Took control of her

That evening, I sat in my apartment, sipping whiskey and replaying my latest recordings in my head. The erotic voice stories I'd posted had always been a magnet—women would write that they'd get wet just from my tone. But today, I wanted something real, something alive. Not just words in a chat, but complete control over a body that trembled from my voice in real time. And then a message came. A girl named Alina, 32, a manager at a large company. She had just finished listening to my latest audio story in a hotel room somewhere in St. Petersburg. A three-week business trip, she said. The room was on the 18th floor, with huge windows overlooking the Neva and the lights of the bridges. “I was listening to you and… I can’t cum. I’ve never been able to really. My body is burning, but I can’t release. Help?” I smiled at the screen. Her photo—a stern blonde in a white blouse, but her eyes were hungry. I knew right away: she was already mine. "Turn on voicemail," I wrote first. "And do exactly what I say. No questions." She answered immediately, "Yes, sir." The first session began that same evening. I sent a voicemail: a low, calm tone that always upset them. — Take off your clothes completely. Lie down on the bed, legs wide apart. Take two fingers and simply move them in circles over your clit. Slowly. Don't speed up until I give you permission. A minute later she was breathing heavily into the microphone. I could hear the hotel bed creaking. — Now harder. Press. Imagine it's my tongue. And tell me how wet you are. “I… I’m all wet,” she breathed out. “The sheets are already wet.” I didn't rush her. For the next half hour, I commanded her with my voice: sometimes speeding up, sometimes stopping, forcing her to pinch her nipples until they turned red. She moaned louder and louder, but there was no orgasm. Then I understood her secret. — You need it to hurt, right? So that your body gives in on itself. “Yes…” she almost sobbed. “Please.” I changed my tone. Now it's harsher. — Take the robe belt from the closet. Wrap it around your wrists and tighten. Put your hands behind your head. Now fuck yourself with two fingers. Deeply. And don't you dare cum until I tell you. She obediently complied. I heard her gasp, the sound of her pussy slurping. Then I ordered her to take a bottle from the minibar—cold, smooth—and slowly insert it into herself until she stretched to her limit. She screamed in a mixture of pain and pleasure, but still didn't cum. On the third evening, I switched to video. The camera was positioned so I could see everything: her naked body against the backdrop of the city at night, the lights reflected in her eyes. I made her get on all fours by the window, so anyone watching from the neighboring building could see. I ordered her to grab the shower head and direct the powerful stream directly at her clitoris. She was shaking, her legs wobbly. — Be patient. Even stronger pressure. And stretch yourself with the fingers of your other hand. Wider. Ten minutes later, for the first time in days, she was in a real orgasm—loud, uncontrollable, with my name on her lips. I watched her come, and felt myself harden painfully. After that, she wrote every day. "I can't live without your voice. Without your orders. Come." I knew she was already broken. Dependent. A week later, I bought a ticket. I arrived in the evening, when the city was already ablaze with lights. She opened the door to the room, wearing only a robe. Her eyes were a mixture of fear and desire. I didn't wait. I closed the door, grabbed her by the hair, and pinned her against the wall. — On your knees. Suck. She fell instantly, greedily taking me into her mouth until I was all the way down her throat. I fucked her face until tears streamed down her cheeks, and then threw her onto the bed. That night, I didn't spare her. First, I made her come just from my fingers—hard, with loud slaps on her inner thighs. Then I positioned her doggy style by the window and entered her pussy with one thrust. She came instantly, screaming, clenching around me so hard that I nearly exploded. But I didn't stop. I flipped her over, lifted her legs onto my shoulders, and took her hard, deep, until she begged. Then—anally. I lubricated her with my own moisture and slowly, but mercilessly, entered. She sobbed with pleasure, cumming again and again until she went limp. By morning, she was covered in my marks: red finger marks, bite marks on her chest, sperm on her stomach and thighs. We stood by the window, looking out at the waking city, and she whispered: "I'm completely yours. Do with me whatever you want for these three weeks." I smiled and already knew that tomorrow I would start all over again - with new orders, new toys from the minibar and new ways to make her scream my name. It was the best business trip of her life. And mine too.