by Jason Luke
“Okay,” Gabrielle said, and then April cut across the conversation smoothly before the caller could ask any further questions.
“Thanks for calling, Gabrielle,” April said, and then the station went to a bracket of commercials. April sat back in her chair and eyed me with appraising regard.
“Pretty good,” she said around a smile.
“Thanks,” I said. I tugged the headphones off and slumped back in the chair. I felt relieved. I hadn’t realized how tense I had been.
“But slow down when you speak,” April offered. “You Australians speak quickly – too quickly for us to follow sometimes because your words run together. Your accent is very fucking sexy, Jericho, but you need to slow your speech down so all of us girls can appreciate it. Okay?”
I nodded. Behind the thinly veiled flirt was some sound advice. I clamped the headphones back over my ears and waited for the next call to be put through.
I heard the tail of a commercial for a local car dealership, and then April tapped a key on the keyboard and we went live to air.
“Jericho, our next caller is Tracy from Back Bay who wants to know how a woman should go about finding a Master for herself.”
“Hello, Tracy,” I said evenly. “Thanks for phoning in.”
“Hi,” the woman said. She sounded younger than the first caller, and she had an effervescent friendliness to her voice. “Thanks for taking my call.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “I understand you are curious about the lifestyle, and that you are looking for a Master?”
“That’s right,” Tracy said. “I have been interested in BDSM for quite some time, but so far haven’t met the kind of man to turn my fantasies into reality. Any advice?”
I sat forward in the chair so the mic was close to my mouth and tried to remember April’s insightful advice. “Finding the right man is a challenge for lots of submissive women,” I said slowly and deliberately. The effect was to lower my voice so that it became a deeper rumble. That wasn’t intentional – but across the desk I saw a little flush of color rise from under the collar of April’s blouse and spread across her chest and neck. She sat back in the big leather chair and her eyes were fixed on me, her expression wistful and dreamy.
“The most important thing is not how you meet your Master, but how you go about ultimately selecting the man you want to submit to,” I said. “Too many submissive women are too quick to offer themselves to the first man who says he is a Dom. That’s not always the best way to choose.”
Tracy made an “Uh-huh,” sound, encouraging me to continue. I stared off into the distance, and let the silence of the darkened studio envelop me so that it seemed for a while as though I was alone with my thoughts, the room lit only by the ghostly glow of the computer monitors.
“A lot of submissive women tend to search for a Master online, or at one of the social meetings that take place within their communities,” I explained. “Most cities across America have local groups of like-mined people who are involved in the BDSM lifestyle. That’s where a curious woman is often introduced to new people and gets a chance to begin to explore the submissive aspects of her personality – but I would caution you against accepting the offer of the first guy who comes along.”
“Uh-huh,” Tracy said again. “But shouldn’t a submissive woman accept the offer of a Dom? I mean, if she really is submissive, wouldn’t she just obey a man who approached her?”
I frowned. “No,” I said pointedly. “You’re confusing being submissive with something else. Just because a woman feels she is sexually submissive, that doesn’t mean she automatically is available – or has to give herself – to the first man who claims he is a Dom. As a submissive, you have every right to refuse any and all propositions. This is not about sex – this is about substance, Tracy.” I could sense my words running together as I locked on to a train of thought and tried to explain my beliefs. I took a deep breath and forced myself to slow my words down. The deliberate speech seemed to give everything I said new emphasis.
“You have every right to choose a man who you feel comfortable and compatible with,” I explained. “No woman should feel obliged to surrender herself to a Master just to demonstrate her own willingness to submit. In fact, the opposite is true. As a submissive, you have the ultimate power in any BDSM relationship you choose to get into.”
Tracy almost laughed. I could hear a mirthless, cynical little chuckle in the headphones, and I wondered for a moment whether I was getting through to her. “That’s not what I have been told,” the woman said wryly. “I was told by a guy that if I really was submissive, then I should be available to any Dom who was interested in me.”
“That’s bullsh- …not true!” I cut myself off. “The guy was trying to manipulate you, Tracy. Submissive or not, you are still a woman, and still a person. You’re not a box on a shelf, waiting to be picked up by anyone who wanders past and is interested. You have rights – the right to choose the Master you want, based on the man’s substance, his experience, his compatibility and his compassion. There is no point giving yourself to a Master if he is heavily into pain and punishment, if that’s not an aspect of the lifestyle that intrigues you equally.”
Across the desk, April was watching me closely. She held up her hand like a cop stopping traffic and leaned close to her microphone.
“Thanks for the call, Tracy. Unfortunately we will have to leave it there. Jericho, Christine is waiting for you on line nine. She has a question about sex toys…”
The hours went by in a blur – a procession of women who were curious and fascinated by the BDSM lifestyle. Most of the calls were similar, and yet everyone’s personal experiences were different. More than anything else, I sensed a genuine fascination, and a thirst for knowledge. By quarter-to-four I was bleary eyed, and my throat felt like it had been sandpapered. I glanced up at the clock and then across to April. She waved her arms in the air like she was trying to throw her hands away.
“Little girls room,” she mouthed the words, as I finished up another call. Then she held up three fingers.
