It is summer and the air over the village is completely still. The window is open. The trees and the river beyond look almost tropical in their stillness. When we fuck our bodies are lubricated by sweat. She moans a little at first, and then as our pace increases louder and louder. By the end she’s screaming, full-throated, the noise of our fucking echoing out across the still and silent world. Afterwards, without her screams, the quiet is so quiet it hurts the ear.
From the moment I start to touch her until the moment we are done she moans in a throaty, regular rhythm. Her eyes are shut, her head thrown back. She holds me very tightly. She doesn’t get louder or faster. Just moans, slow and constant like that, quite out of time with what we are doing. It is only after we’re finished that she opens her eyes, sees me looking at her, smiles.
She talks throughout, but her sentences are broken. Half-formed utterances that don’t quite complete: “I’m going to…”, “I have to…”, “That feels so…”, “Oh god, you…”. As if each thrust into her severs her train of thought, forces her to start again. As we progress it moves from half-sentences to half-words. Syllables and plosive sounds, jumbled letters arranged and rearranged, and then those give way to grunts, moans, breaths – finally, after a long and thorough fucking, a cessation, a melting away of words.
The sounds she makes in pleasure and the sounds she makes in pain are at first indistinguishable to me. Both are high, plaintive, slightly whimpering. When I slap her cunt and when I kiss her neck: the same shuddery exhalations, the same pleading moans. It takes a few times together to learn to tell them apart – to notice that pain doesn’t come from so deep in her lungs, is slightly jagged, full of stops, pressed lips, held back. How pleasure modulates with her breathing, and can be quiet sometimes, can be almost silent.
We are fucking in her bedroom, which shares a thin stud wall with the room in which her housemates are currently reading and pottering about before bed. We can hear every movement they make. We are silent. She clutches me and pants, mouth open, struggling to tamp down her breathing. She grabs a handful of the duvet and stuffs it in her mouth. It’s not enough. Eventually she spits it out and bites my arm. The teeth leave marks in the skin as deep as fingernails, but I don’t make a sound.
When she masturbates she is silent at first. The silence becomes breathing and then the breathing has shreds of her voice in it, and then she moans slightly, lightly on every exhale. Faster. Louder. Squatting over her vibrator and clutching it with one hand while she rakes her thighs with her nails with the other. As she approaches a climax the pitch of her moans becomes higher and higher. Too high. Past the point where she can vocalise them. She comes with her mouth open, her back shivering, as silent as she was when she began.