Melody Fiction: The Wrong Kind of Fantasy

For you regulars around here, a new fictional face — Melody, Lyric‘s mother. (And a welcome to you newcomers! I hope you’ll stay awhile.) I’ve been working on her backstory some; I’m quite intrigued by the soon-to-be famous Melody Maker. I hope you are, too.

Melody put the phone down and gave the boss a sultry look. “Was that good enough for you?” she purred.

He swallowed and nodded.

Melody was pleased with the glazed look in his eye, with the way he was having trouble catching his breath. She’d wowed them both, the person on the other end of the pretend phone call and the boss. It hadn’t been hard. Men who called phone sex lines wanted to be encouraged. They wanted to do most of the talking. This was, after all, their own fantasy that they needed to hear come to life. They didn’t care if it was her on the other end of the phone. Not yet. Maybe one day, once they’d talked to her a few times, gotten off in a good way, and weren’t so drunk or stoned or high that they’d remember they’d talked to a girl named Melody.

Right now, she was disposable.

That was how she felt, too. Not strong, like she had that day she’d done that photo shoot. Not desired, like she’d felt when she’d seen the pictures.

No, she thought. For all those callers knew, she could be some fat dumpy housewife in curlers who was ironing as she spoke the come-on lines.

This outfit was billed as having the most guarantees for anonymous callers, but when she’d walked in and asked about working for them, she hadn’t realized she’d be one of those anonymous callers.

Melody Maker, as she now called herself, wanted more. She wanted to be known. To be strong. To be desired.

But mostly, she wanted people to see her, not simply hear her voice on the other end of a call. There was nothing special in that. In being invisible except for her voice.

“We’ll start you at a higher pay,” the boss said, finally coming back from the glaze she’d left him in.

“No, I don’t think so,” Melody said, trying to come off as being thoughtful when all she really wanted was to run back to that photographer’s studio and tell him she was ready for the more he’d promised her.

“I haven’t told you how high,” the boss said. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Save it,” she told him, patting his knee. She couldn’t help the glance, couldn’t help smiling to herself when she noticed that any effects of her phone call had returned in full force. “I think I’m meant for bigger than phone calls.”

She slid off her stool, smiling brightly as her breasts jiggled. The boss couldn’t take his eyes off them.

The photographer it would be, then.