5 comments/ 10649 views/ 0 favorites Silence is Not Always Golden By: drscar The air was silent, as usual. The only sound was the deafening roar of crickets chirping in the nearby bushes. Their own perverted melody rang out into the wet night, off the damp pavement and echoed in my ears. It was late, also as usual, and I was very tired. Work had been as tedious and humdrum as always, and I suffered from the same malaise as most everyone in this day and age. I don't know, perhaps it was the general ennui of my situation that primed me for the fiasco I got myself into. Perhaps if I had managed to find something more interesting within my own life, or perhaps if I just wasn't as tired as I was... I can probably make up many excuses for why I did what I did, but it doesn't change the fact that I did it. The commotion under the street lamp was surreal at best, a rift in the otherwise complacent day-to-day humdrum that had been my life. Hell, everybody's life was humdrum. Any commotion was, to say the least, odd. The poor guy had obviously had too much to drink. The two constables trying to contain him weren't having much luck, and it was obvious even from my distance that they were losing their patience with him. "No way!" I heard him cry out. "I don't have to be quiet! It's a free country, goddamn it!" The constables apparently intimated to him that his outburst would not be tolerated. I was too far away to catch what they were saying. Then again, they weren't exactly directing their comments at me, either. The drunken man staggered a little, well okay a lot, and took a swipe at one of the constables. He missed by a mile. "Fuck you!" he caterwauled. "I can say whatever the hell I want to say!" One of the constables apparently run out of patience at that point. He unsheathed his stunstick and tapped the poor drunken sod on the shoulder. Down he went unceremoniously into a puddle in the gutter. The constables simply picked him up and hauled him into their car. The episode was over. It wasn't over for me, however. The shrill voice of the drunken man rang in my ears for hours afterwards. The abrasive sound echoed endlessly in my head, causing me much discomfort. The physical discomfort soon transformed into another kind of discomfort, an emotional one: I was envious. Jealous, even. I looked at my wife, sleeping soundly next to me. Every once in a while her dreams were unleashed into my own, 'talking' in her sleep as it were. The unfocused, unbridled desires pent-up during the day were occasionally released during compromised R.E.M. sleep. She never uttered a sound. Then again, none of us had for years. It had been years since I had heard the sound of a human voice. Decades, even. As I lay in my bed, trying fruitlessly to find sleep, I counted back the years since I had last used my own voice. Thirty? No, more. I was five, I think. Thirty-one years. I marveled at the time that had passed, and not one peep. The laws were clear; noise was not to be tolerated. A higher calling was required; those who could not communicate without talking had been confined to concentration camps. "Re-education" institutions they had been called. No one knew precisely what went on when drunken idiots like the one I'd seen that night were removed from the state gutters, but rumors abounded and the images weren't pretty. My curiosity got ahold of me. I'd been married now for ten years, and it suddenly dawned on me that the one thing I knew nothing of my wife was the sound of her voice! I wanted to know, I had to know! I thought of waking her, to ask her to speak to me, but then sanity reawakened. What was I doing? Was I daft? The sensors outside on the lawn would surely pick up the frequency from my voice. I rolled onto my side, and watched her sleeping form. She was on her side as well, her back to me. I reached out my hand to touch her, tracing a single finger down the curve of her neck, down her spine, resting gently upon the subtle rise of her buttock. The images from her dream changed almost instantly, and I couldn't help but smile. Her mind's generation of visuals changed in a strong cascade, where images of her workplace suddenly changed to a flurry of hands and fingers over her nude form. I couldn't help but smile to myself. In lighter sleep, and absolutely while awake, my wife would never have allowed herself to communicate to me such lewd and wanton sexuality. Her dreams, however, released all of those fantasies to me. I pressed the tips of two fingers against the small of her back, and watched her dreams change. She was still in her office, but this time she was bent over her desk, someone's hand pressing down on the small of her back as he grabbed the waist of her skirt in his fist. Pulling down forcefully, he pulled the skirt completely down and away from her body, revealing her naked ass to him. I could feel her apprehension, how she was both afraid he would take her and hoping that he would. I didn't know who this faceless man was, after all it wasn't a fantasy, it was a sex dream. I found myself getting hard as I vicariously participated in her dream. The dream was from the man's perspective. She was watching herself get fucked from behind, though he hadn't entered her yet. Suddenly there was a man in front of her desk, and this man I did know. It was a mere boy, though. An intern from a local college, certainly fifteen years her junior. She was his immediate supervisor in real life, but this was not real life, I kept reminding myself. She ordered him to take some papers off her desk and file them. He did so without comment or even acknowledgment of her dubious position sprawled on the desktop. The man behind her held his cock in his hand, and for some reason it seemed to have peculiar extensions around the head. He rubbed it up and down her slit, and then entered her, fucking her in long, smooth strokes. Almost like a machine, in fact. While he was doing this, she continued to order people around the office. File this, do that, take this memo, write that report. All the while, her pussy clutched at the man's cock, her hips slightly gyrating against the mattress. I pressed my own cockhead against her pussy lips, now distended behind her as her legs were drawn up. The intern returned from his assignment with her cup of coffee. Had she ordered him to get her a cup of coffee? I didn't remember any such thing. He