The Call That Ruined Him

It started with a whisper and a dare. "Serve me once," I said. Just once.

He was cocky back then. Fresh. Still pretending he had control over his urges. Thought he could dip his toes into my world and walk away untouched.

Foolish. I let him believe that for a week.

Let him feel safe, almost in control. He'd ask, "What do you want tonight?" with a grin in his voice.

And every night, I made him earn his answer. A different task, a new humiliation.

One night: "Sleep with my panties in your mouth." Another: "Write my name across your chest and sit still for an hour." Then I called. And that was the night everything changed.

He picked up instantly. Of course he did. But I didn't speak. Not at first.

Just breath. Low. Steady. Then sharper. Then... interrupted.

Another man's voice. Deeper. Rough.

A rhythm. Slow at first. Then unmistakable. The sound of my body being taken while my loyal little toy sat on the other end, breathing through clenched teeth.

"Are you listening?" I asked, my voice like honey over heat. A moan slipped past my lips—unforgivable and deliberate. He didn't answer. He couldn't.

"Good." I smiled. "Don't speak. Just feel what you'll never have."

And he did. I dragged it out. Let him drown in it. Every sound designed to brand him.

He came without permission that night. And I said nothing. And that hurt more than any punishment I could've given.

Three days. Nothing. He spiraled. I know. He admitted it later. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Just watched the screen, waiting for my name to light up.

Eventually, I called again. Calm. Casual.

"You'll be better this time." And he was. He never came without consent again. Never questioned me. Never missed a task.

That was six years ago.

He still does everything I ask. He's moved cities for me. Changed careers. I didn't tell him to—he just wanted to be closer to where my shadow once touched.

He's trained now. Softened. Shaped. Perfect in his desperation.

And every now and then, when I'm in the mood... I call.

I let him hear. Let him ache. While another man ruins me in the way he never will.

It's not cruel. It's holy. It's his purpose. And my pleasure.

Because nothing tastes sweeter... than a man who obeys forever... because of one ruined night.

He's built a life around my pauses.

There's a ritual now, one I never taught him—he made it for me. Before bed, he dims the lights. Lights one candle. Same scent I wore the night I first called him. Vanilla, smoke, and the faint memory of someone else's cologne.

He kneels. Not dramatically. Just still. Just ready. Hands flat. Eyes closed. Waiting.

Sometimes I don't call for weeks. Sometimes I call three times in one day. He never knows when. And that's what keeps him obedient. It's the not-knowing. The possibility.

He doesn't date anymore. Of course not. What woman could compete with a voice like mine echoing through his ribcage?

He's become quieter, too. Sharper. Like a man who's heard God and can't be bothered by small talk. His friends think he's lonely. He is. But it's a holy kind of loneliness. A chosen one. One I carved into him, slowly, until he wore it like a collar.

There's a drawer in his bedroom he never opens. Inside: the panties I mailed him years ago. The note I sent with them is faded now, ink bleeding into the paper like a secret too hot to hold. It says:

"You don't own this. You tend to it."

And he has. Without fail. For six years.

He keeps every message. Every recording. Every breath I've ever given him. He listens to them when it aches too much. He once told me my voice was his medicine. I told him it was his addiction. He didn't argue.

Sometimes, on rare nights, I give him a gift.

A whisper of approval. A soft moan. A command that lets him touch himself... just until the edge. Never over it. Never free.

He cries sometimes. I know. He doesn't hide it well.

But he always thanks me. Even when I leave him soaked and shaking and untouched. Especially then.

Because that's the beauty of a ruined man. You don't need to be in the room to own him. You just need to call.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly cruel, I let him speak. Just a word. My name, whispered like prayer. He always chokes on it. And I always laugh. Because even his voice—his breath—belongs to me. Every inch of him is branded in silence and moans and tasks he'll never outgrow. He was never free. He was always mine.