Jackie Reedly: Sex and the boss_s wife

"This is Station KSZX, Indianapolis, broadcasting on 870 on your FM dial." Scott Forsmo repeated the station's logo, reading it from the copy taped to his console, and then turned up the volume on his theme music. It was a funky rock tune and was supposed to project the image of a swinging, free wheeling show. Scott had chosen it himself. He wished now he had not. He hated the music. It was strident, nerve wracking, and anything but what he was interested in listening to at one o'clock in the morning. He suspected the citizens of greater Indianapolis felt the same. At least it seemed so, if the response he was getting to his new show was any indication.

He faded the theme music and switched on his mike again. "Yes sir, guys and dolls, we're here to entertain you from midnight to eight in the A.M. every night of the week. It's Night Line, boys and girls. Call in and tell us what you think about whatever's on your mind tonight. What about the world? What about beautiful Indianapolis, the star of the Midwest, the Crossroads of the Nation, the Circle City." He almost threw up at having to call Indianapolis beautiful. It was anything but that. He would never have come here had he not needed the job so badly. One thing was true. Indianapolis was the Crossroads of the Nation. At least it had been once. Its two major thoroughfares, Washington and Meridian had been part of the principal North-South route and the main East-West route across the country. That had changed with the building of the freeways, and now the intersection, in the heart of downtown, was as sleepy as the rest of the Circle City.

From where he sat at his console, he could look down on that once famous intersection. It was totally devoid of traffic, and for all he could tell by looking out at one in the morning Indianapolis was a ghost town.

"On with the show, Folks!" Scott chirped, trying to sound jaunty. "The lines are open. While we're waiting for you to call in and tell us what's on your mind, let's listen to the Bee Gees' latest hit. Remember, our number is 447-4730, and we're waiting for your call."

He turned up the volume, and the sounds of the Bee Gees filled the air waves. Scott watched the buttons on the phone with a coldness in the pit of his stomach. No one would call. No one had called all week. The equipment was all set up and waiting to operate. As soon as he picked up the receiver, the recorder would come to life, faithfully noting the call and then replaying it one minute after the caller spoke. That way he could edit out any obscenity without problem. Since Indianapolis was the headquarters of the John Birch Society and the American Legion, its citizens were staunchly opposed to dirty talk. One violation would bring a flood of angry mail. The station manager, Hal Ransberg, had warned him of that his first day on the job.

Well, Scott thought to himself ruefully, maybe he should say fuck or cunt over the air. At least if people wrote in to complain he would have some evidence that somebody was out there listening to his voice. As it was, he felt as if he were operating under a bell jar, his lips moving soundlessly as he addressed a stone deaf audience.

The light on line one lit up, followed by the official buzz announcing that someone was calling. Scott grabbed at the receiver wildly, half afraid whoever it was would hang up before he could say hello. He heard the recorder whirl into action.

"Station KSZX, the voice of nighttime Indy. You're on the air."

"Yeah? I want a twelve inch with sausage and mushroom. Extra cheese and hold the onions," said a slurry voice.

"This is Radio Station KSZX," Scott answered, speaking very slowly and distinctly as the cold feeling returned to his stomach.

"Ain't this Shakey's?"

"No, it's not. You're on the air. Do you have something you want to tell our listeners about? What you think of pizza, maybe? Anything?"

The line went dead. Scott hung up the receiver and hurried to stop the recorder before the idiot wrong numbered conversation went out over the air. It would never do for his public to know he had lost his cool.

The Bee Gees wailed off into silence, and he began another record without comment. He was too discouraged to talk, so discouraged he was afraid his voice would break. How long would they keep him on, he wondered, if nobody seemed to be listening? The worst part of it was, this Night Line business had been his idea. He had proposed it enthusiastically in his final job interview, and station owners, plagued by their low ratings, had brought it. It worked everywhere else in the country. People loved to be heard on the air. Why didn't it work here? Because this was Indiana, that was why, and the tone was so conservative that everyone kept his opinion to himself, if he had an opinion at all. Scott began to suspect most people did not.

He caught the end of the record, made a few more comments, encouraging, practically begging his supposed audience to call in, and began another record, this time Strisand. Thank God, he thought, at least there was one thing he could do to make himself feel good. It did not matter that much that he did not know anybody in Indianapolis and that he found himself not much caring whether he did or not. He had his big, built in friend.

Scott leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the edge of his console. As they had so often in the past, his fingers found their way to the front of his pants. Slowly and teasingly, he caressed the large tube of flesh that was his penis. He grinned with satisfaction. It was already half hard, just because it knew he was going to use it to give himself pleasure.

Scott chuckled as he ran his fingers over his rapidly lengthening prick. He always thought of it as having a mind and a consciousness of its own. It certainly acted as though it did, turning to throbbing stone at the sight of a nicely rounded ass or a pair of long, tapering legs. There were times when it seemed to him that sex was the furthest thing from his mind, and, then, suddenly, his cock would rise up and remind him that sex was the symbol that held his little world together. Yes, his rapidly erecting penis was his best and closest buddy, no matter what. It had even agreed to move here to Indianapolis, which was more than anyone else had, even Celia. She had actually laughed in his face when he suggested it.

Scott cupped his fingers around the hardness of his shaft. He squeezed it caressingly, thrilling to the tingles of exciting sensation that traveled down his thighs and up into his belly.

Celia used to do that, squeeze his cock lightly in just this same way. She could take his mind off anything, no matter how depressing. All she had to do was cuddle up close beside him and run her fingers up his leg until she was hugging them around the meaty stalk of his big, pulsing prick. He shivered with lonely delight as he thought about it. There had been so many times, like the night they decided they should move in together.

Celia had cooked them an excellent dinner, and they were settling down on the white velvet couch to sip a last glass of wine.

"What do you say we go out to a movie?" Scott asked, picking up the evening paper to see what was playing.

"If you want to," Celia answered indifferently. "I don't know if there's anything good on."

"You don't sound like you want to go. Got a better idea?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I was thinking we could have a fire in the fireplace and just sit and talk."

Scott grinned at her. "And maybe make love?"

Celia giggled. "Maybe, but let's not rush it. Let's be romantic, the way we were when we first met. Remember?"

He wrinkled his brow in mock concentration. "Let's see if I can. It's hard. After all, it's been a long time."