A few more people began calling in. Of course, the response was not as great as what Scott was hoping for, but it was building, nevertheless. Some of the callers' opinions hardly seemed worth expressing, and subsequent callers had a way of pointing this out with embarrassing bluntness. That was fine as far as Scott was concerned. Every call had the potential for controversy, for getting people to talk to one another about what they had heard on late night radio. Every call could help build his audience. The response was not overwhelming, but it was enough to get Hal Ransberg off his back, at least for the moment.
"KSZX Night Line," Scott called out into the microphone. "That last gentleman wants us out of the United Nations. What do you have to say to that. Call me at 447-4730 and tell me about it. Now here's a new one from the Village People."
The record came to an end, and Scott delivered a one minute commercial. Then he introduced the next song, made his usual pitch about how his listeners should call in, and played the new record by Wings. Now he had time to get himself another cup of coffee. As soon as he was up, he realized that he had better take the opportunity to pay a quick visit to the lavatory. Hurrying down the hail, he cursed the fact that radio stations always seemed to put the men's room as far as possible from the control booth. It was a good thing the record he had picked was a long one.
He gave another commercial and answered a telephone call, this one from an elderly man declared solemnly that fluoridation of the water supply was a plot designed to sap the sex drive of red blooded American male. His own sexual urges, he claimed, had diminished remarkably. Scott wanted to reply that his own had not. If anything, they had increased of late, especially since he had met Monica James. He said nothing, of course. Leave that to the next caller.
When he finally got the caller to hang up, he cued the next record, announced it, and leaned back to enjoy his coffee, his handily available; half hard penis still peeping fetchingly from the gap in the front of his slacks. Playfully, he brought his hot coffee cup down next to his stirring phallus. The heat felt good against his sensitive flesh, almost burning, but not quite. He could feel the sexy warmth way down in his big, low hanging balls. Spreading his legs a bit wider, he reached into his pants and pulled his scrotum out into the air. God! he thought as he looked down at himself, what a beautiful package that was.
Slowly and teasingly, he moved his cup up and down the long length of his prick shaft, feeling his male organ begin to swell and expand with the sensation. It felt so good. He could almost imagine he had a hot mouth on him, a mouth like Monica's or Celia's or some of the sex hungry women who called in.
Before very long, his penis had expanded to its full hardness and was standing straight up from his body like a stiff candle. He ran his fist over its length, shaking it and jerking at it, moving the thin skin of its surface back and forth over the sexually aroused stiffness beneath.
Scott's hand moved faster and faster as thrilling sensations of raw sensuality ran through his fevered body. Setting his mug of coffee down on the console, he brought his other hand down to cup his gigantic, sperm filled testicles. He roiled them about on his moist, smooth palm, pulling them down to the bottom of their big sac and squeezing at them gently, teasing himself just the way Monica had done when she was sucking him off.
A dear, fragrant drop of pre-seminal fluid had already formed in his deep, dark piss slit. He caught it on his finger and smeared it over the hotness of his throbbing cockhead, making it shine lewdly. He jerked himself faster then before, making his shaft hurt with his squeezing urgency. He was gasping for breath now, and he imagined he could feel the cum beginning to churn in his gonads.
Putting his feet on the floor, he spread his long legs wide. Taking his coffee cup in one hand, he held it to his crotch and plunged his achingly hard cock into the black liquid. The heat of it shot harsh bolts of pain and excitement through every inch of his tingling groin.
Scott forced himself to hold the mug in position for as long as he could stand it. Then he slowly pulled his prick out of the hot liquid. The rapidly cooling coffee on the surface of his skin was a lubricant for his demanding fist, and he began jerking himself again.
Throwing his legs wide apart, he knew it would not be long until his climax. Fire was licking at his crotch, making the semen boil up inside his sac. He paused for a second, trying to hold off, not wanting to come yet, seeking those few extra moments of exquisite pleasure..
Once again, he plunged the length of his meaty stalk into his hot coffee. By this time the liquid was cool enough to give him only a, pleasantly warm sensation. He held his cock in the cup for a long time, looking down greedily at the place where his pulsating root disappeared into the blackness of the coffee.
Scott pulled his cock out of the coffee and beat at it again. Drops of blackness spattered on the front of his pants. It was a good thing he had worn dark slacks. He was almost ready to come. In four or five strokes of his fist, he would be spurting white, starchy cum all over the place. He aimed the head of his throbbing prick so that his semen would shoot into his coffee mug. Just as the first jet cleared his pulsating slit, the telephone rang.
"Yes," he said breathily, watching as streamers of steaming sperm shot into the coffee.
