‘There is nothing more harrowing than a deadly hush with the feel of a great noise around it’
– Jessie Douglas Kerruish, The Undying Monster: A Tale of the Fifth Dimension
There are times when it is necessary to be quiet. When you’re fucking in the middle of the afternoon and your housemate is watching TV in the living room of a tiny flat; when your sister is asleep in the next door room; when you’re camping in the queue at Wimbledon and there are literally hundreds of other tents all around you.
And there’s something about keeping quiet in this way that is just so hot! Being forced to be silent, whether by someone or by circumstance, feeds into a number of my kinks – I never need to be silent just because. It’s always for a reason.
It may be an instruction. You will be quiet or I’ll stop. You will be quiet or I won’t let you come. Be a good girl and do as you’re told. And I will; I’ll do anything.
It may be because we shouldn’t be fucking here. As much as I’ll try not to be too loud and disruptive, I’ll admit to feeling an exhibitionist thrill at the thought of someone hearing – it’s a sunny summer afternoon and the window is open. Maybe someone is having a BBQ, maybe they’ll hear us. When someone else might be separated from us by only a few layers of tent canvas, are they listening? Are they imagining what we look like or what we might be doing? Are they enjoying hearing us?
And it maybe because we really shouldn’t be fucking here! In my parents’ house. In a pub toilet. In his childhood bed. In the toilets at his work. Where the thought of getting caught isn’t titillating, it’s terrifying! And yet…we can’t stop. When I need him so much that I can’t stop. That’s when the fear adds a frisson to what is already a highly charged situation!
The problem is that I’ve discovered that there is a limit of how quiet you can be. In his parents’ house, in his childhood bed, with his parents downstairs, and when the door won’t close. The carpet is new and the door hasn’t yet been planed to fit; it’s stuck and wide open. This is the ultimate in ‘we really shouldn’t be doing this!’
The bed is sturdy and doesn’t squeak. I am biting my lip to mute my usual cries and concentrating so. hard. on controlling my gasping breaths. He is smiling at my struggle, occasionally grimacing with effort as he too maintains a stony silence. We can do this; nothing will give us away.
But there are sounds that we don’t usually hear, drowned as they are by gasps and moans and exclamations.
Each *squish* thrust *squish* is accompanied *squish* by splashing, wet, squelching sounds. It’s fucking hot!
And the more I listen and the more I hear, the wetter I get and the louder we sound. A gushing, sploshing, constant reminder of how ridiculously amazing this feels.
‘Listen to how wet you are’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Someone really will hear us!’
And although I can’t forget how scared I am of being caught, and as I press myself harder into the pillow as it becomes harder and harder to muffle the noises that bubble up inside my throat, I know that I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else…