Stalking The Voice: A Love Story Of Sorts

I have just broken into Audible—very exciting! My first title is available now Valley Fever Check it out if you are in the mood for a steamy listen. I developed such a crush on my narrator, “The Voice” A.K.A. Logan McAllister that I am writing a short story about him and the adventure he took me on, not only in the audio world but in the actual world itself. Obsessed much you might say? Lol. Listen to his voice and you’ll get with the program—BELIEVE me. Here is a little snippet for your enjoyment. More to come!


The woman writhed as the masculine voice overwhelmed her senses, filling every part of her aroused anatomy with liquid heat, her scalp, her fluttering eyelids, her parted lips. Her ears felt as though they were being drizzled in warm honey or tongued by some languorous velveteen tool. The voice hardened her nipples to buds, her belly danced in a frenetic rhythm.

And lower…

The flesh between her legs was soaked in nectar, her limbs throbbed—perspiration broke out on her flailing arms, her itching palms. She wiped them on her mussed sheets. The woman hated an unmade bed. She’d unmade it with her own lustful thrashings. She’d been unmade and undone—and all from a voice coming out of a pair of headphones, a voice that was narrating an erotic story, yes—but it wasn’t the words that had her stirred up. It was that voice, so low and rich that it penetrated every female part of her.

The woman ripped out the headphones and tore off the sheets. She wasn’t supposed to get this hot and bothered before bedtime. This man’s voice was getting in the way of her beauty sleep. Perhaps if she touched herself—surrendered to a quick release, she could be done with it. Her loins ached and throbbed, her ears twitched, desperate for the firm fit of the ear buds, more desperate still for the sound of that mesmerizing voice. No, she wouldn’t take the time out to pleasure herself. She wanted to get to the last chapter, damn it. Screw her beauty sleep. And screw her release. This man’s voice had her all tied up in knots. Her body buzzed with sexual energy. She’d stay up all night, just to get to the end.

She needed a drink of water before she could continue. She’d crossed the desert of her own desire. She sucked down the glass of tepid water on her nightstand and pulled her thin nightgown over her head. She laid there naked and panting, struggling to nestle the headphones deep into her ears once more. She wanted them deep—so that he would be deep—deep inside her, the timbre of his provocative voice stimulating her erogenous zones. She panted as the voice licked her in all the right places. Her spine arched and stiffened, pulling taut as a bow. She was one ripe long piece of flesh, owned by the sensual tone of the narrator. She was having sex with a voice. And it was good. Damn good. So much better than with an actual partner. He could be anyone and no one at all. He could be what she wanted him to be. He could be perfect. Her climax was perfect—an extended wrenching of her nether parts as a pulsating tidal wave of bliss crashed over her.

The woman had experienced her first eargasm. And so the tale begins…

Faxon Russ