All of her sounds reward me. All of them.
The soft purr when I nuzzle her neck and nibble at her ignition point, my hands wrapping tightly around her waist. The low grumble when I pull her tiny body hard against me, and she can feel her future swell against her belly. That gorgeous gasp when I first enter, stroke down and bottom out.
But the one I cherish the most is actually not a sound but a thunderous silence. When she clamps her thighs around my ears and her spine lifts in that triumphal arch, her fists fill with bedsheets, and the seizure grips her completely, every muscle and sinew in her frame snapping taut — her core and her thighs and her calves and her cramping curled toes — and the sounds just … stop. It is as if only her climax exists and the power of it has consumed all of the energy her body can muster, and the effort it takes to wail is simply not available to her. She wants to scream. She needs to scream. Her mouth gapes wide, but no sound.
Soon the thrashing and banshee wail will resume, her hips will twist and buck and I will struggle to ride with her, keeping her pearl in play, but for this instant, the only sound to be heard is the barely audible liquidity of my face buried at her vortex and my labored breath.
And then there is the sweet sound of her unconditional surrender. The sound of exhaustion. Her orgasms have come in bunches by now, like pearls on a strand, and the last, the smallest pearl, comes not with screams but with a whimper of defeat. By now she aches. Her every muscle has cramped so hard and so often that her body pleads for quiet, just for a while. She doesn’t want to cum; she wants a respite. She wants a chance to recover. And yet, she cannot resist — I won’t allow it — and when I pull that last little death from deep inside her, the reward I get is the sound of a wounded animal, looking only for the chance to collapse.