Confessions of a Sex Worker: The Callers That Terrified Me

I’ve shared before that I used to work in phone sex, but there are experiences I haven’t spoken about—moments that still make me shiver when I think of them. Among all the callers I encountered, two men stand out. Not because they were kinky or demanding, but because they were genuinely frightening. Their fantasies weren’t playful. They weren’t a little edgy. They were dark, precise, and terrifyingly believable.

The One-Time Torture Caller

The first man called just once, and that single call was enough to shake me. From the moment he started speaking, there was something fundamentally wrong in his voice—low, guttural, with a cadence that felt almost predatory. He didn’t speak in flirtation or tease. He described, in detail, acts of torture he imagined performing on me.

He spoke of using a baseball bat, of breaking glass, of positioning me in ways that would inflict maximum pain. Every word he used was deliberate. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such intense fear over the phone in my life. It wasn’t just the fantasy itself, horrifying though it was—it was the certainty in his tone, the way he narrated it as if he could actually do it.

I had no hesitation in banning him as a client. He was the first caller I ever blocked. The fear lingered long after the call ended, a cold, creeping dread that I could not shake. Even knowing I was physically safe, part of me still felt exposed, violated in a way words alone can manage. That one call reminded me that some imaginations don’t just play—they inhabit the person, and some people are capable of thinking the unthinkable.

The Doctor with Obsession

The second caller was different but no less terrifying. Unlike the first, he was a regular. He introduced himself as a doctor, and that knowledge made his fantasies feel disturbingly credible. He wanted to give me injections. Not metaphorically—he spoke clinically, about syringes, doses, and the reactions he imagined me having.

What made this even more unsettling was how calm he was. He didn’t laugh or flirt; he was precise, methodical, and completely absorbed in his own scenario. Listening to him, I could almost feel the cold metal of the needle, the clinical detachment in his voice. He spoke of it like a professional preparing for a procedure—except I was the subject of his imagined experimentation.

Every call left me shaken. My hands would tremble, my heart race. Even when the call ended, I could hear the imagined sound of the syringe, feel the imagined prick. It wasn’t just fear—it was horror, the kind that gnaws at your stomach and won’t let go.

Moral Tension and Fear

These calls forced me to confront a question that many in the industry never have to face: what is the line between fantasy and danger? Legally, I was safe. All the callers were over eighteen, and I was over eighteen. Technically, nothing illegal occurred.

But the intensity and specificity of what they described, particularly in the first call, was horrifyingly real. He wasn’t joking. He believed it. I believed it. And that belief is terrifying because, in that moment, the boundary between imagination and threat feels paper-thin.

Every time I thought about these men, I asked myself: how many are rehearsing real impulses with someone on the other end of the line? How many are just fantasizing—and how many are testing their limits before taking it further? I didn’t know the answers, and that uncertainty left me uneasy long after the calls ended.

The Callback Loophole

The company I worked for operated as a callback service, not a traditional incoming line. That distinction mattered legally. Because calls weren’t monitored live, the company could claim ignorance about what was being said. Receptionists might make notes—“likes young girls,” “obsessed with injections,” “enjoys torture fantasies”—but those notes stayed internal. There was no record to give to authorities if something went wrong.

That legal loophole created an environment where men could explore their darkest fantasies with almost no consequences. And it offered no protection for me as the worker on the other end.

The Psychological Toll

Repeated exposure to extreme fantasies is exhausting, even when you are technically safe. I didn’t participate in these acts, but listening to them was enough to erode a sense of security. Each call was like stepping into someone else’s mind—a mind unmoored from empathy or reason.

After the torture caller, I realized the vulnerability of my position. One call was all it took to remind me that some fantasies are so extreme that even imagination can feel dangerous. The second caller reinforced that fear. Even if he never acted on his fantasies in real life, his confidence and detail made me question the world outside the line.

Real Fear in a Technological Age

By the time I was working, technology had already advanced to the point where calls could be traced with relative ease. It wasn’t just theoretical—it was real. And that’s when a new fear set in: how long would it be before a man like the first caller, the one who wanted to torture me, decided that he liked the sound of my voice and realized that I knew exactly what he wanted? How long before he tried to track me down?

There was no safety net. No physical barrier beyond my own careful anonymity. The thought of being located by someone so obsessed, so terrifyingly focused on me, left a constant knot in my stomach. The technology that should have made communication safer instead amplified the risk in my mind.

Why I Left

I left because I could no longer reconcile my own safety with the work. The calls weren’t just uncomfortable—they were genuinely frightening. Men like the two I’ve described, vivid, obsessive, and calculated, reminded me that some fantasies don’t remain harmless in the mind.

The callback system, the loopholes, the illusion of safety—it all added up. I realized that while I could survive the work physically, the psychological toll was unsustainable. And the constant awareness that, with technology advancing, anyone with enough obsession could locate me made continuing not just stressful, but dangerous in my own eyes.

I couldn’t continue. I wouldn’t continue. The fear, the moral compromise, and the knowledge of how thin the line between fantasy and reality could be made leaving not just necessary, but urgent.