"You’re not just hearing me… you’re feeling me."

Last night, I wrapped myself in silk, lit a single candle, and let my voice drip into the receiver like honey laced with sin.

No cameras. No visuals.

Just my voice… and the sound of a man losing control.

That’s the power of phone sex, baby.

There’s something so intimate — so fucking raw — about being heard without being seen. I don’t need to show you my body to make your cock twitch. I just need to breathe into the phone… slow… hot… deliberate.

And you? You’re already hard.

You answer my call like a good boy.

“Hey beautiful,” you say, trying to sound casual.

But I hear it — the slight hitch in your voice. The way you shifted in your seat when my name lit up your screen.

You didn’t just answer. You submitted.

So I don’t say hello.

No.

Instead, I whisper:“Did you touch yourself today thinking about me? Be honest… or I hang up.”

Silence.

Then a shaky breath.

“Yeah… I did.”

Good boy.

Now I’ve got you right where I want you.

And we both know what happens next.

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