(Previously published elsewhere, a lifetime ago.)
It’s the voice.
The timbre, the resonance. The depth, the volume, the slight catch that betrays your hidden desire.
Or not so hidden, perhaps? I can’t see you right now, but if I could, my bet is that you’d have a boy scout troop tugging at your sleeve hopefully, while eyeing the crotch of your pants.
My ear presses hard against the phone, straining to catch every nuance, every sound. I love how deep and sexy your voice is as it rumbles into my ear. I love the way you smile as you say my name, and the shiver it sends down my spine.
Especially when you’re feeling calm and relaxed. The lazy way your honeyed tones flow out, saying my name, or merely whispering “Is that good, baby? You like that?” as you slide a finger in and out of me, deliberately and slowly.
Surrounded by stone clad jacuzzi walls, the echo caresses me. This time it’s all about you; your reaction to a foot massage. Clearly I’ve struck the right chord with you, as your sighs verge on the orgasmic. It must have been a hard couple of days, but now you’re relaxing your body, and the noises you are making reflect this.
But you know which vocal sound delights me the most. As I move my mouth up and down on you, my tongue lapping at you, my teeth tracing delicate and depraved patterns up and down your shaft, as my hand gently teases your balls. The joy and pleasure in your voice is the ultimate in sexy for me, when you moan and mumble incoherently. Then afterwards, when you kiss me tenderly, and move your mouth against my ear so that I can hear your sultry whisper, as I feel your breath against my ear and neck, and all the hairs stand up all over my body with the rush of excitement that you cause me:
“Oh my god… you do that even better than you write it.”