Beyond touch, sound is most erotic sense that there is.
Their words followed me. Over the wall, down the hallway, through the river and into the wood. It made the skin rise up on the back of my neck, made my hands chase the goosebumps. One had the dark, tinged growl that makes the soft parts of you hard. The other was slightly higher, but in it’s laughter promised darker things.
I could have raised myself up, joined into the conversation. But why, when I can sit here, alone, except, for the sound of my keyboard. A silent presence to their words, a voyeur to their conversation. And as I listen, I slip my hands down between my thighs, run the seam of my pants against my clit, feeling it fill with fullness. I sigh, and with the inhale, my chest rises, my nipples rubbing roughly against the nylon of my shirt. I make their words blur in my head until they become the whispering of two lovers, sighing on either side of my face. I let the movement in my wrist become rhythmic, my head lolling back and the blood rising into my cheeks and I hear the intensity of their conversation. Even more words, then. Words of their stiff flesh against and into my own as they gasp of how they’re going to come into me. I hear again, laughter, that becomes a roar of triumph. My muscles contract, and my fingers feel the reminance of orgasm, and there is silence from the next aisle.
I hesitate to open my eyes.