Your name is a weapon I use against you. Every time I say it, you shudder — from my voice, from the intonation, from how I stretch the vowels, how I whisper it, how I almost spit it out when I want to remind you who is in charge. I will say your name at the most unexpected moment — when you think you have control, when you try to take the initiative. I will say it quietly, almost gently, and you will feel everything inside you clench, your body submitting to that sound, your member growing heavy from my voice alone. And then, when I know you're ready to come, I will say your name again — slowly, deeply, weaving into it a promise you will never forget: "You will never belong to anyone but me." And that sound, that name, that phrase will become your trigger. You will come from my voice, from my promise, from the fact that I made you mine, simply by saying your name. With me, you don't just come — you become mine, again and again, every time I call you.