Don't Make a Sound

Tanya was house-sitting on the Big Sur coast. We HAD to come visit, she said. An amazing house, you could watch sea otters from the bed, wild and private and beautiful. So we drove down Friday evening, finding the narrow, steep driveway after midnight. The only place to lay our sleeping bag in the tiny house was right next to Tanya's bed, so we piled our clothes on the floor, watching Tanya's hair spilling on her pillow, hearing her slow breathing. We slid into our bag, zipped it up, and fell asleep.

We woke to gulls calling, cuddled in a strange new place with our friend still asleep just above our heads. We kissed and petted, full of early morning turn-on. Eventually we zipped the bag open and took turns sucking and licking each other into a frenzy--all the time trying not to make a sound. It was awful and exquisite. Soon we were fucking, almost holding our breath, but we couldn't stop the soft sounds of flesh meeting or the wet smacks of penetration. Trying to be quiet was an unbearable turn-on. Our comes were both about 10 on the Richter scale.

After, we lay gasping on each other, still imagining Tanya hadn't heard a thing. A tiny moan came from the bed. Then we heard a hand moving rhythmically under Tanya's big down quilt, and more moans. Finally the whole bed shook for a moment or two and went still. We were sprawled on the floor, naked, the sleeping bag tangled around our feet, sweaty and fragrant from sex, not daring to move. Tanya's flushed face and tousled hair appeared over the edge of the bed. Her eyes were very bright. "Welcome, you two," she said. Her smile lit up the whole room.