We were in the middle of an ordinary day. I was reading a book I had been asked to review, for one of the journals I contribute to. He was down in the workshop, trying to repair a 100-year-old latch from our back door.
I didn’t notice his footsteps on the stairs. He just appeared in the doorway.
He said my name. In That Voice.
He has, of course, many tones of voice — jocular, serious, teasing, romantic, business-like, skeptical, friendly — all the registers or “clocks” that characterize speech.
But there is also That Voice. You might know what I mean; if you don’t, then I’m sorry for you.
He said my name in That Voice and the book went blank, my scattered attention coalesced to a point, the skin of my arms erupted in piloerection, my breath caught, my heartbeat quickened.
And I creamed my panties. I’m always a bit moist, thinking about him, but That Voice kicks open a faucet — no, more like a spillway — in my cunt.
I said “Sir?” and realized that I had left my chair and was kneeling, a reaction so ingrained that I hadn’t really noticed.
“Go up to our bedroom, and prepare yourself,” he said, “I’ll be up in a few minutes.” Then he left.
I am in our room now, full of eagerness and anticipation and need. I am waiting, hyper-aware, aroused, flushed, wet, hot. I don’t know what I’m waiting for — anything on the scale from “Oh boy!” to “Oh no!” That it is not up to me makes me even hotter.
I have prepared myself… for anything he desires.
That Voice alone can make me cum.
— Frenulum
