Finally Nancy Collett sighed. “When you are on the air, I want you to try slowing down the speed of your speech,” she said with restraint. “You started off talking too fast through a few of the early calls, but got better towards the end of the night.”
I nodded. I felt my lips pressed into a thin resentful line. “April said the same thing,” I admitted grudgingly. “I’ll work on it.”
Nancy nodded, seemingly relieved. She tiptoed delicately to the next subject while our tempers cooled.
“How did you find working with April? Was she helpful?”
I shrugged. The truth was I didn’t know enough about my new job yet to tell whether the woman was a good operator, or a bad one. “She seems pleasant enough,” I said without any real enthusiasm. “She’s very vivacious. Very friendly…”
Nancy pursed her lips into a knowing little pucker. She nodded her head. “April gives the impression that she is a wild girl – an outrageous flirt. The real April isn’t anything like that. What you saw last night was a character. It is how she presents herself to the public, not who she really is.”
I sat back and thought about that for a moment. If what Nancy said was true, April was a highly skilled actress. She had fooled me.
“And what about your producer?” Nancy glanced down at a sheet of paper on her desk. “You worked with Cecily last night, right?”
I nodded my head, and then shrugged again. “Everything seemed to go well,” I said. “They both tried to make the job as easy as possible.”
That seemed to please Nancy. She crossed her legs and swung the chair to one side so that I could see her expensive heels. “And what about the callers?” she asked suddenly, and I sensed this was the real purpose of the meeting. “Any observations?”
I thought back to the long hours of talking to women and answering their questions. I clasped my hands together and leaned forward in the chair. “There is a lot of curiosity out there,” I said. “More than I expected, and more than Cecily expected too. She seemed quite shocked that every line lit up, and I was taking calls non-stop for the entire show. There certainly is a demand and a market for this kind of information.”
Nancy nodded her head and a thin I-told-you-so smile touched one corner of her mouth. “As I said, I listened to the show.”
I sat back. “Well you tell me,” I challenged without any heat in my voice. “What did you think about the calls?”
Nancy became contemplative, like she was carefully choosing her words.
“A lot of the questions seemed to follow the same lines,” she said, and began to frown a little. “It might be the one unexpected obstacle.”
“Obstacle?”
She nodded. “If people hear you explaining the same basic concepts over and over again for each new woman who calls, there is a chance the general audience will grow tired and turn off. We need to keep the show fresh, with new information and new ideas each night.”
I nodded. It made sense. “Do you have any ideas you want to suggest?”
Nancy smiled winningly and held up a pointed finger for attention. “I do actually,” she kept right on smiling, watching my face. “I think we need more fantasy calls. A mix of information and pure eroticism.”
I nodded slowly. “I’m listening.”
Nancy became brusque and business like. She rifled the pages on her desk like they contained information that was relevant, but that I had no right seeing.
“You had one woman call last night – late last night. Her name was…” she turned a page over and ran her eyes quizzically down a fresh page.
“Sondra,” I said. Nancy looked up. “Her name was Sondra. I think she was the last call.”
“Yes!” Nancy’s eyes sparkled with a predatory kind of gleam. “Sondra and her fantasy about the strange man in her bedroom.” She picked up a pen and pointed it at me like a dagger to emphasize her words. “We need more Sondras… or we need Sondra to call in every night with a new fantasy. Either way, that’s exactly the kind of pure erotica we need to sprinkle like sugar between the information calls.”
Chapter 6.
When I arrived at the station that night, April was waiting for me at the end of the corridor beyond the walls of the studio. She was standing by a coffee machine, hip thrust out provocatively, and a mirthless smile on her face. She watched me come towards her and shifted her weight, arching her back a little so that her breasts were even more apparent. She was wearing a simple t-shirt and tight-fitting jeans. I could see the shadow of her bra through the fabric. She batted her eyes in a parody of a flirt.
“I didn’t see you at the meeting this morning,” she said, and I wondered for an instant if she was being malicious, or merely curious.
“I didn’t know there was a meeting,” I said. April gestured an invitation for coffee and I shook my head.
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” she became suddenly serious.
“No.”
April frowned into the contents of her cup and then glanced up at me, her head tilted, her eyes wide and artless. “Sorry,” she said, “maybe I was supposed to give you the message…”
I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shrugged my shoulders. “Forget it.”
April went quiet for thoughtful moment. “Did dragon-slayer-horror-bitch tear you a new one?”
I looked puzzled. April smiled but there wasn’t a lot of humor in the expression. “Nancy fucking Collett,” she explained. “Did she get upset?”
It was an interesting insight into how the on-air staff saw their boss. Clearly the General Manager wasn’t going to win a popularity award.
“She was… frosty,” I understated.
April shook her head. Her hair swished like a lion’s mane across her shoulders and the big hoop earrings jangled. She sipped at the coffee and her face wrenched into an expression of revulsion. I wasn’t sure if the coffee, or her impression of our boss had caused it.
“She’s a hard bitch, that one,” April nodded sagely. “The woman has ice in her veins.”