stood in front of her, but instead of giving it to her she told him to drink it, that she couldn't read and would get it another way. She unzipped his pants and released a very long, but very thin cock. He began drinking the coffee, and she began sucking on his cock. I couldn't help but make a mental joke about how she never liked cream in her coffee before. Suddenly, there appeared to be an audience. The board of directors, secretaries, and even her boss were sitting around the desk watching her fuck and suck as if it were part of her job description. For some reason only the women were masturbating through their clothes. I felt a slight twinge if this meant that she may have lesbian tendencies? Somehow I doubted it, but it was only a dream, after all. I slid my own cock inside her slowly. I could feel her pussy muscles grip and squeeze me as she dreamed I was her strangely-appendaged dream lover. In her dream she took the intern's cock out of her mouth and mentally barked at him for her coffee. He looked down at her and nodded. He drank some more coffee, and then his hips began pumping back and forth. I knew the signs as well as she did. He was going to come, and she was going to get her hot coffee. She thought encouraging comments back at the intern, and I could feel her own muscles contract violently against my own live cock. As he came, so did she. As she came, so did I, but it wasn't for that reason. In my own mind I wanted her to cry out, to call my name. I wanted to hear her scream out loud that she wanted to be fucked harder, faster, harder! But there was only silence, as there had always been silence. I filled her womb with my seed, but to me there was something drastically missing now. My own mind cleared with the orgasm, a clarity that I knew was going to lead to an obsession. My wife slipped out of R.E.M. sleep into a dreamless state, and I withdrew from her body. Exhausted now, I slept. It was a restless sleep, one filled with a cacophony of voices, human voices. To me, it wasn't noise; far from it. It was melodic, harmonious. Each individual voice combined with others to form beautiful melodies, but even as I dreamed I knew that it was impossible to ever get to hear such wonderful sounds. I awoke the next morning along with this obsession. I wanted -- no, needed -- to hear my name called. It wasn't a particularly wonderful sounding name, at least not in my own head, but that didn't matter. I wanted to hear it. I couldn't even remember the last time I heard it, or who spoke it to me that final time. I clamored down the stairs, hoping to find some breakfast. My wife was already there, and it suddenly dawned on me that I never really knew her name. That's not really accurate. I knew what her name felt like, and the mental nuances that constituted it, but I didn't actually know what it would be like spoken out loud. We weren't childhood sweethearts or anything, in fact we met after college. I suddenly wished I could hear her tell me her name. I wanted her to say both our names. I opened my mouth to surprise her with a, "Good morning!" As the alien pressure built in my throat to emit the forbidden sounds, panic gripped me. I was suddenly frightened, more frightened than I had ever been in my entire life. I was frightened about being caught, about my vocal chords not working after all this time, about having forgotten how to speak, about my wife even turning me in. Mostly I was frightened about what she would think of me. I loved my wife. I have always loved her, there's no doubt. But she was always a conservative, low-risk person. She worked as an accountant manager and was the typical accountant type. Glasses, hair-in-a-bun, no deviance from accepted norms or rules type. Her dream the night before was radical in that she would never, not in a million years, have ever consciously had such a fantasy. Truth was, she probably didn't remember the dream at all, and would fervently deny that she was even capable of such debaucherous thinking. Fortunately, her back was to me, and by the time she turned around and saw me there, my open gape had turned into a weak yawn. I searched her face and found that she suspected nothing. I asked her how she was this morning, did she sleep well? She smiled and nodded. "Any interesting dreams?" I asked. She looked somewhat exasperated. "Not this again," she replied. "You know I don't dream. And all that crazy talk about me sharing my wild sex dreams are a little hard to take, you know." I nodded and smiled as if I were just pulling her leg this morning. I was quite glad that I hadn't attempted to speak out loud earlier. I think she might have blown a gasket or something. At work, I was more than just a little distracted. I kept imagining having sex with my wife, and the echoes of her voice -- or what I imagined her voice would be like -- at the moment of prolonged orgasm kept me hard as iron throughout the day. "Jack," I heard in my head. It wasn't so much as the actual sound of my name but rather a feeling that my attention was being summoned. I looked up from my desk and saw Christina standing in the doorway. Before I could stop myself, I wondered what her voice sounded like. I raised my eyebrow. It was my best attempt at a thoughtful, inquisitive look. "Jack, we've been trying to get your attention all day," she chastised me playfully. "You've been on the moon or something?" I shrugged it off. "Just tired, I guess," I lied. She came in and sat down. She just smiled. This woman was remarkably perceptive. She knew I was bullshitting her even better than my wife. And I had known her for a far shorter amount of time. "I don't know if I should say," I confessed. "It's the kind of thing that can get a person into trouble, ya know?" Her curiosity was peaked. "Well, now you're going to have to tell me!" Her grin was huge. "After work, we'll talk." Christina and I weren't extremely close, but we had worked on a number of projects together and shared a beer and a laugh at times, but nothing more. I was a devoted husband, after all, with a wife who had met all my needs. Well, all my needs up until last night. I realized that I would have to come up with something, or tell her the truth. When the time came after work, however, I realized that I simply wasn't very good at coming up with imaginative stories, and she wasn't going to believe me if I lied. I told