I still remember the first time my voice went out over the airwaves on the Stern show. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat, and my fingers were slick around the phone because I'd been touching myself while I waited on hold. The producer asked what I wanted to talk about, and I told him straight: I had a story about the night I let two strangers fuck me in the back of a limo after a charity gala. He laughed, said Howard would love it, and patched me through.
Howard's voice came on like warm gravel. "All right, we've got a caller. What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Emily," I said, and my own voice sounded smaller than I expected, breathy and young. "I'm twenty-four, and I just… I wanted to share something that happened last weekend."
The guys in the studio started hooting before I even got to the good parts. I closed my eyes and told them everything. How I'd worn a black dress that barely covered my ass, how the two men—one tall and dark-haired, the other broader with rough hands—had cornered me by the bar and whispered what they wanted to do to me. I described the way the tall one slid his fingers under my dress in the elevator, finding me already wet, and how the other one kissed my neck while the first one pushed two fingers inside me right there against the mirrored wall.
Howard cut in with that famous cackle. "Jesus, Emily, you're not holding back. Keep going."
So I did. I told them about the limo, how they laid me across the seat and took turns. The tall one went down on me first, his tongue slow and deliberate, licking long stripes over my clit while his friend held my thighs open. I described the taste of myself on his mouth when he kissed me afterward, and how the broader man unzipped and fed his cock into my mouth while the first one pushed inside me from behind. I could hear the studio reacting—Artie groaning, Fred making sound effects—and it only made me wetter. By the time I finished the story, my free hand was between my legs again, rubbing slow circles over my panties.
They kept me on the line for almost twenty minutes. Howard asked questions, dirty and direct: Did you come? How many times? Did they use condoms? I answered every one without shame. When the segment ended, he told me to call back anytime with more stories.
I hung up shaking, came twice in a row on my own fingers, and knew I'd found my new addiction.
The calls became a regular thing. Every couple of weeks I'd dial in with something new. There was the afternoon I fucked my boss on his desk after hours, bent over spreadsheets with his tie around my wrists. I painted the picture for the listeners: the way his belt sounded when he pulled it free, the sting of his hand on my ass, how he made me beg before he finally slid into me. Another time I described a weekend in the Hamptons where I let three friends take turns with me on a pool table while the sun set. I got specific—the cool felt against my back, the way one of them held my ankles up by my ears so he could go deeper, the taste of the second man's come on my tongue while the third one finished inside me.
The audience started recognizing my voice. Fans would tweet when I called, and Howard would say, "It's our favorite dirty girl again." That nickname made something hot and tight coil in my stomach every time. I started dressing for the calls even though no one could see me—short skirts, no panties, sometimes a plug already nestled inside me so I could shift on it while I talked. The more explicit I got, the longer they kept me on. I learned to draw the stories out, to linger on the details that made the guys groan: the wet sounds, the way my voice cracked when I came, the filthy things the men said to me while they used me.
One Tuesday I called with a story about the night I let a stranger from the show meet me in a hotel bar. I'd recognized his voice from the call screener. We didn't even make it to the room. He bent me over the sink in the men's bathroom, yanked my dress up, and fucked me hard enough that my moans echoed off the tile. I told the listeners how he gripped my hair and made me watch in the mirror, how he told me I was his little on-air slut now. When I described the way his come dripped down my thighs as I walked back to the bar, Howard actually went quiet for a second before he laughed and said, "You're going to get us fined one of these days, Emily."
After that call I was too worked up to wait. I drove to the hotel where I knew some of the staff listened to the show, found the bartender who'd flirted with me before, and let him fuck me in the supply closet while the radio played in the background. His hand over my mouth, my legs wrapped around his waist, both of us listening to the replay of my own voice describing another man's cock. I came so hard I nearly blacked out.
The calls kept coming. I got bolder. I started taking requests from the audience—stories about public places, about being shared, about being watched. Each time I hung up, I made the fantasy real with someone new, someone who had heard me on the radio and wanted a piece of the girl who called in with sex stories. And every single time, right before I came, I pictured Howard's voice in my ear, telling me to keep going, to tell them everything.
I still call in. The stories are never the same twice, but the feeling is. That rush of saying the unsayable out loud, of making strangers hard and wet across the country, of knowing that somewhere a listener is touching themselves to the sound of my voice. It's the best kind of dirty secret, the kind you share with thousands of people at once. And when Howard signs off with "Thanks for the call, Emily," I always answer the same way, soft and certain: "Anytime."
