1
Casey
“Good evening night owls of Philadelphia. This is your host, Casey Cole, rocking the mic here at Z107 FM. Let’s get those confessions rolling in. I will be taking your calls for the next few hours.”
I adjust my headphones, tucking an errant lock of dark hair behind my ear, pushing the red light to start my late night call-in show. Sliding my rolling chair, I let my full ass press deep down into my throne, in front of a switchboard of buttons and controls. I love pushing those square and rounded switches. I run my finger around the switch thinking, I’m the one fully in control of what happens here. I can open the line of communication or shut it down at my whim. The power feels incredible if not overwhelming at times behind the station microphone. My nails slip over to depress the color-coded buttons, reaching out over the radio waves to talk to my fellow night owls. It’s strangely arousing to have contact with strangers like me who can’t sleep a full wink at night.
It took two summers interning and one blow job… not mine, thank you. I only set that bad boy up to get this coveted late night spot, which worked out well for my insomnia. I figure if I’m not going to sleep, I may as well find a job that’ll work with my schedule. The radio lab where I’m broadcasting from is cold as shit and my nipples are rocking through my turtleneck dress. I rub my chest, hoping they’ll warm up, but all I get is a snarky look from the man in the sound room who’s watching me touch myself. I pat the girls down and get back to work, nodding to Tucker, my producer and the said receiver of “the blow job I didn’t give”, behind the glass wall. He owes me for that one and I don’t let him live it down. I pick up line four and answer the first caller of the night.
“Hey, night owls. Casey here. What’s your confession?” Drawling out my greeting, I wait a moment, listening to a deep breath inhale and then exhale. The way the caller pauses before speaking immediately alerts me to who it is. Those pesky nipples of mine rise again and the ache between my legs starts a staccato pulse in time with my heartbeat. Damn him.
“I’d like to know what it’s going to take for you to go to dinner with me, Casey Cole.”
I shake my head at the familiar voice. James Austin is the CEO and owner of Austin Communications. In other words, my boss. My very hot, very interested, and needs to remain hands off boss.
For the last eighteen months, he’s been asking me to dinner. Why? I have no clue what some rich fat cat would want with a girl like me. I’m curvy as hell. I’ve got more twists and turns in my figure than Lombard Street in San Francisco. I keep bizarre hours and can eat my weight in caramel toffee ice cream. Essentially, I’m not his type.
“I don’t date callers. Sorry.” Or bosses.
“I’ll try again another time,” he says. It’s hard to miss his smile through the air waves–cocky man. Pausing, I wait for his sigh, hanging up the phone with finality. Each night is a struggle to hear the lingering disappointment in his voice before moving on to the next call. “Hi. This is Casey. What’s your late night confession…?”
This is how I spend my evenings… taking calls and doling out advice to the lonely soles of Philadelphia. I’ve loved radio for as long as I can remember and since I don’t film well on television, because of my lovely large breasts above the news desk, news broadcasting was out and radio was in. My voice is pitched low, the tone controlled, and I’ve been told it comes off as a sensual fantasy. A sex phone operators dream, but I wanted something better–like a steady paycheck with benefits.
I interviewed all over the country, and Z107 FM gave me a chance… a chance in the mailroom my first year, and as a production assistant my second. Apparently, my curves made me second chair until I had an opportunity to sit in for Sabrina, the traffic wench. I made it known to management that I hated traffic, so they blackballed me for two more summers and here I finally sat, perched on my late night radio throne of minor stardom. God, it felt good, and there was no way in hell I was going to screw it up by letting my hot boss grease my wheels. I much prefer him greasing my paycheck, thank you.
My show runs from 11:00 p.m. un
til 2:00 a.m., Jamal takes over with some prerecorded material, from the soft rock jocks Luke and Eddie. The morning rush hour show starts at 5:00 a.m. It’s not a bad gig and it pays the rent… mostly. I still have to walk dogs uptown with my plus-sized ass, and record a bunch of advertisements and voice-overs to make ends meet. I wouldn’t trade my life for anything, except maybe to end this dry spell I’ve been having. In fact, it’s about as long as my employment here at Austin Communications…
2
James
Her voice flows through the radio in my car like silky sheets slowly slipping to the floor. As she answers callers and listens to their sob stories and confessions, I start to think about all the things I want to do to Casey. I think I’ve been half in love with her from the day she started working for the radio station. Long dark hair, full breasts that would fill my hands if she just let me touch them… I’d give a lot of things for Casey to let her guard down and let me in but, for now, I’ll settle for our banter during my once a night phone call to ask her to dinner. She always says no. Cheeky woman. It’s become a standing joke with her callers following suit but, if I can’t have her, she better damn well tell them no. I clench my fist momentarily. The desire to go inside the building, haul her fine body over my lap, and spank her lovely ass to a rosy pink is tempting. So damn tempting. But, right now, I’ll just drive around the city until her show finishes.
This is our nightly routine and one I’ve seldom missed. On the nights I have, I always have Tucker or send my driver to take her home. I don’t like her neighborhood or her apartment building, and I especially don’t like the dickhole who lives on her floor next door. Smug bastard always has some comment or a leering look I’d love to beat off his face. I don’t because last time I threatened to, Casey refused a ride home from me for nearly two weeks. I don’t think I could take that again, so I drive around the block until her show finishes and I can pick her up. Jamal is on the radio, so I know it’s a matter of minutes before she exits through the front doors of the building. We play it causal, but she knows I’m going to keep at it.
I drive along the sidewalk pressing the automatic button for the window down as she walks in the direction of her neighborhood. The bus stop is on the corner, but she’s nuts if she thinks I’ll let her take the bus home.
“James, why do you insist on doing this?” Casey tilts her head asking me the same question she asks every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday nights. She walks up to my car dressed in some unflattering dress that covers every square inch of her real estate from her neck to her thighs. The only perk is that the fabric pulls together, hugging her hourglass figure.
She’s leaning into the passenger window and I nod for her to get in the car. She slides inside my BMW, fastens her seat belt promptly, and then sneers her pert nose at my car. Sighing, I give her the same answer I always do. “For the same reason you get in my car every single time.”