her about the drunkard the previous night. I explained how the sound of the man's voice startled me at first, and that I could see why speaking had been outlawed in the first place. The drunken political diatribe coming from this fool simply sounded abrasive. There wasn't the cool, soothing tones of explicit understanding that we get from the more pure, non-verbal mode of communication. Even so, I explained, there was something liberating about his outburst. There was something, raw, something genuine and emotive. I could feel myself getting more and more animated as the words came to me. Passion! That was it! There was passion in this man. I wanted that passion, and I wanted it more than anything. Once I started explaining everything to Christina, everything else came out as well. I brought up the subject of my wife, and her conservative nature, and how I just couldn't explain it to her. I explained that my wife's dream left me wanting her to call out my name in that passion (I judiciously left out the specifics of the dream, though I could tell Christina was more than just a wee bit curious). I had never known that the human voice could be so flexible, I pondered to myself as well as Christina. It was the first time in more than thirty years I had heard someone speak, and at some point in that time I had come to believe that when people used to speak, they had only a flat monotone. The idea that there could be richness, tone, and pitch simply escaped my memory and my imagination. As our conversation -- well, my diatribe, really -- continued, I suddenly had a mental image, a memory, of my mother in the kitchen when I was a child. I seemed to recall her making some noise with her throat, some sort of change in pitch with some cadence, a rhythm. What was it called? It wasn't singing, I could remember that. Humbling? Hunning? I couldn't remember. "Humming," Christina interjected. It was the first time she had broken into my stream-of-consciousness. My thoughts were completely sucked out of my head at that point, ripped away from me by the interruption. My concentration had been broken. She confused my silence for anger. "Please," she prodded. "Go on." I wasn't angry, or even upset, though. I just had simply been brought out of my self-absorbed ramblings such that I saw how I must have looked to Christina, and had thus become self-conscious. My ramblings were nothing short of blasphemous, not to mention highly illegal. I shook my head. "No," I replied. "I've said too much." Indeed I had. I thought back to the drunken man. Perhaps he may receive a more lenient sentence because he had been drunk. My ramblings, on the other hand, were from a man who knew precisely what the risks were, what the price to be paid could be. The punishment for my transgressions were unknown to me, but undoubtedly dire. I guess I trusted Christina, but it suddenly dawned on me what little I actually knew of her, and it dawned on me how precarious a position I had placed myself. The look of concern must have shown on my face. "Jack," she reached out to place her hand on mine as she tried to get my confidence. "You can trust me. I won't say a word, I promise." I must not have appeared to be thoroughly convinced. She sat up, and said, "Come on," "Where are we going?" "I'm going to show you," she told me as she gathered her belongings, "that you can trust me." "How?" I asked. "You shared something with me that's very sensitive, I know," she said. "And now I'm going to show you something that's very sensitive as well. Tit for tat." We walked out into the cold pre-dusk air and she hailed a cab. She produced a card out of her purse and gave it to the driver. I never saw the address. We arrived at a townhouse in an upscale part of the city. We got out of the cab, and Christina paid the driver. She knocked on the door, and a small window opened in the door. Whoever it was behind the door must have recognized Christina immediately, or she communicated directly with him without allowing me to be privy to the conversation. Either way, the window was replaced, and the door opened. We walked in, and Christina handed the doorman her coat and purse, and gestured for me to do the same, then ushered me into an adjoining room. It was an old room, a library, filled with books and old portraits on wooden paneled walls. I walked into the room and began looking at some of the books. "Jack," Christina said. I nearly jumped out of my skin. She hadn't simply thought my name, she said it. The shock on my face registered with her. She came toward me with her arms up, palms facing me, trying to let me know that everything was all right. "Jack," she said, "it's all right." I suddenly realized that I had been backing away from her as she approached me. A chair seemed to appear just behind me, forcing me to sit down harder than dignity would permit. "Listen to me," she said. Her voice was remarkably soft, so smooth, and so different from the abrasive drunken man the previous night. I could never have imagined that human beings could have such different sounding voices. The sound of her voice had me entranced completely. It was so soft, and so... melodic. The word seemed to appear out of thin air, but fit the situation so well. "There are organizations, Jack," she explained. "People who don't agree with the law that forbids us to speak out loud. Years ago, there used to be a law against alcohol, believe it or not. But people thought that law was ridiculous, and they created places where they could drink in peace. They called them 'speakeasies.'" She chuckled at the irony. "Anyway," she continued after a pause, "there are speakeasies all over the place now. We're secret, of course." I just sat there, dumbfounded. With a smirk, she leaned forward and touched my chin, closing my gaping mouth. "Well," she said after a moment's pause, "aren't you going to say something?" While she spoke it honestly hadn't occurred to me that I was in an element where I could actually speak out loud and not be ashamed by the sheer desire of it! But what would I say? After more than thirty years, would my voice even work? My jaw opened again, and I took an inward breath. Christina leaned forward to hear what I had to say, but all I could utter was a mere throaty breath... again. She sat back, but smiled. "It's okay, Jack," she said. "Here, let me help you." She came over to the