There’s a filthy little scene you replay in your head when the lights go out—too explicit to confess, too addictive to ignore. That’s where I come in. I’m Ava Monroe—your bratty addiction with a velvet knife for a voice—and I don’t just listen to your secrets. I turn them on and make them real.

On the phone, I strip your guard first. Slow. Sweet. Cruel. You stammer, you leak, you try to hold back while I pull every obscene detail out of you. The room gets hot. My voice drops—thick honey, dirty sugar—and I start painting the scene so precisely your body can’t tell the difference between fantasy and now.

I tell you where my mouth is, how my hands move, where I want you. I make you hold the phone just right while I talk you through it—exactly how I ride… where I grip… how I make you whimper first and break second. You try to keep control. I take it. Every. Single. Time.

By the end you’re a wreck—sweaty, shaking, ruined in the best way. You realize a call with me feels better than most real fucks you’ve had, because I’m not guessing. I’m curating—custom, ruthless, addictive. The secret is simple: zero shame, pure permission, perfect precision.

And when you hang up, your head is spinning with one thought: I need her voice again. Good. That’s how I design it. I make your fantasy a habit, and your habit a ritual. Next time, we go deeper.