight and now officially April Fool’s Day. Don’t play with me—I’m cranky. I’ll cut a bitch.”

She laughs at my feeble attempt at humor and points at the phone. “Kait, I have a unicorn on hold.”

No lies detected, but that might mean he’s incredibly unique. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Otto Kingsman is our only caller out of thousands who loves jerking off to the sound of Styrofoam containers squeaking. It’s not a quality metric.

“You may go on. You have my attention. Tell me precisely which bingo squares this rare and precious oddity can claim.” I pretend I’m barely interested, but I’m dying to hear the details. She has to be exaggerating. It’s probably some guy who wants to marvel about how big whale dicks are, how some rich dude used their foreskin for barstool covers on his yacht, and the origin of the word dork. I really have upped my trivia game thanks to this job.

“Bingo square one, your favorite square, old-man name and hot, young voice. Square two, polite and respectful⁠—”

“That’s not a real square.”

“Stop interrupting.” She lets out a frustrated huff, and if she rolled her eyes any harder, she’d see the back of her head. “Uses multisyllable words correctly and sounds high-level smart. Did I mention I ran his card for two hours, and it was approved?” Cha-ching goes the cash register sound.