I finished the call and thanked the lady for her question. April disappeared out through the studio door in a cloud of fragrance, her handbag clutched under one arm. I glanced past her empty chair and saw Cecily in the director’s booth at her desk. She had her back to me, and the phone pressed to her ear. She was hunched over, as if the conversation was clandestine.
I leaned across the desk and pressed the keyboard. There was a click in my headphones, and then a soft sensual woman’s voice, sounding breathless and husky.
“Jericho?”
“Hello,” I said. “What is your name?”
“Sondra,” the woman said. There was something different in her tone, something vaguely familiar that puzzled me. I frowned in the darkness for an instant before replying.
“Hi, Sondra. Do you have a question for me?”
“No,” the woman breathed. “I have a fantasy.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Really? Well I’d like to hear it, and I’m sure the other listeners would too.”
“Are you sure?” the woman’s voice was tantalizing. “It’s very erotic…”
I glanced once more through the wide window. I saw Cecily run one of her hands through her hair. The phone was pressed tightly to her ear, her body almost doubled over on the chair.
“Sure…” I said. I was distracted by Cecily’s curious secrecy. I glanced through the open studio door but saw no sign of April. “Sure,” I said again more clearly. “Tell me what sexy thoughts have been fuelling your imagination, Sondra.”
The woman gave a little gasp and then I heard a sound like she was moistening her lips. I narrowed my eyes.
“My fantasy starts with me lying in my bed – all alone,” Sondra’s voice was unnaturally thick with a raw sensuality. “I’m awake, and I’m naked. The window is open, and it’s warm, Jericho. One of those hot summer nights when you lie awake, all hot and sticky…”
“I know the k
ind of night you’re talking about,” I muttered. Beyond the open studio doorway I could see nothing but shadows. Sondra started telling me about her fantasy and I snatched the headphones off for a second to see if I could hear the echo of April’s footsteps coming back down the hall.
Nothing.
I thrust the headphones back on.
“….and then he stands over me and tells me that I am to be his toy for the night. He tells me that he wants me to surrender my mind and my body to him,” Sondra was saying.
“And do you?” I asked mechanically. I was distracted and becoming anxious. Cecily was still turned away from me, still talking earnestly on the phone in the next room, and April hadn’t returned. My frown deepened and then I heard Sondra gasp suddenly. My attention snapped back to the voice of the woman caller.
“I don’t have a choice,” Sondra purred breathlessly. “I want to surrender. This guy is dark and handsome, and there is a raw masculine energy about him – I can feel it like an electric charge between us. As if they are beyond my control, I slowly spread my legs on the bed and I see a glimmer of wicked hunger in my man’s eyes.”
“He sounds mysterious,” I said.
“He is,” Sondra whispered. “I never see his face clearly. It’s all touch and scents, the man-smell of him and the brush of his fingertips as he lazily caresses his fingers across my body, inching them higher and higher until I can feel his palm pressing against the flesh of my breast.”
“And what does he do, this fantasy man of yours?” I asked quietly. I was still distracted. In the producer’s booth, Cecily suddenly stood up and glanced over her shoulder so that for a split-second our eyes locked. She turned away guiltily, the phone still held close to her mouth, her hair falling down to obscure her face.
“He plucks at my nipple,” Sondra went on, her voice becoming huskier and her breathing like a gasp of muffled pleasure. “I feel my flesh harden, and then he wraps his hand around my throat, pinning me to the bed like some new exotic butterfly to be added to his collection.”
“Does this fantasy man undress?” I asked.
“No,” the woman said. “He just stands over the bed, and I can feel his eyes hungrily devouring me.”
“Does that turn you on?” I filled a brief moment of silence. “Do you enjoy being watched?”
“I love it,” the words escaped Sondra’s lips like an impassioned exclamation of pain. “I fucking love being watched – and I think this beautiful man of my imagination knows it because he tells me to reach down between my parted thighs and touch myself.”
“Do you obey him?”
“Willingly,” Sondra said. She sounded breathless, as though she had been running. I heard her gasp softly, and then I had a sudden unbidden image of Cecily’s face contorted in a spasm of pleasure, her eyes wrenched tightly shut, her mouth open in a silent moan of ecstasy.
“And do you come?”
“Yes!” the caller groaned. “I can’t help myself. My fingers fly between my legs and I can feel the heat in me rising. I glance up at my fantasy man and his face is twisted into a sly grin of satisfaction. That’s what sends me over the edge, Jericho – the look on my man’s face. Suddenly I am arching my back off the bed and writhing as my orgasm unleashes itself.” Sondra’s voice faltered and then broke like a wave being dashed upon rocks. I could hear the hiss and rasp of her breath, and a new image flashed before my eyes – a vision this time of April, the creamy pale flesh of her body undulating on a bed of silk sheets, her flaming red hair fanned out across the pillow and the press of her heels deep into the mattress as her body began to tense in orgasm.
As quickly as it arrived, the erotic image flashed from my mind. I could hear ragged breathing on the other end of the phone – and then sudden silence.
“Sondra?”
Nothing.
