He called me for the conversation. They all say that, darling, the ones who find me. They say they just want to talk to a dominant woman, as if talk were the innocent part. Talk is the part where I get in. Last night's caller lasted four minutes before his voice told me everything his words were still hiding. I lit a cigar, settled back in my chair, and I began the way I always begin.
"Tell me why you really called, and do not insult us both with the first answer."
Silence. Breathing. The small sound of a man deciding how honest he can afford to be.
Here is what you must understand about me. I am not a screamer. I do not need to raise my voice, because a calm one is so much harder to escape. I asked him about his week. About his work, his wife, the locked door of his home office. I asked him when he had started kneeling, and I listened to the pause before the denial, and I smiled into the phone and took a slow drag of my cigar.
"Again," I said. "Truthfully this time. Mistress can hear the lie. That is one. We will count your lies tonight, and you will pay for every one of them."
He confessed. They confess beautifully once they understand that I already know and the confession is merely the toll. He kneels at home alone, in the dark, practicing. He has been touching himself to the memory of my voice since his first call, stroking in the shower where the water hides the sound, thinking about leather, about my gloves, about being caught exactly like this. He said it all in a rush, weeks of it, and at the end he was hard enough that I could hear it in his breathing. Confession does that. It strips a man faster than my hands ever could.
"Good boy," I said, and let the praise sit there until he melted in it. "Now take your cock out. Hold it. Do not stroke. Holding is all a liar has earned so far."
This is where a session with me becomes a session. Not the confession, the control. I had him kneel on his office floor, cock in hand, while I described my evening to him like weather. My legs crossed in leather. My gloved hand resting on the arm of the chair. The ash growing long on my cigar because I was in no hurry at all. Every detail I gave him, I gave slowly, and every time his breathing sped up I stopped speaking entirely and let him sit in the silence and the ache, learning that even my voice happens at my pace.
"Mistress," he whispered. "Please."
"Please is a beginning. Stroke. Slowly. Ten strokes for your first lie, and you will count them out loud so I can hear the honesty."
He stroked and counted, his voice breaking somewhere around seven, and when he reached ten I told him to stop, and he stopped, shaking, his hand frozen on his own cock at the edge of everything he wanted. Edging a man by voice alone is an art form, darling. I took him to the edge four times. Four times I let him beg, and four times I said the word that owns him now. Wait. Between the edges I made him pay for the second lie, the one about the shower, with his own hand turned against himself, spanking his thigh on my count, ten sharp cracks I could hear through the phone, each one followed by my name spoken correctly. Then his palm, flat and obedient, slapping his own cock at my tempo while I smoked and listened and judged. A dominatrix does not need to be in the room. I was more present in that office than his furniture.
By the fifth edge he was confessing things I had not even asked for, offering me new secrets like tribute, desperate to trade honesty for permission. That is the moment I collect. Not the orgasm. The surrender that comes begging before it.
"One more confession," I said, "and make it the one you have never said out loud. Then Mistress will decide what you deserve."
He told me. I will not repeat it. What is confessed to me stays with me, which is precisely why men tell me everything. It was small and filthy and entirely human, and it bought him his release. I counted him down myself, stroke by stroke, my voice low and unhurried, and when I finally said the word, now, he came with a sound like a man being unmade, groaning my title into his empty office while I listened in perfect, pleased silence.
"Same time next week," I told him, and tapped the ash from my cigar. "Kneel before you dial. I will know if you did not."
He will. They always know I will know.
So. What have you never said out loud, darling? What small, filthy, human thing do you stroke to in the shower and confess to no one? If your hand is already moving at the thought of telling me, then you already understand what dominatrix phone sex is supposed to be, and you are tired of girls who play at it. I do not play. I am on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute, and if you have read how a keyholder keeps her boy, you know our mistresses finish what they start. Kneel first. Phone in hand, cock out, lies counted. Then call me, and we will talk.