chair and sat down on the armrest. She was close enough that I could smell the sweet perfume, and even see the small, irregular rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She placed one hand on my back, and the other she placed on my chest. A small chill rode up my spine as I was touched for the first time by someone other than my wife. Her soft fingers came up to my throat, and rested upon a small bump there. "This," she said, smiling, "is your Adam's apple. It's where your vocal chords are." I must have looked confused. My what? She giggled. "Your vocal chords," she repeated. It's the organ that allows you to speak. They don't teach you those sorts of things in school, I know, but you'll learn that there's a lot of things that you can do with them." She had a particularly mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Silence is Not Always Golden I tried to speak yet again, but wound up only looking like I was gagging. "Here," she said, taking my hand in her own. "This is what it feels like." She placed my hand on her own throat, letting my fingertips gently touch just above the small divot in her clavicle. She spoke, and I felt a small vibration emitting through her skin into my own. I raised my free hand to my own throat, and felt at my Adam's apple again. My vocal chords, unused and forgotten for so many years, seemed alien to me. Suddenly, the magnanimity of the situation hit me. What would be my first words spoken? Should it be something profound? Something prophetic? "W...wow," I garbled. So much for profundity. Christina laughed. "That's it!" she cried. She coached me through all kinds of sounds that I had not known that I could make. There were serious limitations, of course. Many of the things that I had learned over the past few years held no vocal equivalent. There were no words, for example, that existed that captured the simple communication of feelings. When I wanted to communicate certain things about the joy of being able to speak, the words simply failed to come. I 'cheated' by sending her my sensations instead of attempting to explain them. She was most forgiving of this, and of my amateur attempts. She sat next to me for more than forty-five minutes, holding my hand to her neck as well as holding my own fingers to my own throat. Suddenly, I sensed something about her demeanor had changed. She was smiling just a little bit too broadly. Up until this point I had felt a genuine sensation of camaraderie, nothing more. Now, though, there was something else, something that she wanted to both hide and share at the same time. "Jack," she said softly. I suddenly found the true power of the spoken word. Even though I had only heard Christina speak for the first time less than an hour ago, I knew from the change in sound that she was about to say something important. The tenor in the air changed immediately. "Jack," she said again, "I can help you." "You've already helped me," I said. "No," she said. "I mean, I can help you. With your fantasy, Jack." I was dubious. I knew what she meant, of course, but I wasn't sure of her agenda. I remained silent, and she took my hesitation as a prompt to continue. She slid next to me, sitting on the arm of the chair that I was in. I was suddenly very aware of her body and her breathing. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, and those breaths seemed to be getting deeper and deeper with each passing moment. She leaned down and whispered in my ear. "I'll talk dirty to you, Jack." I didn't want it to, but my cock leapt up in rapt attention. It was almost as if it had been lying there in wait, ready to spring to attention at her magic words. Now she had said them, and I felt betrayed by my own body. I could only swallow hard in response. Her hand came up to pull a loose strand of hair away from her face, but she was so close to me now that I flinched. My nervousness was obvious, and she seemed to find it a turn-on. Her hand moved the slight distance from her cheek to my own. "I can do that for you, Jack." I made a small croak. My throat was so dry it came out as little more than a gasp. "Why?" I finally managed. She sat back, surprised that I could even ask the question. A huge smile spread across her face, and her features seemed to glow. "It's very simple, Jack," she said. The constant use of my name was having an aphrodisiac affect on me. "I'm a voyeur. I love to watch a man stroke his cock -- " my cock surged ahead as she spoke the lewd term -- "for me." I could only sit and look at her. "And you," she said, catching me somewhat by surprise. I hadn't really thought of myself as anything. She leaned back into my ear so that I could feel her breath. "You are an auralatilist." "I'm a what?" I had no idea what she was talking about. She giggled. A musical sound, and one that I was beginning to think that I could get used to hearing. "An auralatilist. A type of aurophile. A person who loves the sound of the spoken word. You, my friend, get excited by the sound of the spoken word." She stood up and came behind me, her fingers running through my hair. She leaned down and whispered into my other ear. "It's perfect, Jack," she said. "You get to hear me talk dirty to you, I get to watch you stroke yourself, everybody's happy." "Wha- what are you going to do?" I could almost feel her smile grown bigger. "What do you think I'm going to do, Jack," she teased. "I'm going to fuck myself silly with my fingers while I talk you through the most amazing orgasm you've ever had!" I heard two moans at once. The one from my throat and the one coming from between my legs. I swear, at that point I would have testified that my cock had literally jumped up and moaned for her attention. No one had ever talked that way to me. Hell, no one had ever talked to me for years, so all this at once was somewhat difficult to take in all at once. "It's a beautiful arrangement, you know," she said, coming around in front of me. I suddenly felt very vulnerable as she kneeled in front of me. I had the crazy thought that she would just take me in her mouth from where she knelt, but I knew that's not what she wanted. "Really, it is. You get what you've always wanted, I get my rocks off, and you're not even cheating on your wife." "I'm not?" I asked. What a foolish question. She had me, and she knew it. Her smile seemed more confident now. "Of course," she