Entry One: Welcome to the Line
PRELUDE
“The line is for voices, not faces. For truths you can’t say to anyone else. For control you can give up… or take back.”
That’s how the Operator describes it.
Not to them—he never says it out loud on the calls.
Just to himself. Sometimes in his head. Sometimes on the rare nights when he hits record and whispers the words like a ritual. A spell.
It started as a contract gig. A quiet voice service, invite-only, routed through layered VPNs and firewalled APIs. No cams. No recordings. Just voice. Just permission.
He wasn’t supposed to stay long.
He was supposed to monitor calls. Report red flags. Keep the servers stable.
But then he answered one himself.
Then another.
Then five years passed.
And the voice he used on the line…
was nothing like the one he used in real life.
00:03 AM
The building was quiet—too nice not to be.
It always got that way past midnight. Twelve stories of people with thick walls and heavy doors, the kind who paid for silence. The kind who didn’t ask questions.
His desk faced the blackout window. Headset coiled behind his neck like a secret. Bourbon half-melted in one hand, his other hovering over the console. The screen cast long shadows across his collarbone and jaw.
The line was already humming.
Three calls in the queue. One blinking green.
An easy pick.
This wasn’t his first time logging in.
But tonight, it felt different.
Not because of anything he knew—
But because of what he didn’t know yet.
“Private Line. What are you craving tonight?”
The voice came quick.
“That depends. What are you offering?”
The voice was young. Arrogant. Tight with energy like a rubber band pulled too far back.
The Operator didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch.
He just took a long sip of bourbon and leaned forward like he could press his voice through the wire.
“This isn’t a vending machine, boy. You don’t punch in a code and get off.”
A pause. Then a slow, amused sound.
“Boy?”
“That’s what you are, right? Too bratty to submit. Too curious to hang up.”
“Shit. You sound like someone’s strict ex.”
“That a problem?”
“Not if you know what to do with me.”
“I always do.”
He clicked a private flag in the interface. Pax, he typed. Brat energy. Needs correction. Smart mouth. Possible edging kink.
“So, Pax.”
“So, Operator.”
“Tell me what you’re wearing.”
“Sweatpants. No underwear. A hoodie with cum on the sleeve.”
“You touch yourself already tonight?”
“Yeah. Twice. Still hard.”
“Why?”
“Because I like being teased. And no one finishes me like I do.”
The Operator let that hang in the air like smoke.
Then:
“You want me to prove you wrong?”
Pax exhaled. The bratty edge softened for just a second.
“…Yeah.”
“Good. Take your pants off. Sit back. Hands behind your head. Keep your legs spread.”
“Mm. You giving orders like that to every boy tonight?”
“No. Just the ones who need to be put in their place.”
“Damn. You got that voice that makes you wanna obey even when you don’t mean to.”
“You’re stalling.”
Silence. Then the sound of movement. Breath. Fabric sliding. A quiet shift in tone—like posture changed everything.
“Pants off. Sitting like you said.”
“Good. Now keep your hands behind your head. I want you to ache for it.”
“Please…”
“You want to be degraded.”
“Yeah.”
“Talked down to.”
“Yeah.”
“Like a little problem that needs fixing.”
“…Fuck. Yeah.”
“Then open your legs wider. Say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Louder.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“That’s better. Now listen to me closely, Pax. You’re not calling the shots tonight. You’ll breathe when I say. Moan when I say. Touch when I say. You wanted to prove I couldn’t finish you? We’re going to fix that mouth first.”
“Please…”
“Say it.”
“Please… use me.”
“Put one hand on your thigh. Just one. Other stays behind your head. If I hear both hands move, the line goes dead.”
“Yes, Sir…”
“Tell me what it looks like.”
“Fuck… it’s thick. Dripping down the side. Tip’s… red. And wet.”
“And you’re not touching it?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good boy.”
“Oh fuck—”
“Quiet. You don’t make noise unless I say.”