I molded my features into a neutral expression. “What makes you say that?” I encouraged.
April threw her coffee into the trash bin. The wreckage of it steamed.
“In the last three months she has fired two good on-air talents, as well as a damned fine producer. She’s a hard bitch – and she seems to like being that way.”
I was about to probe more when I saw April’s gaze flick past my shoulder and an instant later I heard the heavy fall of footsteps on the carpet. I glanced behind me. A grey-haired man was coming towards us. He looked like a hippie. He was in his fifties or sixties with a ragged little scruff of a beard, and a glittering diamond earring in one ear. His long hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His shirt was a loose-fitting tie-dyed thing that looked like it had been salvaged from a second-hand store, and his boots were scuffed and as tired looking as the man who wore them. He waved to April and she smiled back brightly.
I turned to meet the man. He had his hand extended.
“You must be Jericho James,” the guy said. His voice had a rich timber to it.
“I must be,” I said. We shook hands.
I felt April’s touch. She leaned close to me so that I could sense the heat of her body. Her hip pressed firmly against my leg. She draped herself over my shoulder in the intimate familiar gesture of a girlfriend.
“Jericho, this is Grover.”
I nodded. “Hi,” I said. “First or last name?”
“Both,” the man said without affectation. “Everyone just calls me Grover.”
April’s breath was a warm tickle against my neck, the scent of her perfume enveloped my senses. “Grover is the station’s best producer,” April explained. “He will be working with us tonight. He used to be an announcer – back in the day.”
I studied the man with renewed interest. He certainly had the voice for it.
“Well it’s good to meet you,” I said. “But I thought Cecily was going to be our regular produc
er.”
Grover smiled. “Ain’t nothing regular at this station, bucko,” he said and dragged his fingers through the straggle of his beard. “The only thing you can count on for sure – is the unexpected.”
I sensed there was deeper meaning to Grover’s comment, but this wasn’t the time or the place. It was almost midnight.
“Did Miss Collett brief you both about the show tonight?” I asked.
April shook her head. Grover stared vacantly upwards like the answer was written on the ceiling. It wasn’t. I checked…
“She wants us to take more fantasy calls tonight,” I explained. “She wants us to mix up the questions coming in so we’re not talking about the same issues over and over again. When we go on the air, you need to announce that we welcome calls from people who have their own BDSM stories to tell, okay?” I had directed the question to April. She nodded her head without any change of expression.
“And you need to send the calls through to the studio with an emphasis on the most interesting ones,” I faced Grover. The guy nodded his head. “Oh, and last night we had a call from a woman named Sondra,” I said carefully. I was addressing Grover, but from the corner of my eye I watched April’s features suspiciously for the slightest twitch of reaction at the mention of the name. “If she calls again tonight, Miss Collett wants the call put straight through. No delay. Okay?”
Grover nodded. April nodded.
It was time to go to work.
Chapter 7.
April sat across the studio desk with a secret smile on her face while she tapped at the keyboard. I glanced at the clock on the wall as it counted down the last seconds before midnight. Without missing a beat, April turned to the microphone and her voice became like a sultry summer breeze over the airwaves.
“Good evening lovers and the lonely, this is your girl April coming to you live from downtown Boston with the Aussie man every girl wants to talk to – Master Jericho James. If you have a question about submission… or if you have a secret, sexy fantasy you want to share, call the open line right now. In the meantime, let’s make this gorgeous guy welcome to our town.”
April’s voice trailed off and my earphones filled with the familiar sounds of ‘Men at Work’ singing ‘Land Down Under’. The song was a poignant reminder of home, and of a defining moment in my life.
In 1983, a yacht named ‘Australia II’ had won the America’s Cup. I remembered being a kid, watching the final dramatic race on television. That moment had begun my fascination with sailing and yacht racing. The Australian syndicate had played the ‘Men at Work’ hit as the team’s theme song, and now, hearing it again, heralded a reminiscent flood of nostalgia.
April’s eyes twinkled and she winked at me. I gave her a lopsided grin of appreciation.
“There’s more to come,” she said. “I’ve re-programmed the play list. We’re going to play Australian music all night. Do you like INXS, Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel?”
My smile broadened. April seemed to bask in the glow like a flower drawn towards the sun. Her expression slowly changed to become somehow more significant and I sensed she was on the verge of speaking again. She fidgeted, and her gaze wavered. She swallowed hard, licked nervously at her lips, and then brought her eyes back to mine. She leaned forward a little in her chair and took a deep tremulous breath.
“Jericho, I –”
Suddenly Grover’s deep bass voice graveled through the overhead speaker, breaking the awkward, intimate spell.
“It’s like December,” he said with a bewildered kind of awe. “The console looks like a Christmas tree! Take line eighteen. The chick’s name is Tabitha and she has a question.”
The words that had been on April’s lips smudged into an ironic smile. Her enigmatic expression vanished in an instant. She stabbed at the keyboard and then slumped back in her chair with a hollow sigh.
“Hi Tabitha,” April said. “Thanks for calling the station. Jericho is right here waiting for your question.”
