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Nat handed him the extra-large cup with a smirk, and Steve checked the order she’d written on the side. Dark roast, triple shot of espresso and six sugars. She hadn’t bothered putting the customer’s name on it - she knew he’d recognize the order. He worked quickly to prep the order, then called out “Mr. Stark”. An elegantly-dressed arm wearing an expensive watch swooped in to scoop the cup off the counter -- Steve had made sure the top was on nice and tight -- and the genius (gorgeous) billionaire playboy philanthropist himself was heading off towards the executive elevators. Must be a busy day for him, as he usually took the time to say a word or two of thanks, or stuff a few bills in the tip jar.
Sharon touched his shoulder to get his attention. “Oh, Stevie - you’ve got it bad,” she said, chuckling as she looked down at him. Nat nodded her head in agreement. He hadn’t realized his crush on the guy was so obvious. But could you blame him? Tony Stark was handsome, devastatingly charming and brilliant. And (sigh) apparently straight as an arrow; he was constantly on the cover of this tabloid or that, with a different pretty girl on his arm each time. And there was that whole “scoring with twelve out of twelve Maxim girls" rumor. But there was no harm in looking, and maybe dreaming, just a bit.
When he’d interviewed for the job at the fancy coffeeshop on the ground floor of 200 Park Avenue (a straight shot from his dumpy apartment out at the end of the N line) Steve had been up front with the manager, a Mr. Coulson. “I have a disability that affects my hearing - an auditory processing disorder,” he’d said. “Background noise can make it nearly impossible for me to concentrate on what people are saying to me. I can read lips, more or less, and once I get to know someone, it’s easier to pick their voice out of the soundscape, so communicating with co-workers shouldn’t be a problem. But you wouldn’t want me on the counter, taking orders from customers. Otherwise, I can and will do anything else. Make the drinks, bus the tables, sweep the floor, clean the bathrooms. I’ll work the early shift and prep the food for the case. I just need the job.”
And he did need the job. Especially if he wanted to start taking classes again, he needed this job. The insurance money was just about gone, and his brand-new night gig wasn’t guaranteed to cover the bills. Yeah, it paid decently, if you took into consideration the amount of time he was actually on the clock, but there was no real way to predict any given night’s earnings. It certainly wasn’t something he’d ever thought he’d ever be doing, or really even wanted to talk about. It was all Sam’s fault for even bringing up the idea in the first place.
He’d met Sam during a group interview at the college radio station two years ago, where each applicant had to do a cold read of a news segment. In the quiet of the studio, where headphones blocked out all extraneous noise, Steve was in his element, the rich baritone voice coming out of his slight frame always a surprise. His mother had always been a stickler for correct pronunciation, despite having a strong Brooklyn accent herself. His talent for mimicry and a good sense of timing were useful skills as well.
Once they’d been dismissed, Sam caught up to Steve. “Man, I don’t stand a chance - I could listen to you read the phone book. Bet the ladies love it when you talk dirty.”
“I’m not really into ladies.” While Steve wasn’t as obviously out as some of his friends, (Wade came to mind), he had no problem making his orientation clear when it fit into the conversation.
“Huh, my mistake,” and that’s all Sam said about it. They both passed the auditions and got to know each other as they worked overlapping shifts. Things were going pretty well - he enjoyed his classes and had a halfway decent social (and sex) life, for once. But then his mom got sick, and he had to quit school to take care of her. Steve had put his life on hold, and he hadn’t regretted a moment of it. But afterward, the patchwork of scholarships, grants and other subsidies that Steve had been skimming by on had unraveled. So he had to drop out.
Sam was in his final year, double major in psychology and social work, and let Steve crash at his place until his mom’s probate case worked its way through the system and her insurance policy paid out. Sam had been invaluable to Steve during his darkest days; in retrospect, he wasn’t sure he’d have made it through without him. But being so close meant that he knew exactly how get under Steve’s skin.
“Just need to find you a sugar daddy and you’d be all set. It’s a shame you don’t have the clothes to go clubbing...”
“Seriously, Sam? Have you ever seen me at a club? I can’t dance worth a lick, and there’s no way I could understand a word anyone spoke to me.”
“You’ve got a few moves, Steve-o. And don’t underestimate the importance of body language!” Sam shimmied around the room, wiggling his eyebrows and shaking his ass in an intentional parody of sexiness.
“Jesus, Sam, if that’s all you got, no wonder you haven’t gotten laid in months.”
“Hey - I got some just the other night, I’ll have you know. But a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” He paused for a moment, his ‘I have an idea’ look flashing across his face. “Steve, I bet if you got a job working a phone sex line, you could get yourself a couple of repeat customers, find out who’s sitting pretty and make your move.”
“I don’t think it works like that, Sam. I really don’t.”
“Could be worth looking into, bro. You’ve got plenty of experience being on mic; and I know you’ve got a filthy mind. How hard could it be? Pun intended.”
