Wandering around the museum had been amusing for a while. Dinner was decent. But now, deep into the silent auction, I was bored as hell.
And then. His voice.
What he said wasn't important. A car with its headlights on or something. It was the deliciously gravelly, slightly drawling, disembodied voice itself that got me.
I found him at the information desk. Tickets were usually sold here but tonight it was just him, a lone guard keeping out the riffraff.
He looked at me, leered really, and I blushed. He beckoned me behind the desk and without a word started to touch me, sliding his hands under my dress, stroking me through my panties. I gasped, sighed, instantly wet. His mouth found my nipple and his fingers parted my pussy lips. I moaned, incoherent with sudden desire. He leaned me against the desk, undid his pants and began to fuck me, finally, finally murmuring in my ear. Cock and voice both drove into me, propelling me upwards. I came hard, dimly aware of being way too loud, my cries echoing in the entranceway like Muzak for perverts.
Later someone told me: our sounds had been piped throughout the building. Who knows whether I'd leaned on it accidentally or he'd purposely flipped the switch, but that entire crowd of hoity-toity rich folks had heard me pant and groan and wail my way through orgasm.
The benefit did better than ever that year. Turns out no one particularly likes a silent auction.
[written for Alison Tyler's sound and hearing contest]
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