Well-timed silence hath more eloquence than any speech…
House guests are a pain.
I ought to qualify that statement. House guests can be a pain. They can necessitate days of tidying and dusting before they arrive. Once ensconced within your domain, they can hog your favourite chairs, place wet glasses on your polished woodwork, dominate your television in order to watch Big Brother and analogous mind-rot, take over the bathroom and empty your hot water tank.
Oh, and they can make enjoying a solid fuck pretty difficult too.
A few years ago, some decorating necessitated a temporary move into our guest bedroom. This room shared a wall with the bedroom belonging to our neighbour’s teenage son, and one night MW and I were treated to an aural exhibition of his sexual prowess, as he ploughed a variety of furrows with his young girlfriend. It was mildly arousing for a time, before the need for sleep took over. It was also an effective demonstration of how easy it is to be overheard when you’re in the throes of passion and pleasure.
As I hinted, it can be a turn-on to listen to others copulate, especially if the event has that touch of eavesdropping about it. Flipping the coin, it might be equally arousing to fuck whilst thinking that other people are listening to you. To our way of thinking though, the arousal factor dissipates entirely when the people who might be earwigging are family or friends.
Which brings us back neatly to the subject of house guests.
Recent visitors put something of a stranglehold on our sex life. Not only were they entrenched in our guest room, but an overflow had dictated that we employ the fold-out bed in the living room as well – the living room directly beneath our bedroom. If we decided to attempt to quench our carnal desires, not only would we need to be vocally quiet (and MW can be pretty vocal in the midst of orgasm), but we would need to keep our bed silent too.
When we headed upstairs at the end of Saturday evening, my hopes that things might turn salacious were not high. That’s not to say they didn’t exist. It was a warm night, balmy; the perfect climate for turning sober minds towards carnal matters. Worse still, by the time I’d finished in the bathroom, my wife was stretched across the top of the bed, wearing nought but her powder blue bra and panties.
It was an achingly tempting vista, but given that MW is even more conscious of the sound factor than I am, I knew it would be pointless trying to start something. Naked, I lay down next to her, killed the bedside lamp, and then turned on my side, willing sleep to take away my hunger.
It came as something of a revelation when MW’s hand reached over my waist, began caressing my cock. I lay perfectly still in the darkness, controlling my breathing, concentrating on the tactile sensations radiating out from my loins. Her fingers ringed my shaft, stroking me slowly. Surprise seemingly added to the arousal factor, for I was fully erect within three or four passes of her hand. Having apparently elicited the desired effect, MW’s hand strayed to my balls, cupping them, weighing them, thrilling me with the allure of her touch. I shivered. I sometimes do when MW takes a step I’m not expecting. It’s when she’s at her most alluring, her most potent. I wondered what I should expect.
MW knelt up in bed, releasing her bra and slipping it down her arms. She made to straddle me still in her panties. As she did so, I tried to find her sex with my own fingers.
“No need for that,” she whispered, easing her panties to one side. “I’m already soaking.”
And she was. Even as she settled her cunt onto my cockhead, I could tell she was wet. She slipped over me in a single, fluid swoop, our flesh connecting as though the fit had been precision machined. Enveloped in warm, wet silk, I let my head fall back against the pillow. Thoughts of eavesdropping relatives forgotten, I opened my mouth to release a drawn-out gasp of pleasure.
“Hush,” MW whispered, leaning forward to press one gloriously erect nipple against my mouth. I suckled on her greedily, the sounds of my delight happily muted by her flesh.
With that, she began to ride me, slowly, silently, rising up on my cock until I was barely inside her, settling back down until the cheeks of her arse rested against my balls, until I had nothing left to give her. Up and down, up and down. My mouth crossed from one nipple to the other and back again, as though in a dream, tongue bound in worship to her stiff flesh, lost in the gentle rhythm of our fucking.
And then she began to milk me. The velvet walls of her sex tightened around my shaft, released their hold on me, gripped me again, all as she continued to flow up and down my length. Up and down, up and down. Tighten, relax. Tighten, relax. My cock began to tremble inside her, and she increased the cadence of her strokes, a subtle change, but one I knew would quickly draw the sap from my flesh. I held one soft breast to my face as I felt my orgasm approach. My free hand stroked the small of her back, where dew drops of perspiration had flowered. The hold of MW’s sex became tighter, faster, her hushed breathing losing its measured pace as her own climax neared. As her cunt fluttered around my shaft, I let go completely, spilling my lust inside her in hot, pulsing jets, the pleasure washing over us both in near silence as she milked me of every last drop.
We held each other in the darkness, cheek to cheek, our flesh seemingly irrevocably locked together. After a time, she whispered, “Did you enjoy that?”
I nodded. “It was delicious.”
MW hesitated. “Do you think that anyone heard us?”
I considered her question. It seemed unlikely that we would have been overheard, but I answered from the heart regardless.
“Who cares?”
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Nice Saturday morning writing. Thanks…and you’re right, there is a point in hosting stay over guests when it is ok to say, “who the fuck cares?”
Thank you, tmmbrr
May I be a house guest? Wow!
I feel the need to quietly say — that was lovely. Beautiful imagery and phrases.
Despite the fact that I am most definitely an adult and that I’ve been known to commit serious indiscretions in semi-public, I still can’t pull myself to have sex within 50 yards of where my mother might be. The idea of anyone else catching wind of it is quite titilating but there’s something about my mother - she’s the psycho-sexual equivalent of an ice-bath.
However, your post was beautifully written erotica, and I agree that self-imposed restraint can add a little something extra to any tumble.
Hugs,
rg
Chuck: our bed+breakfast rates are very reasonable, but we do have to charge extra for microphones and headsets…
Rosie: thank you.
RG: ‘ice-water-over-loins’ is the phrase we associate with the prospect of having sex within earshot of parents. And thank you for the complement.
Beautifully, beautifully written.
Thank you, Rick.
Having to be quiet, does add a frisson…
It does indeed, FS. And what a frisson…
~EA