Jenny Ainslie-Turner reveals what it’s really like to operate a no-holds-barred sex phone line.
All the adverts for my company, inform the prospective caller: ‘No subject taboo – taste the forbidden’. And I stand by my word. I do actually speak about anything, no matter if it’s illegal or morally forbidden. I cater to every fantasy, including incest and bestiality. This is the reality of live phone sex lines.
My typical day always begins with the words, “Hello. Live Call Back…”. But from that point on it is never boring or predictable. Often the reply will be, “Can you give me some details, please?”, or a timid, “How much is it for a call?”. My initial reply is always the same: “We’ve got girls from 16 to 73, and we do talk about anything. Do you want prices to your landline or mobile?”
We don’t really have all those girls. From Amber, 16, to Mabel, 73, there is only ever me. And, when called for, I even do two-girl calls (as long as they’re different ages, I can get away with it). Astonishingly, I’ve been as many as 20 different girls to some of my regulars, one of whom I’ve had for over a year now. He still hasn’t a clue. I know his favourite fantasy off by heart: two fat girls having a catfight. It always starts the same, in a hot, sweaty room, and we’re always on our ‘time of the month’. He likes it descriptive, from what we’re wearing on our feet to our long dangly earrings. Then we proceed to knock the shit out of each other, quite literally. Shit, blood, piss and sweat are what turns him on.
That’s all in a day’s work for me, though. Another regular is ‘Irish’, very well spoken, and he wants me to put his wife through obedience class by being her dog handler. “Lucy’s a dirty dog, mistress,” he’ll say. “She needs punishing. Why don’t you shave her, mistress?” I’ll start whistling and calling, “Come on, Lucy, you hairy dog, come when your mistress whistles.” This drives him into an absolute frenzy.
Another caller once rang me from his office during the day, when his colleagues were about to join him for a meeting. He gave me a running commentary. “I can hear them in the next room, carry on,” he encouraged. Then I heard voices in the distance. “They’re opening the door. I’m just about to come,” he continued, then I heard a muffled groan and the voices came closer. A slight sigh escaped over the mouthpiece. “I’ve got to go now. Thanks, bye.” I reckon he must have sat there with his cock still out beneath his desk all through the meeting, with spunk dripping off the end of his knob.
One of my favourite calls ever, though, wasn’t from a man at all. On this particular night, a woman’s voice came over the phone. She asked, sounding slightly het up, “Do you like having your pussy licked?” I replied, “Of course. Doesn’t every woman?” I settled myself down into what I thought would be a lesbian chat. But no.
“Here then,” she snorted. “You tell my husband.” She actually handed him the phone and I heard a sulkily mumbled, “Hello?”. Smirking to myself, I asked, “Don’t you like licking pussy, then?” The sound of the receiver being hung up was my only reply. I didn’t know who I felt more sorry for – him or her.
I never question or laugh at my callers’ fantasies, no matter how extreme or bizarre. I help them to fulfil them. And it’s not just a one-way street. You never know when a great sounding guy will come through; one with a bit of a chat, or a really adventurous mind, or even – like my man, Tom – a great sense of humour. His first call to me was four years ago now, we met two weeks later, and had a fabulous time!
Jenny Ainslie-Turner is an author.
