His Voice

I’ve always had a preference for masculine voices. Soft, smooth, or deep and gravelly. Maybe because I just don’t like my own scratchy, high pitched voice. Or maybe because moms yelling always woke me from my best dreams.

I don’t know.

I do know the second I heard his voice, my heart melted like butter and my knees trembled. He repeated his request, “Latte, no foam please.”

“Right, yes sir, please pull up to the window,” I responded courteously, my voice cracking as I quickly prepared his order. The plastic lid snapped on with a pop as I nervously looked out the drive through window at the owner of that sultry voice. Not conventionally attractive, but that had never mattered much to me. I certainly didn’t fit the conventionally attractive mould. He smiled at me as I held out the credit card machine for him.

“Good morning,” he said, then thanked me for the latte. I managed a smile and a wave, not wanting to risk my voice failing me again. The whole interaction lasted less than a handful of minutes but I found myself thinking of his voice throughout the day. During my next shift, my heart beat a little faster when I heard that voice come through my headphones again. I started hearing him almost every shift. Usually a latte in the morning, sometimes a breakfast sandwich too. We moved to a first name basis after he had filled his first coffee card. But 7, get one free.

When I passed him his latte I joked, “I bought this one for you, Patrick.”

He asked if he could repay the favour by buying me dinner. I was surprised but managed to say, “How about a coffee first? Somewhere a little fancier and less corporate.”

“I know the perfect place.”

I wrote my number on his receipt. I couldn’t stop smiling the entire day, especially after seeing a text message from him before my shift ended. My excitement was growing as the coffee date drew closer and closer but so was my anxiety. After work, once I changed out of my uniform and had scrubbed the smell of french fries and grease from my body as best I could (it never really came out of my hair), I selected my sexiest outfit. The bright blue stood out against my dark skin and didn’t hug my stomach too tightly.

We met inside of the coffee shop, him doing a comical double take as I walked up to the table he was waiting at. Without the background of the McDonalds and car engines his voice was even more sultry and seductive than I had remembered. I clutched the back of the nearest chair, trying to look casual. We smiled at each other. After clearing my throat, I asked him, “How are the lattes here?”

“The best in town, Moesha. Foam or no foam?”

I liked how my name sounded coming from his lips, “Definitely foam for me.”

I liked how his eyes tilted up at me too.

He stood, pressing his hand against the small of my back for a brief moment, “Be right back.”

Seated at the table I watched as he placed the order. He was friendly, making brief conversation with the barista which earned him additional brownie points from me. I don’t remember talking about anything in particular. It was mostly typical first date conversation, getting to know each other. Preferences and family situations. Plus a few amusing stories of his coworkers. He worked as a roofer and house painter mostly. I told him about how I’m saving up for university. Even after we had finished our lattes and split a large chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookie we continued talking for at least another hour. I was already looking forward to our next meeting, or at least the next phone call. As we said our goodbyes he leaned in and kissed me. I was surprised but tried not to show it, turning my cheek just in time.

From there, things progressed quickly. Hand holding in the park, hugging good byes. I enjoyed it. I even tried letting him kiss me on the lips just to see how it felt. I wondered if it might be different with him. After a few days, and a few more no foam lattes, Patrick invited me to dinner at his house. Having nervously accepted, knowing what could happen, I showed up with a potted orchid flower. As he set dinner on the table, I explained to him that it seems kinder to give someone a living flower rather than a bouquet of cut flowers that are doomed to die.

“Plus, they only require weekly watering,” I added.

He chuckled, “You might have to remind me then. It isn’t as beautiful as you, but I do like it. Thank you.”

I found out he also happened to be a skilled cook despite it never having come up in conversation before. After dinner he sat very close to me on the couch and leaned in for a kiss. This is the moment I had been dreading. I put a hand on his chest, “I really like you Patrick. But if this is going to work, I don’t want you to touch me.”

He sat back, confused, looking rejected.

“I don’t like to be touched in a… sexual way. By anyone.”

“But we held hands last time?”

“Hand holding is fine.”

“Kissing isn’t?”