There was the faintest sound of a ‘click’ and then a middle-aged woman’s voice filled the headphones. She sounded well-educated, and was softly spoken.
“Hello, Jericho?”
“G’day, Tabitha,” I spoke warmly, my mouth close to the mic. “How can I help you tonight?”
“Well…” the woman was nervous. There was an uncertain waver in her voice. “My husband asked me last night whether I had ever considered submitting to him in the bedroom?”
“And…?”
Tabitha paused for an instant. “Well, I have often dreamed about submitting,” she qualified, “but just not to my husband! In my fantasies it was always someone darker and more mysterious – not the man I married twenty eight years ago.”
I smiled. “So what did you tell your husband?”
“Not that!” Tabitha suddenly chuckled and the tone of her voice seemed to relax. “I told him I was curious…”
“And are you – curious?”
“No. I’m nervous,” Tabitha admitted. “You see my husband has never been the dominant type, not in all the years I have known him. Now, quite suddenly, he seems to have this interest in the BDSM lifestyle. I’m not sure I want to put myself in the hands of a man who doesn’t have the experience to make the reality as arousing as my fantasies.”
I rubbed my chin. “Tabitha, where do you think your husband’s sudden interest in the lifestyle came from?”
“Me, I guess,” the woman on the other end of the line confided. “I read a lot of those books…”
“Well is it possible he has developed this interest because he wants to please you?”
“Most likely,” Tabitha admitted.
“Then you have to give him credit – and you certainly have to encourage him wherever possible,” I said. “If he is doing this because he knows it is a turn on for you, the best thing you can do is at least give him the opportunity to try to please you.”
“Even if he is clumsy, and in turn ruins all my fantasies?”
I frowned at that. It was a good question. I chose my words carefully. “It is very rare that any sexual reality can compare to a fantasy,” I began. “Even in the hands of a skilled Master, it is likely that the unfolding events won’t match up to what you visualized in your mind. That doesn’t mean the fantasy you have should lose its appeal – it just means the reality is going to be different. Not necessarily worse – just different.”
“Hmmm,” Tabitha said. Clearly she wasn’t impressed with the advice I was giving her. “But –”
“Ask yourself this,” I cut her off before she could continue. “Do you want to die not knowing?”
There was a significant pause on the other end of the line. I filled the space, convinced Tabitha was seriously considering the question. “A fantasy is just that – an arousing imagined scene. You say you are curious about the BDSM lifestyle, and that you are intrigued by the idea of submitting. Don’t you want to seize the opportunity your husband is offering you to find out if this lifestyle is something that resonates deep within you, beyond the images you have only ever dreamed about? If you do, you may never have a better opportunity to explore submission,” I said. “What your husband is offering you is a safe, trusting way to experiment. Better those circumstances than with some stranger – or not at all, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Tabitha said softly but firmly.
“Take the opportunity to talk to your man about the specific things that appeal to you, and then stay involved throughout the process,” I cautioned. “Don’t just tell him what turns you on and leave the rest up to him and his imagination. Most men in the situation your husband finds himself tend to come on too strong, too fast. They want to provide the perfect experience without understanding the basics. So take slow steps, and take them together,” I tried to put conviction into my voice. “Learn and earn trust, and understand that it’s a journey, not a destination.”
“But I don’t understand,” Tabitha said in a wary breath.
I d
id my best to explain. “Don’t try to create the ultimate experience the first time you experiment, Tabitha. The journey begins with small, simple steps. Hands clasped behind your back, rather than handcuffed to begin with, for example, or silk scarves as restraints before chains – that kind of thing. It’s about progressing together. In the process, you might just find that some of the fundamental experiences spark new and even more intense fantasies for you.”
It was the best I could do. Tabitha thanked me and ended the call. I sat back in my chair a little deflated. I felt I should have done a better job with the call. April was watching me curiously.
“Nicely done,” she said, not trying to conceal the trace of admiration in her voice. She was looking at me as though she had never really seen me before. “And kind of profound.”
I arched an eyebrow. Before I had time to reflect, another woman’s voice came down the line.
“Hello Jericho?”
April cut in smoothly. “Hi Monique. Thanks for phoning through,” she said hurriedly. “Jericho is ready for your call.”
“Hi, Monique. What can I do for you?”
The caller’s voice was younger and her words ran together in a kind of sing-song way. “Do you think it’s okay to spank a submissive?” she asked in a rush.
“Yes,” I said. “Under certain conditions.”
“Such as?” The question sounded more like the defiant challenge of a feminist rather than the curious enquiry of someone fascinated by submission.
“Well there are several,” I explained. “Firstly I would make the distinction between spanking and beating. No real man beats a woman. As a BDSM Master, my personal preference is never to use physical punishment with a submissive – however I don’t regard a spanking as physical punishment.”
The caller huffed, her tone still a provocation. “What’s the difference between a spanking and a beating?”
“There is a world of difference,” I assured. “By my definition, a spanking is an erotic experience that doesn’t focus on the pain inflicted. It focuses on the submissive vulnerability of the woman I am training.”