• Saturday , 19 April 2014

Dirty Talk

phone sex, adult chat, sex line


Mission two, working as a phone sex strumpet.


I’m going to start with an apology to my postman.

Dear Posty, I know you think I’m deranged but I can explain – that time you knocked on my front door and I answered with red stuff splattered all over me? That was just ink, I’m sorry I startled you.  The time I charged out of the house, and into you, wielding an axe – I had been chopping wood and had run in to answer the phone. The other day when you came to my door and heard me yelping and groaning something that may have sounded like an orgasm. That wasn’t me, that was my alter ego Freya. No, I wasn’t convinced either.


That was on my first day working as a sex line operator. I worked on it for a week as my second mission. I chose this one because I need money to embark on the others – did I earn any? No, brilliantly, I owe my ‘employers’ money. More on that later.

Getting the job was easy enough, I Googled chat jobs and plumped for the first company whose site actually worked, filled in a brief application form, someone called me back within the hour, said she was going to sign me in and listen in on a few calls. All a little too fast, I wanted a day to erm ahh, prevaricate and talk myself out of it. Even as I filled out my application form I was saying; “I’ll just lie and say I’ve done it”. I wasn’t sure I could do it with a straight face, keep my nerve, or think quick enough.

But being thrown in the deep end I realised I had…  found a new talent.  I got the job after a few calls and Freya was off.  (It was after one of these calls when I heard the sound of mail hitting the floor, two metres from where I was sitting.)

My ultra filthy alter ego was a posh bored daddy’s girl, stuck at home with nothing better to do than lay in bed playing with herself. Unless the gardener or cleaner is around.

She almost came to a sticky end when one of her new phone friends wanted to know more about her new polo pony but she merely murmured something admiringly about his glossy haunches and recalcitrant ways. Then had her gardener take her roughly up against the bewildered beast, which I think just about stays within the law.

Illegal topics are forbidden, so no underage sex, talk of incest, drugs or bestiality. Phone strumpets are also not allowed to initiate sex talk (this would be soliciting). They are not allowed to hang up on a customer without saying why, or continue with a silent phone call.  (Or work when you’re ill – I think they mean if you have a cold, saying “do you want me to smear some ….  all over my breads” -  is probably not what most men are after

But anything else goes. Sadly, for the most part it didn’t. Most of my clients had little need for my ample imagination and I found I was having the same conversation again and again, it was all self love and blow jobs:




(Think about it)


But a few would stay on the line while I savoured the delights of my new cleaner,  got deviant on Daddy’s Davenport or got internal with a bottle of 1992 Chateauneuf – these calls were fun. Most of the men were shy and well mannered – if I ‘wouldn’t mind telling them what I was wearing, that would be lovely, thanks’. And were then quite happy for me to lead the conversation.  it was an interesting game to find out what direction they wanted me to take and then it was a case of sitting back with a cup of tea and going for it.

“The thing is, (adopts a posh* bored drawl.) The thing is Paul from Preston, is you think I’m doing this for money, but actually I’m not. I don’t need the money, I’m BORED. I’m stuck here in this big, big house all alone and, I really am lying in bed wearing black lace knickers and stockings because I am…I am…  irredeemably WANTON – a total whore, and I want attention. Are going to give me some attention Paul?  – would you like me to tell you what I did to my cleaner this morning?”

“Erm, ok then.”


The calls that weren’t fun were those from the more dominant callers who would bark orders in a brusque  manner that left me feeling.. well, a bit trashy. You just know these are those men who leer at women while waiting at traffic lights, and who like a creampie. I starting getting tetchy with these men – asking them to say please at least. Before long I would have been saying that ‘no,  I’m not shoving a ten inch black dildo up my backside. I’m in jeans and a nice warm knit, and would you please go away so I can Google pictures of kittens’. Had I continued in this line of employment I’ve no doubt I would have had my knuckles rapped by Office Lady.

(The question my highly amused friends kept asking me is “Can you HEAR them on the other end..y’know. “ Yes, you can, but this didn’t really bother me, I felt utterly detached from them. Besides, was the sign of a job well done.)


*To mix it up I tried working with an accent. I went for West country as this is the one I grew up around, have clearly lost touch as after a minute he went quiet and asked me where I was from “Fowey – it’s near Bristol in Wales, you know it?”



Over the past year or so several people have suggested I work on sex lines;  I’m stuck at home milling around; dreaming up doomed business ventures between school runs, perpetually broke  – “did you see that women on that Channel Four documentary? She earns a fortune

Could I? No. I suppose it’s feasible you could earn ok money being a sex chat operator but it would mean putting in a LOT of hours, and building up a regular client base – clients who would stay on the phone for a long time. And I’m not sure I could do that without asking them if they were ok with this – that they’re not keeping a guilty secret from a partner or running up phone bills they can’t afford. At which point they would no probably go to find another operator.

It is for many an addiction. Someone contacted me and said that using adult chatlines had nearly ruined his life (unfortunately he didn’t want to elaborate) and this stuck in my mind. You could argue that their problem shouldn’t be mine but I wouldn’t be comfortable adopting a purely mercenary approach.


So the numbers.  I was being paid nine pence per completed minute, (this was the rate for 0-16 hours, after sixteen hours the rate goes up to a dizzying seventeen  pence-per-minute). This was AFTER the first minute, so if I was on the phone for 3 minutes 59 seconds I banked eighteen pence.

I would say about half of the calls were around the three/four minute length – Office Lady says the kink for many is sneaking in a call say, on a fag break from work or while their wife is downstairs watching Corrie – it’s the chance of being caught that’s arousing.

If you are on the phone for an hour at the nine pence rate then that’s £5.22, ok for something to do while you’re ironing maybe, but with my line being clogged up with the quickies and the gaps inbetween, I was averaging about £1.50 an hour. And then..

And then.. . there’s a £1 ‘fine’ per dropped/missed call. This is how I came to owe them money. How it works, you see, is you log in to their system to take calls via your landline, then log out when you need to – even if it’s just to go the bathroom (unless you have a caller that wants to go with I suppose).

I was logged in, had just finished ‘paying’ the wine merchant, then went to do the school run – popped round my sisters for a cup of tea… Nipped into the shop to get some milk… Got home, had 32 missed calls. I had forgotten to sign out.

I had earnt about £20 over the past few days, so minus £32 in fines, and the cheeky £2 admin fee they charge for processing your wages, and I owe my employers £14.

So probably a good time to quietly hang up. It was sort of fun, but only until the novelty wore off. Which was quite quickly.


For a bit of fun I asked my Twitter followers for some random words to slip into conversation, here are a few: Queef dangle sluterella  hedgehog, houmous,  cushion, decoupage

“I wish you were teasing me with it right now… yes, dangle it over my face .. just out of reach.”

“The only thing I have to hand is my hairbrush, it’s a huge paddle brush, like a hedgehog but with  a long smooth handle.”

“Really? Even further?”  (omits strange noise that sounds like ‘queef’) Cheating maybe, also gave me the giggles.

“I’m just a complete whore, a deviant, an out of control slutterella…”

“All this talking is making me hungry, I have some houmous, would you like me to smear it all over my breads.” *groans*

“Oh god, I think my Dad’s just come in – I can’t stop – I’m going to have to put a cushion over my face so he can’t hear me.” *nunnery*

Decoupage?? Erm, ok I couldn’t get this one in.



To read, Mission One, Blow Job School, please click here

Related Posts

One Comment

Leave A Comment