Romantic Fiction Narration (British - RP)
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
blinded by the soothing cloth, Wickham was forced to focus on other senses to apprehend her manner and movements. Years engaged, much as they were when he was leading Wilson and Tompkins through the Iberian night into the French lines for prisoners. He divined a vibrant aural portrait from the soundscape he inserted into his memories. Vision of the surrounding space, he listened, is the razor's edge snake along the strap, inaudible snap, cueing the direction change. She flipped the shining steel against the pliable surface to draw the blade back against the leathers. Grain was a sound akin to no other on earth. Much is the noise field of a flintlock. Being cocked could not be mistaken for anything else. At some point, the lady pronounced to satisfaction with the edge. It's Nixon Bors vanquish to the point where little but Wickham's beard would be cut. George imagined her carefully, placing the tool on the told expanse off to his left. He fancied her thoughtfully, placing a pretty finger to a lower lip. Is she pondered her next step. He pictured her. She moved to a task head bowed, a small smile gracing her face, exposing the tips of pearly teeth, he relaxed into the vision. The sound of water being dribbled into the mug preceded the frothy clinking of the brush with being subs into small peaks. Finally, Mrs Wickham Sai killed him. All was ready. The cloth was lifted, but George did not open his eyes, preferring to remain blissfully blinded. Balls bristles slick with a rich foam played around his face, from the well of his throat to the chucked of his jaw beneath his ears. At some point, the brush playfully silenced him with a soapy seal dabbed upon his lips. The brush and mug clattered softly as they were set upon the table. Then Wickham heard the soft Russell of Kroth against skin, not so much as to promise the removal of clothing, but rather a suggestion of a drape being raised. He understood what she had done when Lydia gracefully through one leg across his thighs, where they arrested atop the chairs edge her weight settled onto his lap as she straddled his lower limbs. One at the time, she lifted his unresisting hands to lay them atop her naked thighs, his fingertips touching her rocked up night rail that last roused the left hand, his eyes flashed open to see her emerald green portals probing the depths of his soul, Lydia planted her left hand against his right shoulder for balance, her breathing matching his. Now she gracefully arched her other arm above her head, the well honed blade she held, catching the afternoon sunlight before she brought the edge toward his cheek. 1st 1 stroke and then another days of care and concern shaved away the leavings to be wiped upon the table bound toll to a right. She ever so carefully negotiated the back of his mandible with Marion, or even the inference of one. Wickham did not move a muscle, a wise practise when dealing with an unknown barber. Yet his immobility it was not from concern, but rather that he was refilling. His memories hold with the sounds, scents and sites of his toilet beneath the most loving of hands. These carry him through for months, if not years of enforced separation from the core of his life. All too soon, Lydia finished her work, wiping off any soupy residue with a damp cloth. Her last task was to splash her husband's face with lemony, astringent witch hazel pilfered from Darcy's changing room, Young James having Bean most resourceful, she bent forward and gently freed him with a tender kiss. The man heaved cleansing breath and slit his hands up her Downey thighs beneath her nightgown until he had captured the roundness of her hips. A fluid motion brought with him to his feet is Lydia's legs instinctively circled this waste and locked at the ankles. Time's suspended its passage as a man and a woman once again redeemed and forgave each other all their inequities or their injuries. Small wounds given and taken with the purest expression of the universe's unquenchable fire in the depths of their passion, unheard by all but the one who apprehended everything, a cosmic peel was wrong.