His Voice Alone

Chapter 11

Ezra’s POV

Control doesn’t need touch. Just permission, and she’s already given it.

I haven’t laid a hand on her since the alley, haven’t stepped within ten feet. But I don’t need to.

Distance sharpens the blade. Control lives in her hesitation, in that half-second pause before she opens a door, in the way she scrolls past the file without playing it.

Again, and again. Pretending it doesn’t own her.

She’s not running, she’s waiting, she just doesn’t know what for, and that’s better. Her entire schedule is mine, synced, tagged, stored.

Every class, every skipped lunch she blames on headaches. Her dorm camera goes live only when she’s alone, I coded it myself.

No motion alerts, no detection, just presence. I like watching her believe she’s safe.

Since the night she choked herself to the sound of my voice, she hasn’t played the file again. But she hasn’t deleted it either.

She taps it, highlights it, scrolls past, like just seeing my name burns her fingers. That tension is what I feed on. She remembers, but she wants to forget.

And that’s exactly why she won’t.

But memory doesn’t break people, paranoia does. So I left a gift from a burner account. Clean, no name, and no IP. Just two lines in her inbox:

grazzer0348: Heard about you. Don’t let them find out what you did.

No punctuation, no threat, just weight and suggestion.

Within hours, she starts to slip. Texts her RA. New locks, window checks. No café, no library. No excuses.

She stays inside, under covers, lights off, curtains open. She wants to be seen, she just hasn’t admitted it yet.

I watch her pace, hands twitching. She stares at her phone like it’s ticking.

She knows, she knows I’m close.

Then she does it. She opens the file. I watch her on the screen, the laptop’s glow reflecting off her bare legs. She hesitates for half a second, then presses play.

My voice fills her mind, and her reaction is instant. Her breath hitches, thighs press together and her hand moves under the blanket.

I lean in closer, eyes locked on the way her body shifts, the way her lips move, the way she’s already arching slightly, like the sound alone gets her wet.

By the time and her movements, I know exactly on what part of audio she is right now, listening to my commands I sweetly have left her.

“Lie still, firefly.” That probably sounds in her ear, fucking with her mind

She obeys, of course she does. She peels the blanket down with shaky hands, revealing flushed skin and hardened nipples.

I watch her hand slide between her thighs. The camera angle isn’t perfect, but I see the tension in her hips and the way her mouth drops open.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Ezra…”

My name. She moans it again, softer this time, like a prayer she doesn’t want to say too loud.

“Touch yourself like I would. Slow… let me know how wet you are.”

She gasps, her fingers move slowly, deliberately. The way she rocks into her palm tells me she’s soaked. My cock throbs, hard as stone, but I don’t touch it.

I want to watch. I want to keep reading her lips.

“God, I want you,” she breathes. “Your mouth… your fingers… your cock, inside me. I need it.”

She chokes herself, her hand wraps around her throat like muscle memory. My handprint belongs there. Even in silence, I can see her lips moving, whispering my name between gasps. She’s not playing, she’s reliving.

“Use both hands. I want you shaking.”

She obeys again. Her fingers disappear between her legs, deeper now. I hear the slick sound echo faintly from the feed. My voice, still playing in her ear, guides her. Her thighs start trembling.

“Ezra— Fuck— I’m gonna—”

“Coming firefly? Do it for me.”

She shatters, her back arching off the mattress as a cry escapes her lips, quickly silenced by her biting down hard on her wrist.

Still, I can see the moan in her body, and I feel it in mine. Her legs twitch, and her pussy clenches around nothing. She’s soaked, messy and completely mine.

I close my eyes for a moment to feel it, her voice saying my name.

When I open them again, she’s limp, still twitching from the aftershocks with tears slipping down her cheeks. Good girl.

The file keeps playing, and she doesn’t stop it.

She doesn’t wipe her fingers or try to cover up. She just lies there, marked by the sound of me, claimed by it.

I don’t touch myself, not yet. This isn’t about release, it’s about control. Because she didn’t just obey me; she gave herself to me.

And I’m not done with her yet.