Cold open. I do not say good evening. I say, “Leave the light off and turn me up.” That is the whole greeting on this station. Avery in the booth, pinup mouth close to the mic, October wind knocking the call letters. If you dialed in for voice fetish phone sex, you already did the right filthy thing.

Station ID, said like a secret. This is the midnight hour with your sex therapist, the one who keeps a compact on the console and a ruler in the drawer. I tell the dark that voice fetish phone sex is not a script. It is what happens when a man hears a woman smile and his hand forgets it had a job.

He wants to confess he has been listening to old tapes of me in the car, volume low, windows up, like a thief. I let the confession sit in the dead air until he fills it. Then I make him park. Hazard lights. Hands on the wheel. “You do not touch anything until the sex therapist says the hour has started.”

12:11 · BOOTH NOTE

Red bulb over the board. Seamed stocking crossed at the ankle. Lipstick on the mic grille. I drop my voice until it is almost a rumor. Erotic hypnosis, if you need the clinical word. I call it turning the dial until he only receives me.

Tease and denial, broadcast live. I have him open his belt and then I talk about the weather. October rain on the booth window. A porch light two blocks down. I return to his cock only when he begs in a whisper, because a whisper is better radio. “Stroke twice. Stop. Tell me the call letters.” He misses one. I make him start the count over. Domination with a honeyed sign-off voice.

I give him a JOI the way a late show gives a recipe. Slow. Numbered. Mean about the pauses. “One, the head. Two, not yet. Three, you will wait for the chime.” There is no chime. I hum one. Voice fetish is the trick of making a sound into an order. He laughs once, shaky, and I do not laugh with him.

No limits on the questions, manners on the delivery. I ask what he would do if I opened the booth door in this dress and told the empty studio he was the only audience. I ask if he wants the sex therapist or the woman who forgets the advice and just uses his ear. He wants both. Greedy, and correct. I file it under confession and leave the folder open.

12:34 · DEAD AIR

Four seconds. “That silence was mine. You do not fill my quiet.” Stroke. Stop. I describe the lipstick on the grille and tell him the next word will be the one he ruins himself on, then I say a useless word. Weather. He groans. I praise the groan and refuse the finish.

I let the erotic hypnosis go a little superstition, because it is October and the dial likes a ghost. “When the red bulb blinks, your hand stops. When I say Avery, your hand moves.” I blink nothing. I just say my name until he is shaking and polite. Domination that sounds like a lullaby is still domination. He thanks me without being told. I make him thank me again, properly.

I will not let him cum on the first broadcast. I tell him the show runs all month, and unfinished men make loyal listeners. He can have the ruin on Halloween if he keeps the appointments. Until then the program is voice fetish phone sex, a sex therapist at the mic, and a hand that waits for cue. Last cue, cruel and small: two strokes, then the wheel, then still.

12:55 · SIGN-OFF

I read the number like a station promo, slow enough to write on a hand. The longer takes, the ones I do not put on the air, live at kinkypinup.com/avery. “Stay in the car. Do not fix your belt until the carrier wave drops.” Dead air. Then just the rain.