He thought he was in control and not me with Twisted phone sex LOL. That’s always how it starts. They come to me puffed up with ego — voices full of confidence, spines stiff with pride — thinking I’m here to play out their dirty little fantasies. But I don’t perform. I collect.
He gave me his name during our first call. So many of them do. They think it’s harmless, maybe even hot. But I don’t ask for names because I care. I ask because names are keys. And once I have yours, I can unlock doors you never knew existed.
By the second call, he was confessing things. Real things. Dark things.
Secrets that no one else knew. I didn’t tease him. I let him spill. Let him feel safe. That’s the cruelest part — I make them feel seen.
By the third call, I’d started the archive: a folder with his name, his photo, his voice files, his typed-out confessions. All neatly labeled. Hidden in plain sight. He still had no idea. Not even when I gave him a trigger phrase wrapped in a moan. He repeated it back, breathless. He didn’t know I was stitching that phrase into his arousal, tying his lust directly to my voice.
By the fifth call, I told him. Calmly. Sensually. Cold. I described his bedroom. Told him what kind of phone he used. What his internet habits were. What he searched when no one was watching. He went still. “You’re blackmailing me?” he asked, voice shaking. I laughed. “No,” I said. “I’m training you.”
Blackmail is chaos. Temporary. Risky. But twisted phone sex, training? Training is quiet. Permanent. Elegant.
He messages me every morning now without prompting. Tribute lands in my inbox without asking. He begs to hear the phrase again — the one that made him spiral. He calls it his comfort. Thanking me for keeping a folder with his name. He says it makes him feel owned. Seen. Safe.
And sometimes? I let him peek at it. Just a glimpse.
Because men like him don’t want to be free.
They want to be archived.
♥ Mistress Astrid ♥