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.