"Is this Night Line?" It was the husky female voice he sometimes mistook for Monica's.
"Yeah, yeah," Scott answered, trying to sound normal. "KSZX at your service. What can I do for you?" He tried to imagine what the woman looked like, imagined his hot semen plummeting into her cunt, her mouth, her squirming body.
"My, my, you sound hot and bothered tonight," she purred. "Is it me that's making you feel horny like that?"
"What if it is?" Scott asked breathlessly, squeezing the last dribbles of white cum from the tip of his penis. They fell with a plop into the blackness of his coffee.
"Nothing, I guess," the woman answered candidly. "I'd like to think I had that effect on you. Why don't you meet me for breakfast, you know, at Sixteenth and Meridian."
Scott sighed. "We've been all through that, you and I. Don't you remember?"
"I know you don't drive to work, if that's what you mean."
"And you won't come down here and pick me up. So that leaves us both back at first base."
"Well, I suppose it does at that. Too bad."
"Look, the record's about to end. I have to talk on the air. Hold on, okay?" He turned to flip on his mike switch and then saw that the record had already finished, how long ago he could not be sure. Then, with a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach, he realized that the delay tape was running. He had neglected to turn it off when the mystery woman called in. It had simply kept running, and, this time, he was afraid, it had gone out over the air.
Scott began flipping switches and turning dials madly, desperately trying to turn the output off before the incriminating portion of the taped conversation hit the air waves. In the panic, he turned his cup of cum filled coffee over onto the console. There were loud snapping sounds, billows of steamy smoke, and brutal flashes of light. Suddenly everything went dead, everything but the telephone. It began to ring, and he picked it up, not being able to think what else to do.
"KSZX, Night Line. Good evening."
"How dare you put such dirty stuff on the air?" shrilled a female voice. "You ought to be ashamed. You should be arrested. I've a good mind to call the police."
"Do whatever you want to, Lady," Scott cut in. "I've got problems of my own." He stabbed the button, disconnecting her and tying in to the first line.
"Are you still there?" he asked the woman who had started all this with her veiled proposition.
"What?" barked a male voice. "What the hell are you talking about, Forsmo? I just had a call from the engineer out at the tower. He says you're off the air. What the hell is going on?"
"Just a little accident, Mr. Ransberg," Scott answered weakly.
"Accident? Can you fix it?"
"I don't know. I'll try if I can ever get off the telephone. Excuse me, I have to go now." He disconnected his boss. Good-bye job, he thought. At least Ransberg had not mentioned the lewd call's going out over the air. He probably did not know that part of the story yet. Chances are, he soon will, Scott thought to himself ruefully. Christ, Celia, why didn't I just stay home with you where I belonged.
The telephone was still ringing, but Scott ignored it. Manfully, he fought to get himself under control. Quickly, he flipped switches and made new connections, knowing now what he was doing and acting accordingly. In minutes, he had transferred the operation to the auxiliary console, and the station was back on the air.
"KSZX-FM, the voice of night time Indy," he intoned, using his best, radio trained voice, "We had a little problem here at the station, Folks. Hope you don't mind. We're back with you now, and Night Line is ready to take your calls."
With dread, he picked up the telephone. "Hey," said a man's voice, "What you said to that chick was real cool a few minutes ago. No wonder you blew out the transmitter. Do you get a lot of calls from broads like her?"
"A few," Scott replied.
"Gee, I'd wish you'd put ‘em all on the air. It's a real inspiration to us lonely guys out here. Some operator you are, Man! I gotta hand it to you. I'm never going to miss a night with you from here on out."
"Thanks," Scott said, and he hung up.
The next call was another harangue about his lack of morals and about how he ought to he under arrest. Scott listened, not commenting and just letting the old man on the other end of the line go on and on. He sounded like the one who had called in to complain about fluoridation.
"Thanks for your opinion," Scott snapped and cut him off. He looked wearily at the tape monitor. It was whirring away merrily and the call from the man who had complimented him was already feeding out over the air. What he ought to do was stop it, right in the middle of the conversation. Instead, Scott did nothing. What, was the difference: No doubt this was his last broadcast, maybe his last broadcast anywhere if Ransberg decided to put the word out blackballing him in the industry. He might as well give Indianapolis what it obviously wanted, sensationalism.
He kept taking telephone, calls and letting them feed out over the airwaves, complete with all the obscene words, and the vilifications of his moral character, and the praise of his macho attitude towards women, and all the rest of it. The calls came in so fast and furiously that he had little time to do more than switch from line to line almost as though he were an answering machine. Before long the callers were disputing one another, irate citizens calling in to refute what a previous listener had claimed on the air. Scott was hardly part of it any more. He moved in a dream, and the calling did not let up until his shift was over.
