The Audio Voyeur: An Introduction

The sound of sex has a taste. A scent. To this day, a certain pulse courses through my body when I hear the sounds of sex. My body reacts. The light and spatial acuity in my eyes throb in unison with the blood surge from my head to my midsection. Everything around me grows and glows with halos.

The sound of sex has a life within me that began probably even before I was born.

So it wasn’t a surprise that first day, in my apartment, when my head began spinning when I heard the sound of a girl moaning. It was coming from the other side of my plaster wall. In my apartment I had heard many things, but this was one sound that I had never heard before. For months now the apartment next door was empty.

Apparently not any longer.

Low but sonorous the girl on the other side pushed her moans through my wall with a throaty might. Distinctively feminine, these moans stirred-up something altogether primal in me. As though I suddenly had a place I could send my sex to…

That first night, the sounds were mild, and their duration was not lengthy enough that I found a place of engagement – for my ear or my sex. I did, however, play with the multitude of possibilities – of what she looked like, how naughty she was; if she was bent-over the couch when making those noises, or just in some pedestrian vanilla swirl – her lover and she tangled in the common courtesies of dating.

In all this, I preferred remaining with the former notion. Afterall, the latter provided no hot prospects; it was a limiting premise. The former, however, expanded the entire heavens above me…

The following week after that first encounter, I drew-up the concrete notion that my new neighbor was, in fact, naughty. Dirty. She was the girl that I had always wanted to be in such close proximity to.

Stroking myself, I played with the idea that I didn’t really want to interact with her. True, I wanted to know what she looked like. But I wanted to remain on the outskirts of her life – peeking in her windows as she fingered herself silently at night. Or the thought of overhearing a deliciously naughty phone conversation of hers engorged my naughtiest notion of eroticism.

In the end, however, I didn’t want to know her name and I didn’t want her to know mine.

I wanted a secret. A voluptuous, hot and silent secret.

To this end, when my thoughts turned to her, all week long, I rubbed my cock in full-length strokes: from my soft, shaved balls all the way up to my throbbing head. Heightening my cravings for this entire situation, for that week I would not let myself come. I wanted to suppress my wiry arms of urge and want and need. I wanted to ball this up into a much more pungent and hot sideways sexuality. I didn’t want flashes of electricity, I wanted instead – ball lightning – the rarest and most prized of all lightning.

In this I was my own domme, creating my own restraints; torturing me, all by myself.

Buckled under the leathery pressure, strapped to the bed by my ankles for lengthy sessions of playing with my cock to the point of throbbing, unending agony without ultimate release – I was penultimately titillated by the knowledge that soon enough, I was going to erupt in a fiery volcanic jet of come, all over me. In fiery plumes I pictured myself erupting; secretly – without she, my new neighbor, ever knowing of my sticky, hot explosion of pleasure.

Then, one night, I was on the couch – and the sounds came again.

From nothing, came a breathy grunt. Low and lengthy, it pushed through my wall like a sound snake, coiling in my ear and biting every erotic nook in my head. I waited for a minute, suspicious of my estimation. Sometimes when I really want something, I see it where it is not.

But then, seconds later – it came again. A slow “harrumph”. Then, another…

I laid down on the couch, unbuttoned my pants and then I slipped a warm hand down and under. I was aching. At any moment I felt the eruption could come. With my thumb and index finger I gripped the base of my cock and the blood came shooting into my midsection with a secondary ferocity. I slipped my fingers down and under my balls, gently teasing…

At times I have been shy with myself, in private – I have stroked myself as though somebody sacred were watching. But this time I pulled my pants below my ass and I bucked my hips upward in this silent exhibitionism.

Reaching up from the couch I placed my hand flat on the wall from where the sounds were coming. I closed my eyes and began stroking at myself harder now. I was drawing the whole picture: of her contorted body; her breasts heaving while her nipples hardened; her hot slit filling with juices as his cock slid in and out, slippery up to her clit and down to her ass. I pictured reaching-out just a little more – with my hand, through the wall and cupping her cunt, that delicate place where she was finding such tremendous pleasure. I wanted to reach out, through the wall, to hear her sex in full stereo.