And then Sam wouldn’t let go of it - Steve getting a job as a phone sex operator. He kept sending articles and links to discussion threads online. Most of the workers interviewed were women, but surely it wasn’t that different for guys working in the industry. It looked to be halfway decent money; and the flexibility was a plus, allowing him to work another job, and maybe even go back to school someday.
The interview with Fury Enterprises was (appropriately enough) over the phone. Steve had expected the equivalent of a casting couch, but Ms. Hill pretty much just went through the contract with him, explained how they operated, etc. An incoming client would be asked what they were looking for, and the dispatcher would match them with a performer (they called their employees “performers” at Fury Enterprises) with the requisite interests/abilities. Calls could be charged on a per-minute rate, or as blocks of time with the customer having the option to extend the block. The dispatcher lets the performer know what to expect from the call in terms of client preferences (if known) and rate type, so they can plan their call accordingly.
“The per-minute clients will want you to get right to the good stuff, while the block callers probably want more of a scenario in mind, a story to go along with the phone sex. Any improv skills you have will be put to the test.” She went on to mentione that each performer has a virtual tip jar that their clients can donate to. “Most performers can pull in an extra 15-20% over their billed take every week. Just don’t be obnoxious about mentioning it. It’s part of the spiel the dispatcher gives before the caller gets turned over to you.”
Ms. Hill then went into detail as to the types of calls he could expect - with BDSM elements being most common. Steve had never been into that scene, other than a bit of spanking in the heat of the moment and impromptu tying up, but he was open to the thought. “With your voice, I’d recommend adding Dom to your list of interests and abilities; but if you’re willing to play the sub role too, that opens you up to more calls.” she stated matter-of-factly.
Steve raised his voice a half-octave and let it get a little breathy. “Yes, ma’am, whatever you want, just tell me what to do and I’ll be so good for you,” throwing a little moan into the ‘so good.’
She hummed approvingly. “Not bad, kid. A good imagination will take you a long way. There’s reading assignments in the hiring packet as well to help make sure you’re up to speed. We do have a hard line - nothing underage. Barely legal is OK; you, the client or both. But if they explicitly ask for a child, tween or teen scenario, you can and should hang up. It won’t be held against you. That’s why we record every call - if the client complains, we review and see what really went down.”
That had been a concern of his. Steve believed he could role play even some of the more questionable kinks, but just the thought of child porn made him queasy.
“As for your setup, you’ll need a computer -- nothing too fancy -- and and internet connection for the chat and tracking systems we use. Performers are expected to work at least one dispatcher shift a week. Six hours at $12.50/hr - with some flexibility as to when you take the shift. You’ll also need a landline, is that a problem?”
“No ma’am.” One benefit of living in an old building; his internet might be slow, but the phone line was rock-solid.
“I think that’s it, then. If you’re interested, we’ll bring you on for a 30 day trial period, at which point we’ll meet back for a formal review and go from there. I can send out the paperwork in the morning; but in the meanwhile, how about you listen in on a few calls, make sure this is something you really want to do?”
She conferenced in one of her “old-timers”, a soft-spoken man named Bruce. The three of them chatted briefly, then Ms. Hill hung up. Bruce walked Steve thru setting up the IM client they used on his laptop, then put Steve’s connection into ‘listen only’ mode.
Bruce’s first call was pretty much what Steve had expected, a fairly detailed description of relatively vanilla sex - oral leading to anal, with Bruce bottoming. Steve found himself getting a little aroused; after all, he’d had a bit of a dry spell, and both men sounded as if they were having a very good time.
“So - what do you think?” Bruce IM’d him after the caller had rung off.
“Sounded convincing from here. I assume you didn’t actually come?” Steve typed back.
“Oh no - after two calls I’d be done for the day. :^D Jacking off while on duty is a bad idea. Besides, not everything we deal with is gonna be a turn on for you. Case in point, I’ve got a regular who’ll be calling in soon. What he likes is ... pretty intense and certainly not for everyone. It might be a little tough to listen to. If you need to hang up, that’s cool. We can chat about it afterwards.”
Bruce’s next caller sounded like he was at least in his 60’s and the scene ramped up immediately. Bruce became a loud, violent Dom abusing the hell out of his client, calling him a piece of shit and other insults. He told Thad just how tightly he was tied up and how he was whipping him for being such a bad boy. The actual sex he described was incredibly rough as well; in Steve’s all-too-vivid imagination, Thad was bruised and bleeding, inside and out. But it sounded as if he was really getting off on it, and he whispered a breathy “Thanks” before hanging up.
“You still there, kid?” Bruce IM’d.
“Um - yeah. Just... trying to process it all.”
“Don’t freak out - Thad is WAY out on one end of the bell curve . Most calls are only going to be a bit more kinky than the first one. The dispatchers won’t send you any known hardcore clients first off. And if you decided a new client’s kinks aren’t for you, put it in the notes and they’ll send him or her to another performer next time.”
Before Steve could formulate a reply, Bruce added, “ And if you’re wondering - hell, no, I don’t get off on that at all. But I can cope with it better than some of the other performers, and it’s somehow cathartic. Helps me deal with my anger issues.”