How To Use Sound Effects In Writing Novels & Stories

Each sound she made sent shivers through my body. The ache in me grew unbearable. I tugged at my belt, dragging down my trousers, freeing myself. My weenie was hard, pulsing, demanding release. I pressed against her, sliding along her wetness. She whimpered, arching back to meet me. With a deep growl, I thrust into her. Her cry echoed against the walls, mixing with my groan. The heat inside me exploded, spreading like wildfire as I moved. My hips slammed against her, over and over, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room.

It was the kind of sound you didn’t just hear—you felt it. My wolf went still at the sound. I closed my eyes. I didn’t sleep for a long time.

Most people have their devices permanently silent. But what is the world without sound? So I discreetly pressed the volume button by the side until it was turned all the way up. Then I began typing my number, intentionally slow for maximum torturous effect. The sound of each key was a poisoned arrow I was sending straight to Gavin’s heart, and even though he kept arranging his work desk, trying to act like he wasn’t paying attention, I could see his robotic movements and clenched fists. My arrows were landing nicely. The irony of it wasn’t lost on me. I had refused to give Gavin my number at the cafe last week, and here I was, giving to another man I just met. He desperately needed someone t

My voice already sounded distant. My limbs felt heavy. I pounded on the window with my fist. The glass absorbed the sound. I tried to take a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The chemical burned my throat. My vision began to blur at the edges. No. No no no. I tried the door again, desperately. Nothing. My fingers felt numb. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, but even that sound seemed to grow muffled. “Help—” I tried to shout. The word barely left my lips.

I watched him walk away like nothing had changed. Step by step, he disappeared upstairs. The sound of his footsteps faded. Then silence took over. Not the quiet kind. The kind that feels like it’s waiting. Listening. I counted in my head without meaning to. One. Two. Three. Enough time. I placed the glass down gently, making sure it didn’t make a sound. Then I stood up. Slowly. Controlled. Every step I took toward the hallway felt louder than it should have, even though I wasn’t making a sound.

she said. "It's useful information." "For omelette timing." "Among other things." He held her eyes. "I know when you're about to surface. I know when you're going deeper. I know when the writing is moving." "The pen." "The pen. The settling sound. The way the coffee machine changes when you're making a second cup because you're stuck." She set her fork down. "You've catalogued my sounds," she said. "I live with you." He paused. "You've catalogued mine."

I pushed the notes aside and rubbed my eyes. The apartment was quiet around me in the way it always was at this hour, the city outside doing its distant thing, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. I had gotten used to the sounds of this place faster than I had expected. The particular creak of the hall outside my door, the way the heating clicked when it turned nine, the background television from somewhere above. I had been writing down everything in the first couple days when I was living alone for the first time and had to record what sounds were normal and which were not.

The room is quiet except for the sound of his pen and the sound of the sea. I've been in this household for three days, and I've learned its sounds the way I've learned the sounds of everything I've lived inside—systematically, until I know each one and what it means. The pen is the sound of work being done, the specific scratch of a man who writes with a particular pressure and pace, neither fast nor slow, the pace of someone who knows what he's going to say before he writes it. The sea is just the sea. In the cell block, I fell asleep to the sound of stone and metal.

I made sure we were loud enough by moaning loudly as he entered me even though I wasn't really feeling it. I went extra loud, exaggerated, letting every sound carry through the thin walls and out towards the front door and windows as much as possible. “Yes… oh God, yes… just like that!” I screamed as he pounded into me. I ran my hands over his back, raking through his hair and back and making him feel he got me badly. The sounds filled the apartment as our skin slapped against each other and my voice pushed higher and higher. Then between everything, I heard the distinct sound of a car pulling up outside.

The control. The sound of the wedding dress zipper. The ashen taste of "yes." The shock in Volkov's gaze when he understood. The hiss of fists on Liam's flesh. The warmth of his blood on my skin. The click of the weapon. The detonation. The emptiness in his eyes. Every image, every sound, every sensation is a tool I forge in the furnace of my memory. I refine them. I polish them. I make them the teeth of a silent gear that begins to turn in the darkness of my mind.