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☆ pax, the tiny ☆ (
) wrote in
JUNO STEEL ( THE PENUMBRA PODCAST )
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2017-05-05 01:39 am (UTC)
[ peter is tired of being hungry.
so the phone sex operator gig is kind of a godsend. peter's life is all about staying afloat, moving from day job to day job, taking one night class at a time. with this side job, he can afford snag a bottle of wine here or there, a good one, get a nice new jacket for himself, afford take out more times during the week than most people on a budget. and all he has to do is talk dirty to some folks from home (lucky, really.)
now, it doesn't ever
being about the money. certain things move on and grow, twist and bloom. peter attends enough university night classes to get himself an online degree in art and history, is planning on maybe attending college if he can save up enough to concentrate on something like futurism or expressionism. he finds his stride at his day job, making enough for the rent and most bills just by selling his soul to an IT firm until he can get his foot in the door at a local gallery.
certain things, however, remain consistent: two things.
peter's work on the sex hotline.
the first time juno calls him, it scrapes forty-five minutes of his time. he doesn't anticipate the talk to be so... vanilla. hell. he can't even call it vanilla. it's just talk, idly chit chat. he's curled around his landline in a comfortable chair with his joggers slung low and a bottle of water and little container of lotion standing by for whenever this guy wants to get it on but... they don't.
during the first four minutes, peter thinks this is a very boring and unproductive phone call.
by minute forty-four, he doesn't want it to end. juno doesn't give too many details about himself, just the basics, just enough--that he's alone, that he's almost downed his entire bottle of whiskey, that he's tired and overworked and that it's dark and that he's laying in bed, but it isn't the sex he wants tonight.
it's just the sound of his voice.
("what's your name?")
("just ask for rex glass, darling.")
minute forty-five means the end of it because juno's drifting off too much for peter to have the heart to let him fall asleep, to let him waste the rest of his money.
("did you mean that?" the operator asks him, the sound of her typing is furious over the line. "you want me to patch him in next time he calls just for you?")
peter holds a moment, tries to remember the sound of juno's breathing, his laugh, dark as bittersweet chocolate. he wets his lips. he did mean it. he really did.
call number two has peter asking about juno's work, talking with him about what he does, perusing the little details and windows into his life that he's afforded and hoarding the information like a small child hoards pennies, thinking they'll be worth something someday.
call number five has juno inquiring little things about peter's life, nothing too intimate or deep. his favorite color (black "that's a shade."
) favorite movie (
catch me if you can
) favorite kind of takeout (a toss up between the indian place up one way and the thai place down the other "i think i know that place" shit shit shitshitshit he's said too much. nono, calm down, nureyev.) it goes like this for an hour before peter tells juno that perhaps they should save it for another time. ("next time you call me, we'll have nothing to talk about, juno.")
call number eight is when things get handsy and peter doesn't expect to end up actually rubbing one out over the phone just for juno. usually he's fucking someone by date three. this is basically date number eight and they've gotten to handjobs and juno's voice is ragged on the phone and peter's hand is pumping his own cock so fast and hard that by the end of it they're just a wreck of half-bitten off words and names. ("rex--") he wishes, when juno bids him good night, that he had the heart to give juno his real name, the privilege to hear it off his lips.
call number ten is take out from that aforementioned thai place. it's another handjob. it's "juno, you've had a rough day, let me take care of you, sweetheart." peter tells juno to close his eyes, describes to him exactly what his hand would feel like if it were sliding up his cock. he instructs him on pressure, on timing, how it should sound, how it should feel, thumb pressing in that little sweet space behind his sac and massaging him until he's
on the edge of it all.
he comes just from hearing juno find release over the phone.
they max out two hours before peter tells him he needs to go. that time is up.
("these calls are getting awfully pricey, beautiful. do take care to keep up.")
peter would do it for free. just for juno. only for juno.
this night repeats itself more times than peter has fingers. he's just started on toes at this point. call number twelve and he's waiting on the other line with bated breath, wetting his lips, wondering if tonight he's going to be talking out some weird little date fantasy or if he's going to make juno see stars again or if perhaps they're just going to talk and all peter has to do is curl up on the end of his couch with an overstuffed pillow and a glass of wine with the cord of his landline wrapped around his wrist like a half-giddy school girl.
he hates other customers now, loathes being patched in to someone who isn't juno, who doesn't say his little alias like someone would breathe their favorite word.
juno's calls are what make his nights worth working. ]
2017-05-05 02:40 (UTC)
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