The full Daddy Sounds library in one place — hundreds of audio sex stories told by one voice, from slow first kisses to the filthiest thing you’ll hear this week. Search, filter by length, sort by what everyone else is playing, and press play.
You (Ms. Eloise) have attended one of the many balls that are thrown by the east coast elite. Among those in the high society is a certain gentleman whom your father has done business with in the past. Being the good daughter of an American aristocrat of industry, you indulge him.... perhaps too much
You've been looking so good baby. I'm so happy I have you. Let me praise your body and compliment you so you know how lucky I am to have you.
You have had the kind of day that shows on your face, and your boyfriend takes one look at you and declares an emergency. His first idea is drumming on your backside. His second is licking your face. Somewhere between the graham crackers and a straight-faced inspection of your fluid levels — mileage schedule, dipstick, a form for you to sign — you are laughing too hard to remember what was wrong. Then he stands you up just to look at you, and the joking drains out of his voice: he tells you the real reason he loves you, undresses because it only seems fair, and spends the rest of the night proving it slowly. You get one surprise in of your own. It ends tangled together, with him asking whether you feel better.
He picks the place and asks you to meet him there: the man who stopped calling, who you have not seen in far too long. He apologises for the silence, then tells you he is leaving — he cannot say where, cannot say for how long, and you may not see him again. What he wants to leave you with is a baby, and he needs your answer before he goes. Saying yes cracks him open. He almost says the words he swore he would never say to you again, turns on you over the way it ended, walks out on the whole thing, and comes back. What follows is unhurried and worshipful, lit by a night the two of you once stole on a horse farm. Then he stays to hold you, for as long as he has.
Your kitchen has been busy since dawn, and now he is in the bedroom doorway with a folding tray: eggs, bacon, juice he pressed himself, and an apology for your sink. You have been seeing each other a while, long enough to know he is nervous — he talks too fast about the bookstore downtown, a film tonight, why today should be special. When you ask what is going on, he tells you about the night he walked you to your door, drove home, and understood what he felt. Breakfast is set aside. What follows is slow and entirely about you, and he keeps saying it while it happens. It ends with your head on his chest in the sun, and a promise to say it as often as you want to hear it.
It is Valentine's Day and your boyfriend is still thumbing chocolate off your cheek, telling you, a little helplessly, that he cannot picture the version of his life where the two of you never met. He has a surprise waiting at home. You already know how big he is; so far you have only ever managed the tip. Tonight he means to change that, and he has decided on his own that he is finished being careful about finishing inside you. The turn is how slowly he takes it: the long warm-up, the backing off when you tighten, the patience of a man who wants this to be something you keep rather than something you survive. When he is finally all the way in he stays there, unwilling to move, saying he has never had a Valentine's like it.
You are in a diner booth with a burger in your hands and a man across from you who cannot stop saying what he loves about you — your face, yes, but mostly the way you actually listen to him. Cherry pie arrives and he insists on feeding it to you himself. Then a family in the next booth catches his eye and the question comes out sideways: do you want any, one day? He decides the rest should be said at home. What follows is the two of you agreeing out loud, with no plan and no schedule, to simply stop being careful and see what happens. He takes his time, holds your hands the whole way, and afterwards talks about the year ahead as though it has already started.
You get in because the last man made you open your own door. He has plenty to say about him — the split tab, the phone in his hand, the way you settled — and he says it while he drives you out of town, in the tone of a lesson he has taught you once and will not teach again. It sounds like somebody finally taking your side. It is also a test. When the road goes quiet he stops asking whether you understand him and starts asking how far you would go for him, and by then you have answered. What comes next is possessive and filthy and sure of itself. What comes after is softer: he holds you, tells you that you are safe, and asks for your ex's name knowing you cannot produce it.
He asks permission before he says a word of it, then sends you to lock the door. He is your man, and for ten minutes this is the most flattering thing you have ever heard — your figure, your skin, your scent, the way you move across a room. Then the compliments turn into a confession. Something wakes up in him when he sees you bare, he says, and once it is awake it does not stop until it gets what it wants. You answer by taking your clothes off, and he takes that as the permission he has been waiting for. What follows is possessive, unhurried and fixed on leaving you pregnant. He ends it holding you, apologising, asking you not to see him differently.