said. "How could it be?" My cock's imaginary voice answered for me. "It's not! It's not!" it cried. At that moment I couldn't come up with an argument either. She smiled, and then rocked back on her heels. She eased back into the seat opposite me, and began undoing the buttons on her blouse. Her pace was slow, deliberate, teasing. She had a crooked smile on her face as she continued revealing her cleavage to me. The look on her face told me that she wasn't doing this for my benefit, but for hers. "Take it out," she said. "What?" I asked, unsure I heard the question right, even though she had told me both verbally and nonverbally what she wanted. She sighed. "I can't wait to see that wonderful white come erupt out of your cock all over your fingers." I unzipped my pants and let the lustful monster inside go free. At the same time, I felt her project a violent "Yes!" to me as she squeezed one of her nipples. With one hand inside her blouse, keeping the whole of her breasts just out of view, she began raising the hem of her skirt. "I can't tell you how much I love this, Jack" she said. Her skirt cleared the light blue cotton of her panties allowing her to place a fingernail under the elastic waistband. "I've always loved watching men come, you know. And I know they like watching me come too." She pulled her panties to one side and showed me her pussy lips. Instead of concentrating on those lips, however, I found myself continually drawned to the lips on her mouth, watching her talk to me. Her eyes were almost completely closed, though she was fixed on me stroking myself. "You wanna know how this all happened," she asked suddenly. "You wanna know how I found out how much I loved this?" She obviously wanted to tell the story, and I wanted to hear it. "Yes," I croaked. My throat was suddenly extremely dry. She grinned. "I've always liked watching," she said. Her voice started doing some shaking. At first I thought there was something wrong, perhaps people's voices only last for about an hour or so before they need to be recharged. Then her voice grew stronger, and I realized it was only her excitement that was causing it to waver. "I used to peep in people's houses when I was a teenager," she said, smiling. I used to watch the boys masturbate when they thought they were alone. I used to touch myself to get myself to come at the same time they did." She wasn't the world's best storyteller; something told me that there was perhaps more that she could have told me. But to hear her talk like that went directly to my cock in my hand. "One day I came across a new house I'd never been to before. I watched a man and a woman going at it in their living room. I'd watched enough men to know that he was about to come." Christina's hand was rubbing her clit harder now. "She was sucking him for all she was worth, and suddenly lifted her head and actually spoke to him. 'Come in my mouth, baby,' she said. I can still hear her words echoing in my head right now. It made my clit throb just to hear her talk, let alone talk like that." "'I want to feel your come hit the back of my throat so hard,' she told him. 'Here it comes,' he responded, and she put him deep in her mouth. And he groaned! It was the most raw, pleasurable sound I'd ever heard!" Her hips were rocking back and forth on her hand. Small glistening beads of sweat were forming on her thighs and forehead. Her chest rose and fall much deeper and quicker now. She also had three fingers deep inside her pussy. Moreover, her eyes were locked onto my cock as she recounted the story. "I gasped as well as I came with him," she said. "And the couple turned and looked right at me! It turns out that the window was open, that window --" she indicated with a look the window behind me that led out into the garden, "-- and they were part of this speakeasy society." She leaned back, completely absorbed in her own administrations now. Her gaze was glued onto my own masturbation technique, which was becoming chaotically frenzied. She was building her own passion up to its climax as well. "Oh God," she said, her voice nearly hoarse, "look at the veins on your shaft, how purple your head is!" I looked down, and began associating words to concepts that I had never heard before. I never understood what these things were called before. Now that they had a name, I took on an almost scientific, observational disposition. I felt suddenly detached from the experience. I panicked. "Oh, my pussy is so we-" she was saying as I jumped out of the chair, trying desperately to stuff my aching (and protesting) rigid cock back inside my pants. "I'm sorry," I interrupted her. "I'm sorry." "What?" she started, yanked out of her own zone of lust. She was confused, bewildered. "I'm sorry," I repeated myself. I was aware that I must have looked like a complete jackass, but I suddenly wanted nothing more than to go somewhere -- anywhere -- but just GO. "I can't do this," I stammered finally, heading toward the door. "Jack," she called after me in an attempt to soothe me. "It's okay." She stood up, and one breast fell out of her blouse. She made no effort to put it back in. The hem of her skirt had fallen a little, but still revealed a considerable amount of thigh. If I had not known better I would have thought that something physical had already happened between us. She reached out a hand for me, the very hand that she had been touching herself with, and saw that she wasn't lying: she had indeed been very wet. "Please, Jack," she said, but I had a feeling that she was more concerned that I would go off and do something rash in my panic -- maybe give her away? -- than because she wanted to continue. "Um," I said, turning to face her as I opened the door. "I'll, um, see you in the morning." I took one last look at her disheveled appearance, tried to adjust my uncooperating cock, and left. As I stood by the side of the street, attempting in vain to hail a taxi for home, I wondered briefly how I could face her at work in the morning. Hell, forget about Christina, I reminded myself. How would I face my wife? I thought about my situation long and hard. It wasn't Christina that I wanted, it was my wife. Inside that calm, demure exterior lay a sexual powerhouse. After all, I had seen it just last night, hadn't I? But my wife was not one to rock the boat when she was awake, however. Simply mentioning the