"Hey, Man," Barry Mann shouted, sticking his head into the control booth, "Your time's up. Cut it off now. Quit hogging the spotlight."
Scott shook his head dazedly. Where had the time gone? He urged the last caller into finishing her sentence, gave his sign off, and switched on his theme song. He was so exhausted he could hardly get up from his chair. Still, he felt wonderful, better than he had since he came to Indianapolis. If this were his last time on radio, he had given them something to remember him by.
"Christ, Scott, did you do a job! Everybody in town's talking about it."
Barry Mann was fairly jumping up and down with excitement as he clapped Scott on the back, knocking the wind out of him.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Barry? Where'd you hear everybody in town talking anyway?"
"At the Huddle, Man, that greasy spoon up on Thirty-eighth Street. Of course, everybody in town wasn't there, but the freaks who do gather for breakfast every day are a pretty good sample of public opinion. They loved your show."
"Sure, sure. Maybe I'll dedicate tonight's show to them, if I'm still around to do it."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I'm betting Ransberg will fire me for being too controversial. Some of the language was pretty blunt."
Barry nodded his head thoughtfully. "I suppose you're right, even though most everybody I know talks a lot worse than that nowadays."
"Not on the radio they don't. You know how it is. We might offend some little old lady out in Greenfield. Besides that, the call that started it all and my reply to the woman on the other end isn't going to help me in the least, not with Ransberg."
"I suppose you're right," Barry said, shrugging his shoulders. "Still, I'm telling you it was a great show. Good luck with Ransberg." Barry turned to the microphone and flipped the switch ready to start his morning show.
Scott stood for a moment, watching the announcer's back. Maybe the show had not been so outrageous after all, and maybe enough people did like it to balance the complaints. No, that could not be true, not in this town, He would go home, fall in bed, and wait for Ransberg to call and fire him.
Rona Barnes, the redheaded receptionist was already sitting at her desk when Scott reached the lobby of the station.
"What are you doing here an hour early?" Scott asked.
Rona looked up, the sunlight glinting on her flame colored hair. She smiled broadly. "I came in because of you, actually. I caught the last hour or so of your program."
"Oh," Scott said quietly, plopping down in the chair next to her desk. "And you thought I'd need moral support, is that it?"
Rona nodded her head and looked at him seriously. "I know I really don't know you very well, Scott, but…"
"But what?"
"But I just felt like you might need somebody to be here when you got off work, to field any calls that happened to come in."
"Oh, I see. And have there been lots of them? Calls, I mean."
"Only six or seven, since I've been here."
Scott shook his head despairingly. "Christ, I've only been off the air the length of time it takes to dial the phone. Any of them favoring me?"
"One, but it was from a guy who claims he's emperor of Terre Haute. He calls all the time. I'm sorry, Scott, I… " She was cut off by the telephone.
"Good morning, KSZX," she chirped into the mouthpiece. "Yes, Night Line is our show. Yes, we know what its format is. I'm sorry you didn't approve. I… Please don't shout. I…"
Scott left the station. When he got downstairs, Monica's car was waiting out front.
"Hi," the shapely blonde shouted. "You look like you could use a drink."
Scott got in op the passenger side and sat slumped silently in the seat.
"Hey, come on, Honey. It can't be that bad." She gunned the engine and pulled out into the traffic. "You had so many calls I couldn't even get in to ask if I could pick you up when you got off work."
"Yeah, but did you hear them? My ass is grass."
"Sorry, I couldn't listen. The smuck was home last night. He insisted on fucking me. What a joke. It took all of ten minutes and then he came on my belly before he could even get it into me. Didn't the show go well?"
Scott sighed. "It's too long a story. I do need a drink. Just leave it at that."
"It so happens I have just the thing. Take a look in the back."
Scott peered into the back seat of the Camero. There he saw a large bottle of vodka peeping from a brown paper bag. "Oh, Monica, Baby, you're a life saver!" He reached back and grabbed the bottle. Twisting the cap off, he took a deep drink directly from it.
"Hey, you asshole! Put that down. We're right in the middle of the frigging traffic. Don't you know there are all kinds of laws against drinking in car?"
"Fuck the laws. It's not every day a guy loses his job."
"That bad, huh?" Monica said as they pulled into the parking lot of Roley Towers.
"Yeah, Monica. That bad."
The blonde reached over and patted him on the knee. "Don't worry. Mommy will fix it. As soon as we get upstairs, I'll make you forget all about whatever happened, and you won't need to get bombed on vodka to do it either. Come on."