The show has just ended and the crowd is filing out when the DJ you have followed from city to city finally turns around and sees you standing in the wings. He is direct about it — where you are from, what your name is, how he has managed not to notice you all tour — and unembarrassed about how much he likes the answers. You end up in his lap, and then he decides he is done waiting. What follows is unhurried and filthy and surprisingly attentive: he asks out loud for everything he takes, swings between praising you and ruining you without losing the warmth, and keeps stopping to tell you how beautiful you are. By the end he wants proof — a mark on your neck, and a place on the tour.
It is the hour of the afternoon when you get restless, and your boyfriend has noticed. He tells you how good you look in that dress, kisses you, then asks for what he actually wants: let him take charge. Close your eyes, he says, and picture everything you want him to do — then picture him not stopping. He warns you he will not be nice. He finds your neck and keeps it. Later he breaks stride to remind you that he knows exactly how you like to play, and that the word which ends everything is still yours to use. Then he becomes the version of himself you asked for, and refuses you your own finish until he decides. Afterwards he is your boyfriend again, telling you that you are safe and that you earned it.
You are on the couch in your pyjamas, the television on, and your boyfriend is narrating his approach like a stealth operation, the sort of man who announces his cuddles before he lands them. Then, lightly, he asks why you have watched that one episode three times this week. He already knows. He has been watching you watch, and where you expect jealousy he offers a name instead: his friend from the Fourth of July party, who thought you were cute. He tells you to sleep on it. First, though, he rehearses it with you, and somewhere in the telling the fantasy turns over and it is you doing the watching. Afterwards he steps out of it, asks whether he went too far, and tells you why he kept going.
Someone is hunting you, and the man who got you out has driven you somewhere with nothing around it for miles. He sends you ahead to the room alone, hands you the card, and comes up once he is sure nobody saw. He is gentle about it. He tells you he covered your tracks, that no one in the world knows where you are now, and then, almost kindly, that he is the only one who does. That is the turn: the safety he is offering has a price, and he sets it out as calmly as he sets out everything else. He likes you frightened, and he is honest about that too. By the end he has arranged things so you cannot leave him, and he says he loves you as though that were the same as freedom.
A boat is pulling out, he is hurrying you aboard barefoot with your bag in his hand — then the water comes up to meet you. You wake somewhere older: a fire, a cup of tea he has blown cool for you, a Highland burr telling you King George's men are close enough to kill you both. He admits the running is half a game, until a scout appears and it stops being one. He takes you deep into the forest, to a grove where his family has married for a thousand years, says neither of you may have long, and asks you to marry him so you will find each other again in whatever comes after. Vows first, then a bed of leaves. Then you surface in a hotel room with a sore head and dinner still booked.
You are alone at a country dance hall when an easy-talking stranger asks whether the prettiest woman in the room will tell him her name. He is all manners and no polish, calls you Miss Lady, and can hardly keep up with you on the floor. Outside, what he really wants to show you is land: a hundred acres up the road, where the cows go, where the pond has to sit. Say the word, he says, and he will take you as far as you want to go. So you show him a sign he was not expecting, and the drive to his hilltop nearly ends in a ditch. Up there he spreads his jacket, asks permission, and takes his time under the stars. Afterwards he offers you the pasture, and a quiet life on it.
You bring your boyfriend a bag of lemons, the way you always do, and he starts planning out loud: lemon bars, a meringue pie, maybe lemon chicken — which he remembers, mid-sentence, that you do not eat. Then you tell him that tonight you will. He cooks fast, before you can change your mind, and watches your first bite of meat like it is a holiday. The joke that follows is his: he offers you a second kind of meat, then produces an actual sausage, thrilled with himself, until he catches what you thought he meant. From there he takes you to bed adoring and slow, and somewhere in it he decides that tonight is the night he puts a baby in you. It ends with him talking you to sleep in his arms.
trauma dumping from your boyfriend
Boyfriend compliments your new lingerie (first video I posted on Youtube)
You are on a blanket in the park on a warm afternoon and your boyfriend is doing his whole routine: a mock-medieval toast, a long unhinged theory about leprechauns, Shakespeare he is plainly inventing as he goes. Then he tries to say something real and stops. Tries again, tells you never mind, changes the subject. When it finally comes out he is crying in public and mortified about it, because he has never felt like this, because he guards himself, because holding it in hurts more than saying it. Then the mood turns and he wants you right there on the grass, half-joking that people can watch if they like, entirely serious about wanting to get you pregnant. Afterwards you are both under the blanket, and he has never sounded happier.
