I broke a goonette with my Irish accent

It started with a simple message. She had read something I posted, something about control, and she was hooked. We chatted for a bit, the usual back and forth, until I dropped the fact that I was Irish. That was the crack in the dam. She confessed, almost shyly, that she had a weakness for the accent, that specific, lilting cadence that could turn a prayer into a sin.

So when we moved off reddit, I started sending voice notes. At first, they were innocent. Just checking in.

"Just wanted to hear how your day was. Hoping it's treating you well."

But I could hear the need in her texts. I pushed it a little further.

"You sound tired, pet. Why don't you lie down? Imagine I'm there, whispering in your ear, telling you to let go of all that stress."

Then, the heat turned up.

"I know what you need. You need someone to take the wheel, don't you? Someone to tell you exactly what to do with those hands when the lights go out."

Eventually, she couldn't take it anymore. She begged me for a call. I told her to get high, to smoke herself stupid until her head was swimming and the only thing anchoring her to reality was the sound of my voice. She turned on her cam, and the sight of her made my cock throb. She was sprawled out on her bed, eyes glassy and hazy, her legs already spread. Her pussy was glistening, soaking wet, dripping down her thighs before I’d even told her to touch herself.

"Look at you," I murmured, my voice dropping low and rough. "Already dripping like a desperate little whore. Did you get this wet just listening to my voice? Did you get high just so you could feel even more like a dirty slut for me?"

She moaned, her hips bucking at the air, needing contact.

"Pick up the vibrator," I commanded. "The big one. Turn it on low and run it over your clit. Do not slide it in. Just tease that swollen little nub. Tell me how it feels."

She gasped, describing the buzz, the heat radiating through her core. I watched her on the screen, her body twitching, her chest heaving.

"Good girl," I growled. "Now slide it in. Slowly. Fuck yourself for me. But listen to me closely, you do not get to cum. You are going to edge yourself until you are crying. You are going to hold that orgasm right on the edge until your brain melts."

For an hour, I worked her over. I told her when to speed up, when to slow down, when to slap her own clit so she would remember who she belonged to.

"Rub it faster, you filthy bitch. Chase that high."

"Stop. Hands off. Now. Squeeze your legs together and suffer."

"Look at the camera. Look at me while you are falling apart. You are nothing but a hole for me to use with my words. My dirty, broken little goonette."

I watched her eyes roll back. The weed and the denial were taking their toll. She was drooling, her makeup ruined, her body trembling violently. She tried to speak, to beg for release, but all that came out were incoherent whimpers and broken gasps.

"That's it," I said, my voice cutting through the haze, sharp and cruel. "Let it happen. Let your mind go blank. You don't need to think. You just need to listen. You're broken, aren't you? Your brain is just mush leaking out of your ears along with that dripping cunt."

She was gone. The woman who had messaged me was obliterated. She was a twitching, mindless vessel, completely undone by the sound of my voice and the denial I inflicted on her. She stared at the screen, eyes vacant and unfocused, shattered into a million pieces, held together only by the command to keep gooning.