I shook my head. He looked hurt. I struggled to find the words to explain, “I don’t want you to touch me, but you can look. And you can touch yourself. Want to try?”

Patrick was hesitant but nodded, “Okay. Sure.”

“And can you tell me what you would do if I wanted you to touch me?”

“Like… dirty talk?”

I nodded, moving a couch cushion away from him. He blushed, suddenly looking uncomfortable but I encouraged him in my own way. Tracing my fingers along the neckline of my top. Flirting with my eyes. Or trying to, at least. I wondered if I should try undressing but then he started talking.

“I would kiss your lips, softly at first. My tongue gently touching yours, then I’d kiss your jaw, down your neck to your breasts. I’d cup each of them in my hands.”

I ran my hands under my breasts, squeezing.

“I’d lay you down, kiss down your stomach and lift your shirt enough for you to feel my lips on your skin.”

As I laid down on the couch he moved to the chair. I lifted my shirt slightly, moving my hands across my body.

“I’d rub a hand between your legs, my teeth gently brushing the tops of your breasts. Then I’d slip your shirt over your head.”

I pretended my hands were his, dropping my shirt next to the couch.

“After kissing you more, I’d slip off your pants.”

My belt buckle landed with a soft clunk next to my shirt.

“Then I would rub my fingers against your clit, until your underwear became wet.”

I let out a soft gasp, feeling how aroused I was despite my nerves. Looking across to the chair he was sitting in I could see him bite his thumb. Then he asked, “Are you sure I can’t touch you?”

“It only works if you don’t.”

He groaned, “Okay. Okay. I… um…”

He adjusted his pants, his bulge becoming clear, “I rub my body against yours so you can feel how hard I am. Then I… Take off my clothes.”

Patrick stroked his cock through his pants, muttered something inaudible and then pulled off his clothes before continuing, “I’d run my tongue along the inside of your thighs, biting softly, gradually getting closer and closer to your waiting pussy. My tongue rubbing against your clit as I start to finger you.”

A gentle moan escaped me as I slipped a finger inside of myself, spreading my legs wide for him to see. He was stroking himself as well. We continued, both of us making soft sounds of pleasure.

“My cock is so hard for you. I want to be inside of you,” he said. That was when I came, a wet release that made a dark spot on the couch. Patrick made a pleased noise, “Did that make you cum?”

I nodded, smiled, “I know it isn’t what you expected. Do you like it?”

“It’s fun but I would like to do more than masturbate with you.”

I started putting my clothes back on, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Are you leaving?”

“I think I should…” I straightened me shirt, avoiding eye contact.

Patrick hesitated, “Just… wait. Okay?”

He went into his bedroom. I smiled at his naked, dimpled back. But I didn’t wait. Later that night, I was thinking of him. I picked up my phone, looking at the photos of us. Thinking of how the night had gone. He had taken it quite well, better than anyone else I had tried to be intimate with. That was when my phone lit up with his name. After a couple of rings I answered it.

“Hi,” he said, still as sexy as ever.

“Hey,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t wait. I made us dessert.”

I tried not to cry, my voice cracking, “I’m sorry.”

“Moesha, it’s okay. You are asexual.”

“Oh,” I said, not really knowing if that was right.

“Yeah, you know. Like you want to be romantic and fall in love. You just don’t want to have sex. It’s cool.”

I do want to fall in love. I asked, “Can you be in a sexless relationship?”

“I can give it a try. Am I allowed to have sex with other people though?”

I thought about it, “What if you love them more?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before.”

I sighed, laying back on my pillows, “Would you… want to try to… fall in love with me?”

“I would.”

I started to cry again, happier tears this time, “Okay.”

I could hear his smile through the phone, “Okay. Good. Was my dirty talk… good? I’ve never done that before.”

“I liked it.”

“Want to try over the phone?”

“Yes.”

When he started talking again, I knew I had already fallen in love with his voice. Maybe I would fall in love with the rest of him too, in time. Or not. Right now, I didn't need the answers. It was enough to just enjoy his company. His voice.

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Written by Kelsey Reich on June 6/2021 in Ontario, Canada.