You are shopping alone when a stranger stops you between the department stores and asks, in complete earnest, what year it is. He calls himself Luke, and an hour ago he was in Heaven — thrown out of it for saying the unforgivable thing about a saint, and landed, to his disgust, in a food court. He walks you back to a hall he keeps hidden, where it snows indoors and something molten glows far below, and asks you to model what you bought. The turn comes when the flirting stops: he is not looking for a girlfriend, he is looking for a queen, and he intends to found his kingdom with you tonight. It ends with him admitting he has watched your entire life, and asking for the next hundred years of it.
It is the last hour of a summer fair and the man beside you is your partner of years, holding your cotton candy, laughing because the clown did not frighten you. Rain moves the crowd out. He walks you to a gazebo at the dark end of the park and starts remembering out loud: how you could not look at him when you met, the excuses you invented to go home after he kissed you, the night he put your hand over his heart so you could feel what you did to him. Then the remembering stops being safe. He undresses you where anyone could pass, takes you the way he did the first time with nothing between you, and does not stop when he finishes. Afterwards he is sheepish and pleased with himself, teasing you all the way home.
Funny boyfriend spoons you in the morning
Your boyfriend has a fun game he wants to play with you. He knows you like being told what to do, and he likes to tell you what to do. It just so happened that he got some clothes he thinks would look very good on you. However he thinks they would look better off of you, so he commands you to remove them.... his way.
He is the man who crossed a crowded room on a Friday night and asked whether he could paint you. Now you are in his loft studio, arranged on a velvet couch in the moonlight while he sketches, hums show tunes, and knocks his brushes onto the floor because you make him nervous. He keeps adjusting you — a strap lower, your chin tilted, your hand where a viewer of the finished piece should not be looking — until the painting turns from casual to intimate. Then he mentions a friend who signs his work with a handprint, you tell him to do it, and he coats his palm. What began as a favour ends with him undone, wrapped around you, asking you to stay.
You (Ms. Eloise) have attended one of the many balls that are thrown by the east coast elite. Among those in the high society is a certain gentleman whom your father has done business with in the past. Being the good daughter of an American aristocrat of industry, you indulge him.... perhaps too much
You've been looking so good baby. I'm so happy I have you. Let me praise your body and compliment you so you know how lucky I am to have you.
You have had the kind of day that shows on your face, and your boyfriend takes one look at you and declares an emergency. His first idea is drumming on your backside. His second is licking your face. Somewhere between the graham crackers and a straight-faced inspection of your fluid levels — mileage schedule, dipstick, a form for you to sign — you are laughing too hard to remember what was wrong. Then he stands you up just to look at you, and the joking drains out of his voice: he tells you the real reason he loves you, undresses because it only seems fair, and spends the rest of the night proving it slowly. You get one surprise in of your own. It ends tangled together, with him asking whether you feel better.
He picks the place and asks you to meet him there: the man who stopped calling, who you have not seen in far too long. He apologises for the silence, then tells you he is leaving — he cannot say where, cannot say for how long, and you may not see him again. What he wants to leave you with is a baby, and he needs your answer before he goes. Saying yes cracks him open. He almost says the words he swore he would never say to you again, turns on you over the way it ended, walks out on the whole thing, and comes back. What follows is unhurried and worshipful, lit by a night the two of you once stole on a horse farm. Then he stays to hold you, for as long as he has.