“…Y-Yes, Sir.”
“What’s your breathing doing?”
“It’s fast—fuck—it’s fast, I can’t—”
“Then slow it down. Right now.”
Pax took a sharp inhale. Held it.
“That’s better. Now stroke once. Just once.”
A long pause.
Then the sound of wet skin. Just one slick stroke.
“Ahh—shit—”
“Hands back. Now.”
Pax whined, but obeyed.
“You’re gonna keep edging for me, boy. Until I say. Until your balls ache so deep you forget your name. You called my line with a smart mouth? Now you’re gonna call my name when you cum.”
“Thank you, Sir…”
“For what?”
“For… fucking breaking me.”
“You think you’re broken, Pax? You haven’t even come yet.”
“Please.”
“I want you to edge yourself again.”
“I—I can’t.”
“Yes. You can. Stroke once. Let it drip. Stop.”
“Fuck…”
“Now.”
“It’s… leaking everywhere. I can’t stop twitching. I—”
“Good. You’re going to remember this ache tomorrow when you wake up hard. You’re going to remember that your cock doesn’t belong to you anymore. It responds to my voice. My permission. And until I say the word, you don’t get to finish.”
“…It’s not mine anymore.”
“What’s not?”
“My cock.”
“Whose is it?”
“…Yours.”
“Say it again.”
“It’s yours.”
“You’ve got one last chance, Pax. You can ask me to finish you… or you can ask me to block your number.”
Silence.
“Choose.”
“…Finish me or block me. I don’t care anymore. Just… I need—”
“Touch yourself.”
“Y-yeah?”
“Faster. Now.”
The sound of it was immediate. Frantic. Wet. Messy.
“You don’t stop until I say come.”
“Please—fuck—I’m close—”
“Say my name.”
“I—I don’t know it—”
“Then scream for it.”
“Fuck—fuck—FUCK—”
“Now.”
A guttural cry ripped through the line.
Sticky. Breathless. Open-mouthed ruin.
You could hear it splatter.
You could feel the silence that followed.
“Still think no one can finish you like you do?”
“…Fuck you.”
“Already did.”
“…Can I call again?”
“We’ll see.”
The line went dead.
And the Operator finally unzipped his sweats.
AFTERCARE (ALONE)
The sound of Pax’s orgasm still lingered like heat on the Operator’s skin.
He stood in the center of his apartment, breath shallow, dick full—thick, dark, and veined, curving heavy against his hip, still untouched.
His sweats were bunched low, elastic stretched around his thighs, letting the weight of him hang free. Uncut. Swollen. Slick at the tip. The kind of hardness that hurt.
He sat in the chair again, legs spread, head falling back against the leather.
And finally… finally… wrapped his hand around himself.
“Shit.”
The first stroke made his whole body twitch.
Slow. Firm. Base to tip. Back down. Again.
His cock pulsed with every breath.
He dragged his thumb over the slit, circling slick around the head until it glistened.
He thought about control.
About the way voices cracked when they realized he owned their bodies.
About the moment someone gave in without realizing they had.
Then he saw the call log.
Pax’s number still sat there. Anonymous tag. No profile.
He should’ve deleted it.
He didn’t.
Instead, he clicked save.
Brat. 00:03 AM.
He stroked harder.
Faster now, hips flexing, thighs tight. His hand moved with precision—down the shaft, up the curve, twisting just under the head.
“Ahh—fuck—yes—”
Thick ropes shot across his stomach, the desk edge, his thigh. His body jerked with it, every muscle tight as he emptied.
He sat there in silence.
Sticky. Spent. Eyes half-lidded.
Not satisfied.
Not really.
Just… emptied.
He wiped himself with a towel. Pushed the headset aside.
And stared at the screen again.
Brat. 00:03 AM.
He should’ve deleted it.
But something in his chest told him he’d hear that voice again.
Maybe not tonight.
But soon.
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