“Sondra, are you still on the line?” I frowned, listening carefully. I heard nothing but dead air.
I glanced up and saw Cecily standing with her face pressed close to the glass window of the producer’s booth. She had put down the phone and was miming for me to fill in extra time by pinching the fingers of her hands close together and then drawing them apart.
I nodded. “Well listeners,” I glanced furtively at the big clock on the wall, “we’re almost out of time for our first night together. I’ve got to say it was a lot of fun –” I paused for just an instant as April suddenly came scurrying back in through the open studio door. Her hair was awry, and there were hectic splotches of high color on her cheeks. She threw her handbag down on the floor and reached out over the desk to swing the boom arm of her microphone close to her mouth.
“And I am sure every single lady in Boston tonight enjoyed your company too, Jericho!” she said gaily. She flashed sparkling green eyes at me, and her lips curled into a smile like satisfaction. “Lovers and lonely hearts, this is your girl April, saying goodnight, and sleep tight… if you can.”
April stabbed a finger at the keyboard and I heard the sound of a commercial for a local finance company fill the headphones. April drew a delicate, painted fingernail slowly across her throat in the ‘cut-out’ gesture, and I wrenched the headphones off my head and slumped back in the chair, utterly exhausted and vaguely disturbed.
And suspicious…
“Sorry!” April breathed. She was flustered. She waved her hand apologetically and then combed her fingers hurriedly through her hair. “I was a bit longer in the ladies’ room than I thought.”
I narrowed my eyes for an instant, and then shrugged. “It’s okay,” I said with offhanded coolness. “I managed.”
Chapter 4.
I woke to the sound of my cell phone ringing insistently. I pried one eye open. I was lying fully clothed across the bed. There was a wedge of bright sunlight creeping across the threadbare carpet, angling through a chink in the curtains. I reached for the phone and grunted.
“I don’t know who you are,” I said thickly, “but piss off.”
I threw the phone down and rolled over.
I could hear the muffled sounds of footsteps in the stairwell beyond my tiny apartment, and somewhere through the paper-thin walls a baby was crying.
The phone rang again.
Before I could swear, the bright but urgent voice of a young woman started talking. “Jericho, it’s Cindy, Ms. Collett’s assistant from the radio station. Ms. Collett would like to see you in her office as soon as possible.”
I sat up with a groan. Cindy?
Suddenly I remembered the nervous young woman. I squeezed at my temples and then scraped my fingers through my hair.
“What time is it?”
“After nine,” young Cindy said earnestly, and somehow made the words sound like an accusation.
I took a deep weary sigh of breath and swung my legs off the bed. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I dropped the phone and stumbled down the hall. My head felt stuffed with the cotton wool of fatigue so that I swayed on my feet in the shower.
When I reached the ground floor of the downtown building, a security guard met me in the foyer. He eyed me suspiciously. It was a different man from the old guy who had let me into the building the previous night. He hooked his thumbs into the bulky equipment belt around his waist and ran narrowed eyes over me.
“You in the right place, fella?” he asked, with a wary edge to the genial tone.
I pointed up at the ceiling. “Radio station,” I said.
The guy nodded. He went to his desk to make a brief muttered call and came back more relaxed. He followed me to the elevator.
“Have a nice day,” his mouth tugged into the shadow of a smile.
“Not bloody likely,” I said and thumbed the button for the eighth floor.
My body craved sleep. I caught my reflection in the polished steel wall of the elevator and tried to flatten the unruly curls of dark hair. My eyes were inflamed and red-raw. I rubbed my hand across my chin and felt the electric crackle of unshaven stu
bble.
The elevator stopped. A bell chimed. I took a deep breath and then stepped out into the reception area of the radio station, scowling darkly with an expression like thunder.
Chapter 5.
“I listened to your show last night,” Nancy Collett reclined back in her chair and steepled her fingers like an evil villain in deep contemplation. “I thought you handled yourself rather well – considering it was your first time on the air.”
“Thanks,” I muttered with a surly grunt. “You could have told me that over the phone – when I had woken up.”
The expression on Nancy’s face froze – a fixed smile wrung free of humor. She narrowed her eyes a little and sat upright.
“It’s Tuesday morning,” Nancy said suddenly, and her voice snapped with new authority. “And every Tuesday morning there is an on-air announcers’ meeting, in this office, starting at 8.30am. You’re late, and I don’t appreciate your tone.”
I flinched. “I didn’t know anything about a meeting,” I protested.
Nancy shrugged her shoulders. “Not my problem. You should have been told.”
“Well I wasn’t.”
“Well, quite frankly, I don’t give a shit,” Nancy’s tone leveled and filled with menace. “That’s what happens, and you are expected to attend.” She stood up and planted the palms of her hands flat on the edge of her desk. Her fingers were long and delicate. I saw no rings, just a sparkling diamond bracelet around one thin wrist of smooth flawless skin.
She eased herself back down into the deep chair and let out a long breath. I sat motionless – hovering on the edge of storming out of the office.
I did nothing.
Nancy said nothing.
We stared across the space at each other like two gunslingers, each one bristling, waiting for the other to draw, and for long tense moments the silence drew out.