It was then I remembered a mechanism that would lengthen my reach – a glass.

With my pants down at my knees and my cock leading the way, I ran to the kitchen where I took a pint glass from the cupboard. Back in the living room and I leaned into the wall, with the glass between my ear and the girl in silent delight.

With my newfound amplification I could hear rustling. Then I made-out the sound of smacking; light slaps. Then the breathing picked-up its pace. Looking down I could see that my cock was without attention as it was laid-out before me, throbbing and dangling.

The breathing in that next room increased. It morphed into the most exquisitely-feminine throaty grunts. Words were forming, but none passed over her swollen tongue. And the slapping did not involve hands, rather it was body on body. Thighs on thighs. It was asses and cock and balls on a slippery cunt.

This slapping was grinding. It was sex on sex. It was wet and hard on aching, dynamic, primal lust.

Then the pace of her breathing increased. Then god was presented into the equation, from her lips. Then Jesus. Then that incomprehensible letting-go: Where all the frozen air accumulated from the Everest ascent is released in one long shudder. She was coming. It was a tortured sounding ecstasy. It sounded as though she was trying to find the brakes, skidding along the rough face of this great peak of climax.

Then there was a pause.

I repositioned myself on my glass arm, trying to reach even further into her room.

Then I heard more breathing, panting and the rustling of two bodies once-contorted from such an immense pounding. Little did I know that the pounding was going to accelerate into a near-fatal car crash…

Then the slapping sound came again. But this time it was no slow acceleration. Her lover went 0 to 60 mph in under a second. And this is the first time I heard my neighbor yelp with an uncompromising vigor. Unable to speak, it was her breath that was her exclamation, her call – the wind that pushed her lover into his grand ascent.

It was now where I was, alas, released by my self-imposed pangs of bondage. I reached down and with ferocious intent began stroking my cock. In concert with the devilish pounding that my neighbor was receiving, I sprinted toward my peak. With my thighs already quivering from my awkward stance up against the wall, I pumped and stroked. All of the heat in my body releasing itself out of my face.

Sweating, I squeezed tighter on my cock. My eyes closed, I let my ears and my hand work.

Then, unannounced, I heard a thunderous male grunt from the other side of the wall. And in two seconds, the breathing slowed, the sounds dissipated and the two lovers unlocked their bodies. One walked to the bathroom.

I fell back into the couch. With my pants down at my knees I began murdering my pulsating and purple cock. And in just a few short strokes, a violent and hot jet of come launched from my cock, hitting me in the neck and spewing all over my chest and stomach; filling-up my belly button.

Nearly unable to move, I dropped my exhausted hand from my cock, soaking wet and spinning with a climax weeks in the making.

…to be continued…

Next: My neighbor and I meet, with a twist.

~ by The Provocateur on April 16, 2007.

6 Responses to “The Audio Voyeur: An Introduction”

  1. Pure literary dynamite.

    I once used a glass to hear better, but it was not the fun stuff you heard.

    Can’t wait for the next mind bomb to drop…

  2. Very hot!

  3. What a naughty tale! I love it. I can only hope my neighbor feels the same way when I fuck.

  4. As always, your words leave me tied in knots.
    I know you already know this but you are a phenomenal writer.

    xo.

  5. I love this… I adore hearing or seeing things I’m not supposed to. And over the years, a few folks have let it be known that my sounds weren’t appreciated (you know, a little wall-banging here and there…). I like to think that all the other times I was too wound up to try and be quiet but no one chastised me, this is what was happening on the other side of that wall. Thanks.

  6. You would have loved my ex’s aprtment building. It was a six floor walk up in Astoria, and his bedroom window looked out into the courtyard. In the summer, everyone had their windows open, fans going. (Who wants to carry an A.C. up all those stairs? And sometimes, just sometimes, on the hot, lazy weekends, it was just an echoing tower of sex. One couple would start, and I’m assuming would wake up another, who would start fucking, and then we would wake up, and start fucking, listening to the other couples who’s bedrooms over looked the courtyard…It was amazing.

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