idea of speaking out loud seemed unfathomable. She wasn't that kind of woman. In the taxi I weighed the events of the day heavily on my mind. I wasn't just risking my marriage, I decided, I was risking my life! Who knew what those "re-education" camps were all about? Who could possibly think of the horrible tortures they had devised? Tortures and punishments so horrendous to silence an entire society for over thirty years? I thought about my wife, and I thought about how badly I had wanted to hear her call my name. In my mind I tried to imagine it, but every time it simply came out as Christina's voice. My wife's face, her mouth, but Christina's voice. She had said it so often that it was the only thing that I could imagine. She had me hooked deeper than I had ever first thought. Like a spectator, I was watching my own life. Trapped with a desire to hear my sweet Stephanie call my name, Christina must have known that I would now become infatuated with hearing my wife mention my name, yet would only be able to imagine Christina's voice when thinking of Stephanie, and it would drive me crazy. To my horror, that's exactly what was happening. When I got home, I felt a strange mixture of obscene guilt and lascivious lust. I wanted to grab my wife and make her say my name. No sex, no love, just the wonderful release of tension -- I swear I'd come on the spot if she did say it. I still was reeling from the sexual tension pressing down on me when I entered the house. My wife was in her office, working on her computer. More accounting work. I went up behind her and cuddled her. "Not now." Her hair was in a bun, her glasses reflected the light of the monitor in cold, calculating blue. I imagined her ripping off those glasses, shaking down her hair and in a loud booming voice saying, "Fuck me, Jack! Fuck me hard, now!" Christina's voice. It was Christina's voice that I imagined -- the only sound of my name that I had to go on. I left the room and went upstairs to change. My cock still rubbed uncomfortably against my leg, still semi-hard from the memory of Christina's voice and her seduction. Inside the bedroom, I got undressed, and stood naked in front of the mirror. I began to look at myself, the beginning trappings of middle-age, my cock jutting out in front of me, bobbing suggestively. I felt myself beginning to grow angry. Angry at my wife for not being sensitive enough to see the hell I was in, for not being perceptive enough to understand my needs, angry at her for not being spontaneous enough to take advantage of it. I watched my cock bob up and down and heard Christina's echoing voice in my head identify it. "So this is what she wanted to see," I said out loud. The broken silence shattered like crystal. Speaking had grown almost comfortable in the speakeasy, and I had for that moment forgotten about the ubiquitous sensors in the lawn outside. I could only hope that I hadn't spoken loud enough to register on their instruments. I should have felt frightened, even panicked, but instead I found myself feeling defiant, even revolutionary. It turned me on even more. I stroked my cock, picturing myself in Christina's vantage point, and heard her voice in my head urging me onward towards orgasm. "God, I love to see you do that," I heard her moan. My mind split the images in two: I saw both her sitting in the chair, one hand dipping between her legs as she talked to me, and what she would 'see' if she were to be watching me at this moment. "Yeah," I muttered to myself, less loudly now. I said it through gritted teeth, as if I were almost forcing Christina to watch, as if I were the one in control. Even then, though, I knew that I was staying quiet thanks to the sensors and it was I who was being controlled. "Yeah, watch me come." "Oh yes!" I pictured her eyes grow wide, her hand rubbing her clit harder and faster as she pays rapt attention to my cock. "Yes, come now so I can come!" I felt the rush of energy between my legs, starting from far underneath me then whooshing forwards as I ejaculated all over my hand. I imagined that that was precisely what Christina had wanted to see, and had come in a monstrous orgasm of her own simply by watching me. And I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious, not to mention foolishly arrogant. In the post-orgasmic lull, I found myself feeling depressed and dejected, completely out of control of my own life. I showered, but even the hot water streaming down over my body couldn't wash away the helplessness I felt. I went to bed. I had nightmares, which I suppose were to be expected. I imagined myself back at the speakeasy, masturbating in front of Christina, only this time she was fully dressed. She stopped speaking to me and gave me instructions nonverbally, and I got confused. I asked her why she had stopped speaking, but suddenly it wasn't Christina anymore, but my wife. Stephanie had smiled at me, an evil, wicked smile, a mean smile, and suddenly the room was filled with policemen. Stephanie had ratted me out. I was being taken away to a re-education camp. I awoke in my bed, sweat pouring down my body. The clock read 6:59 a.m., just one minute before the alarm was supposed to go off. I hated it when that happens. Sleeping on her side with her back facing me, she barely stirred as I reached over to turn off the alarm. No sense in trying to catch however many seconds of sleep I might have had left. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and found it took a tremendous effort, as did standing up. My legs were far too shaky for comfort, and they remained that way. In fact, by the time I got to work, my nervousness had progressed to the point where I could not contain it. I remembered the last time I had shaken so much. I was sixteen years old and had stayed home from school while both my parents were at work. When they both had come home early from work that day, I ran and hid in the basement until the time that I would normally have come home from school. Facing them filled me wish such a dread that I began to shake out of guilt and nervousness. By the time I actually confronted them and admitted my errant behavior I was shaking so bad my mother had to give me a sedative. I was shaking just as badly as I sat down at my desk. It wasn't precisely my parents' basement, but I felt as if I was hiding just as much. I seriously considered calling it a sick day and going home. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and saw Christina. She was standing a ways away from the door to my office, looking at me thoughtfully, with a very cautious eye. I gave her a weak smile, hoping to reassure her that I wasn't going to give her secret away. She seemed to relax a bit, and came over to talk with me. She reached for my hand, and felt my uncontrollable shaking. Her eyes widened, alarmed. "Jack!" she said, her words entering my mind instead of my ears; it seemed strange all of a sudden. "Are you all right?" I managed a weak smile. She was truly concerned. "What happened? Did you tell your wife?" Her face contained a strange combination of concern for me and concern for herself. I shook my head. The two different concerns that struggled for control over her face suddenly cleared. She seemed genuinely concerned for me instead of her own well-being now. I couldn't really blame her, though. Hell, if I was shaking this bad, I could only imagine what kind of fear she must be confronting. "I don't really want to talk about it here," I said, smiling weakly at my own pun. She nodded. She looked around, and then tugged at my arm. "C'mon," she said. "Let's go. You're not going to be any use to anyone around here today." I knew where she was taking me, though still I was surprised that she actually was being bold enough to take me straight from work. Silence is Not Always Golden By the time we got to the speakeasy I had calmed down significantly, and found myself hard as a rock. I knew what was going to happen and the anticipation and fear had combined to bring me to a state of arousal that felt damn near toxic. She pulled me through into the same chamber we had been in the day before. She led me to the same chair and went back and closed (and locked, I noticed) the door. "Okay," she said out loud. "Tell me everything." And I did. There was no way that I could hold anything back. I told her about why I panicked, why I wanted my wife, the feelings of guilt I felt about it, I told her about masturbating in front of the mirror, and I told her about what I fantasized about. It all came out in a rush. When I was done I felt as if I had been holding my breath since the day before. I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders, even though I knew that it really hadn't. I had wanted to speak, to shout, to cry out loud, but didn't know that's what I had been feeling until I was finally allowed to speak. I realized how addictive this could be, and I understood that the risks of being found out weren't just the re-education camps, but the risk of not being able to speak again. And I found that I was extremely turned on. So was Christina. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing deep and labored. "Take it out," she said. I did. I unzipped my trousers and allowed my cock to spring free. It took one look at her and strained to reach her. She came over to me, and kneeled in front of me. "I've never touched anyone before," she said. "I've always just wanted to watch. But I've got to have you." I didn't have time to protest, and even if I did I don't think she would have been dissuaded from devouring me. She reached out for the base of my cock with her hand and took me in her mouth in one fluid motion. The warm wetness of her tongue surrounded my cockhead, her lips flexing over the smooth skin on the sides. I moaned out loud. She moaned as she heard me. It was a bizarre cycle of erotic sounds that was spiraling upwards. I wasn't going to take long and I told her so. "Mmmm," she acknowledged, then took me out of her mouth. "Good. I can't wait any longer. Talk to me, talk me through it." She put me back in her mouth, and looked at me. For the first time since we had entered this room the day before I didn't feel self-conscious. Hell, I didn't feel anything but sheer lust. "I can't believe I'm actually saying this out loud," I said. "You look so gorgeous with your lips wrapped around my cock." She moaned, and closed her eyes. She sucked harder on my cock. I placed my hands on her head. "Oh," I said, momentarily distracted. "That feels so incredible. When you moan I can feel the vibrations running through the length of my prick -" "Say cock," she interrupted me. "I love the sound of the word 'cock.'" "My cock," I corrected. She moaned, sending those same vibrations through me again. "Can you deep throat me?" "Mmm hmmm," she affirmed, smiling a little. The change in the shape of her mouth affected me, and I told her so. Instantly her lips were attached to the base of my cock, and I let out a passionate gasp. "Oh my!" I said, arching my back and thrusting my hips forward. "I feel possessed!" I came down from my sudden spike of feeling and watched her. At some point she had managed to wriggle out of her work slacks and stroke herself between her legs. Her body undulated with her own stroking rhythm, which in turn affected how she sucked on my cock. "I can feel my come building up," I said, trying to let her know the sensations as I was having them. I wasn't used to finding words to describe them, I was only used to having them. "And it's not going to be long." She picked up her pace. "And I'm going to come so hard," I said. "Would you like me to come in your mouth?" She nodded her head as emphatically as she could with my cock inside her mouth. "You want to feel my hot come hit the back of your throat?" Again, she nodded. "Are you sure?" She let out a long, low moan. She was grunting and groaning with each breath. Her hand was rubbing furiously between her legs, her hair whipped back and forth across my pelvis. "I can feel your hand pulling on the base of my cock as your mouth and lips suck my cock harder and harder!" I was practically shouting. "I'm coming!" I yelled. "God, I'm coming! Suck me, suck me hard, Christina!" She screamed into my cock. She was coming hard, her entire body tensed. My cock pulsed liquid life into her throat, her hand and mouth working in unison. My body became hypersensitive, as each nerve ending in every part of my body resonated with what was quite realistically the most powerful sexual experience I'd ever had. She lifted her head off me, looked at me, and smiled. My cock emerged from underneath her hair, wet, but still hard. I leaned forward and started to move off the chair, which forced her backwards. "I want