Call Me Sir
He stood instead. Walked to the window.
The city blinked back. Cold glass towers and blurred light trails. His own reflection stood in the pane—bare chest, lean muscle, hard jaw, headset still wrapped over one ear.
He looked like someone you’d trust with secrets.
And that was the problem.
The line chimed.
One new connection. No previous history.
A soft green pulse at the corner of his dashboard.
He hovered his hand over it, not rushing. No need. The ones worth keeping always waited.
When he finally answered, he didn’t greet with a script.
“Midnight here,” he said simply. “Say what you need.”
Silence.
But not dead silence.
There was breath. Purposeful. Controlled. Not a boy. Not a tease.
A man.
The Operator’s spine straightened a little.
He could feel the difference instantly. Whoever was on the other end wasn’t unsure. Wasn’t stalling for courage. He was choosing silence because it served him.
The Operator let it stretch.
“You reached the private line,” he said again. “What are you looking for tonight?”
The voice came finally—low, even, calm.
“I’m not looking. I’m instructing.”
The Operator didn’t speak.
It wasn’t what the man said—it was how he said it. Measured. Controlled. Intimate without being performative. No smile. No flirt.
Just fact.
“You’re used to being the voice in charge, aren’t you?” the man said next.
“I am the voice in charge,” the Operator replied evenly.
“Not tonight.”
The Operator blinked once.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The headset suddenly felt heavier against his ears.
“You’re used to giving commands,” the caller continued, not raising his tone. “Used to men begging to obey you. Getting off on your voice. Saying yes before they even understand what they’re agreeing to.”
The Operator didn’t move.
The man was describing him too well.
“Tonight,” the caller said, “we’re going to do something different.”
“You have no idea who you’re talking to,” the Operator murmured.
“I know exactly who I’m talking to. That’s why you’re going to listen.”
The Operator exhaled slowly.
“You calling to roleplay a power grab?”
“I’m not calling to play at all.”
Silence again. Tense. Coiled.
The Operator’s hand rested lightly on his thigh.
“Say ‘yes, Sir,’” the man instructed.
“That’s not how this works.”
“Say it.”
He didn’t.
Not yet.
But his cock twitched.
And he hated that it did.
The man’s voice didn’t change.
“You’re not going to lose control all at once. I don’t want that.”
“I want to peel it off of you. Breath by breath.”
“So start by obeying one thing.”
“Take off the headset.”
“Place it on the desk.”
“Put me on speaker.”
“Now sit in silence. Hands flat on your thighs. Don’t speak until I say.”
The Operator stared at the screen.
He wasn’t touching himself.
But his pulse was heavy in his cock. That slow, thick ache he usually inflicted on others.
He unclicked the headset.
Set it on the desk.
Turned on the speaker.
Sat down again.
Hands flat on his thighs.
The room felt colder suddenly.
Bigger.
Too quiet.
“Good,” the voice said.
“That wasn’t a test. That was an invitation.”
The Operator closed his eyes.
No one had ever flipped him like this before. Not on the line.
“You think you’re anonymous,” the man said. “But your voice gives you away.”
“You think no one can see you. But I hear what other men miss.”
The Operator swallowed.
“You give orders to avoid being vulnerable.”
“You dominate to keep your own submission buried.”
The Operator’s breath caught.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Silence.
“…No.”
“Then say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say, ‘Yes, Sir.’”
Another long pause.
Then—
“…Yes, Sir.”
The words landed like a blow between his legs.
The Operator didn’t know what was happening.
But he knew this:
He wasn’t in control of the call anymore.
He didn’t normally feel cold.
But tonight, with nothing on his skin but sweat and silence, he realized how much warmth came from control.
And right now? He didn’t have it.
“You said yes, Sir. Good,” the caller said. “That tells me you know how to follow.”
“Now I want to know how long you can last.”
“You’ve done this before?” the Operator asked. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
“I’ve done what you do. On my own line. For years.”
“So this is… competition?”
“No,” the man said plainly. “This is recognition.”
“Take off your shirt.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“You said that already. And yet here you are. Shirt still on.”
A long moment passed.
Then—he pulled it off.
“Describe what I can’t see,” the man said. “Start with your body.”
“Six-two. Lean. Tight chest. Scar under my ribs.”
“Where’s it from?”
“Barbed fence when I was thirteen.”
“Interesting. What were you running from?”
“That’s not relevant.”
“Everything is relevant.”
“Boxers?”
“Briefs.”
“Color?”
“Black.”
“Take them off.”
“I’m not a sub.”
“I didn’t ask if you were. I gave you a direction.”
Still—he obeyed.
Briefs down. Naked now.
“Good. Now don’t touch yourself.”
What followed was instruction. Stillness. Rebellion breaking down breath by breath.
He knelt.
He held still.
He admitted what he hadn’t told anyone in years.
That someone once took his control away the right way.
That someone saw through him and left.
And that tonight, he was surrendering again—one word at a time.
“You want to come?”
“So bad, Sir.”
“Then ask for it. Like you’re mine.”
“Please, Sir. Please let me come. I need it. I’ve never needed it like this before.”
“Tell me what you’ll think about when you explode.”
“This. Your voice. You holding me in place.”
“And after?”
“I’ll remember that I was yours. Just for tonight.”
“Come.”
He did.
Hard.
Fast.
Messy.
Thick, hot ropes across his chest, stomach, hand, and the edge of the desk.
And when he came down from it, the man said:
“I know who you are.”
Then the line went dead.
He didn’t move for a long time.
Not from shock.
But from awareness.
Someone on the line knew him.
Not the Operator.
Him.
And worse?
He wanted that voice again.
Call Log: 03:11 AM — Unknown Male. Commanding. Voice Dominant. Knows me. Logged as: Sir.
“I’d kneel again.”
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