to do you, now," I said. She was surprised. "What?" "I want to hear you tell me what it feels like to lick your pussy," I clarified. "Why should you get all the fun?" We both knew that she wasn't the only one who benefited from this little episode, but the joke worked. She lay back and spread her legs open. "That's it," I prompted. "Tell me what you want me to do." I licked her inner thigh. She gasped. both her thighs were extremely wet from when she was playing with herself. She tasted sweet, and the marked scent and flavor of arousal was everywhere. "I want you to kiss the inside of my thighs, taste me with your tongue." I did. "I want to feel your lips and your tongue in the crook of my thigh," she whimpered. I kissed slowly up her inner thigh to the place she directed. The space between her thigh and her pussy was soaked and red, both from the effects of her masturbation. As my tongue slid down the crevasse, her entire body shook, hypersensitive. She let out a sigh. "Ohhhh." She looked down at me, and began running her fingers through my hair as I had done to her. "Don't tease me," she said. "Fuck me with your tongue. Do it now!" I was a little confused, given that I hadn't really been teasing her, but it dawned on me that her own mind must have been whirling by at a million miles a second. My slow, deliberate pacing must have confused her for teasing. I positioned myself dead center and placed my tongue tip right at her opening, feeling her inner lips on either side. "Oh yeah," she said. "That feels so good. Fuck me, please, put it in me..." Her voice trailed off. I pushed my tongue forward and felt it sink inside her body. She reacted as if she had been prodded with a jolt of electricity, her back arched and her hands gripped my hair tightly. From her throat emerged a warbled growl. "Oh yes!" she cried. "Tape my lips in your mouth. Suck on my lips and then put your tongue back in me." I felt her hands pull at my hair as if to guide me. I sucked on her lips, placing one between my teeth and suckled gently. Her legs began to quiver against my cheeks. I dipped my tongue inside her pussy again, and felt her grip tighten and release as she fought her reflex to pull my mouth harder onto her mound so as not to hurt me. "Oh, Jack," she said. "I'm so close. I want you to suck on my clit and put your fingers inside me." Her hips were undulating against my mouth, rubbing hard against my lips and chin. I shifted my weight and took her clit in my mouth, licking up one side and then down the other. She moaned loudly from above. My hand found its way into her slit and found the natural guide towards her entrance. She was so slick two fingers slid inside with little resistance. She wasn't kidding; she really was close. "Oh yes," she whimpered. "Oh yes. I want you to fuck me when I come. I want you to fuck me hard with your cock when I come... when I come... I come... I'm coming! Now, Jack! Now, fuck me with your cock!" I stood up so quickly I nearly lurched into her. Her hands were there already, taking me and guiding me through her pussy lips and threaded me through her body like a needle. I felt her entire body clutch at me, her hands were everywhere. My cock was massaged, gripped, caressed, and nearly mangled by her inner muscles. Her head thrust back, exposing her throat, and I watched as a redness rose to the surface of her skin. "Whooaaa!" she cried as she came. It was an odd sound to make, I thought, but ultimately I did not care. Her pelvis rocked up and down against me, making me feel almost as if she could probably absorb my torso completely. I wanted to continue forever, but she was a woman possessed, her hands clutched my ass, pulling me against her hard and fast. Each tug at my hips was punctuated by a primal grunt, "Come. In. Side. Me. Now!" The words electrified me. It was as if all my life I had been waiting for them to be said, my ears resonated the words throughout my entire body, and my entire being pulsed with excitement. It was as if she had simply willed me to orgasm by telling me to do so. At that moment I thought they were possibly the most sonorous sounds I'd ever heard. Even if I had wanted to hold back, keep the sensation going, I couldn't. I could feel my climax starting from the base of my spine, course through my lower body, and roar from my cock with a fury that brought a white flash of pain in the back of my skull. As my come entered her, she moaned again. "Ohhh, yessss," she slurred her words, satisfaction bordering on triumph. "Oh yes," she said again, almost as if confirming it to herself. As I lay on top of her, I felt something I'd never felt before: vindicated. It seemed a strange word, even as I identified it at the time, but that's the feeling I felt. It was like I wasn't as bizarre as I had thought I was for wanting to hear those words spoken to me out loud. I suddenly felt... normal. I also felt remarkably confident. Somehow, it was almost as if I had broken through a barrier, my shell of insecurities. As I lay on top of Christina, both of us hot and sweaty, I felt revitalized, invincible. "You know what I'm going to do?" I said to her, smiling. She smiled back at me, stroking my hair. "I'm going to go talk dirty to my wife." She raised an eyebrow at me, but said nothing. She smiled, and nodded. What had passed between us may or may not have been a one-off, but there was no pretense here. This was not an affair. This was, if anything, therapeutic for me. After we had rested a bit, we began to get dressed. "I can't believe," I said, suddenly philosophical, "that I've been missing out on that all this time. I wonder why speaking out loud was banned in the first place." "Really?" Christina seemed genuinely surprised. "After the incredible sex we just had, you don't know why it was banned?" I shook my head. She smiled. "Aside from the arguments for sound pollution and communicative inefficiency and the like, there was one very simple reason, Jack," she said. "It was a form of population control." The clarification hit me like a ton of bricks. Even as I sat in the taxi on the way home, thinking of which words I would choose to seduce my wife, the implications of the power of the spoken word rumbled through my mind like low thunder. I could see exactly how, especially in light of my own obsessive fantasies, using the human voice could be a strong, potent aphrodisiac.