Your kitchen has been busy since dawn, and now he is in the bedroom doorway with a folding tray: eggs, bacon, juice he pressed himself, and an apology for your sink. You have been seeing each other a while, long enough to know he is nervous — he talks too fast about the bookstore downtown, a film tonight, why today should be special. When you ask what is going on, he tells you about the night he walked you to your door, drove home, and understood what he felt. Breakfast is set aside. What follows is slow and entirely about you, and he keeps saying it while it happens. It ends with your head on his chest in the sun, and a promise to say it as often as you want to hear it.
It is Valentine's Day and your boyfriend is still thumbing chocolate off your cheek, telling you, a little helplessly, that he cannot picture the version of his life where the two of you never met. He has a surprise waiting at home. You already know how big he is; so far you have only ever managed the tip. Tonight he means to change that, and he has decided on his own that he is finished being careful about finishing inside you. The turn is how slowly he takes it: the long warm-up, the backing off when you tighten, the patience of a man who wants this to be something you keep rather than something you survive. When he is finally all the way in he stays there, unwilling to move, saying he has never had a Valentine's like it.
You are in a diner booth with a burger in your hands and a man across from you who cannot stop saying what he loves about you — your face, yes, but mostly the way you actually listen to him. Cherry pie arrives and he insists on feeding it to you himself. Then a family in the next booth catches his eye and the question comes out sideways: do you want any, one day? He decides the rest should be said at home. What follows is the two of you agreeing out loud, with no plan and no schedule, to simply stop being careful and see what happens. He takes his time, holds your hands the whole way, and afterwards talks about the year ahead as though it has already started.
You get in because the last man made you open your own door. He has plenty to say about him — the split tab, the phone in his hand, the way you settled — and he says it while he drives you out of town, in the tone of a lesson he has taught you once and will not teach again. It sounds like somebody finally taking your side. It is also a test. When the road goes quiet he stops asking whether you understand him and starts asking how far you would go for him, and by then you have answered. What comes next is possessive and filthy and sure of itself. What comes after is softer: he holds you, tells you that you are safe, and asks for your ex's name knowing you cannot produce it.
He asks permission before he says a word of it, then sends you to lock the door. He is your man, and for ten minutes this is the most flattering thing you have ever heard — your figure, your skin, your scent, the way you move across a room. Then the compliments turn into a confession. Something wakes up in him when he sees you bare, he says, and once it is awake it does not stop until it gets what it wants. You answer by taking your clothes off, and he takes that as the permission he has been waiting for. What follows is possessive, unhurried and fixed on leaving you pregnant. He ends it holding you, apologising, asking you not to see him differently.
The show has just ended and the crowd is filing out when the DJ you have followed from city to city finally turns around and sees you standing in the wings. He is direct about it — where you are from, what your name is, how he has managed not to notice you all tour — and unembarrassed about how much he likes the answers. You end up in his lap, and then he decides he is done waiting. What follows is unhurried and filthy and surprisingly attentive: he asks out loud for everything he takes, swings between praising you and ruining you without losing the warmth, and keeps stopping to tell you how beautiful you are. By the end he wants proof — a mark on your neck, and a place on the tour.
It is the hour of the afternoon when you get restless, and your boyfriend has noticed. He tells you how good you look in that dress, kisses you, then asks for what he actually wants: let him take charge. Close your eyes, he says, and picture everything you want him to do — then picture him not stopping. He warns you he will not be nice. He finds your neck and keeps it. Later he breaks stride to remind you that he knows exactly how you like to play, and that the word which ends everything is still yours to use. Then he becomes the version of himself you asked for, and refuses you your own finish until he decides. Afterwards he is your boyfriend again, telling you that you are safe and that you earned it.
You are on the couch in your pyjamas, the television on, and your boyfriend is narrating his approach like a stealth operation, the sort of man who announces his cuddles before he lands them. Then, lightly, he asks why you have watched that one episode three times this week. He already knows. He has been watching you watch, and where you expect jealousy he offers a name instead: his friend from the Fourth of July party, who thought you were cute. He tells you to sleep on it. First, though, he rehearses it with you, and somewhere in the telling the fantasy turns over and it is you doing the watching. Afterwards he steps out of it, asks whether he went too far, and tells you why he kept going.
Someone is hunting you, and the man who got you out has driven you somewhere with nothing around it for miles. He sends you ahead to the room alone, hands you the card, and comes up once he is sure nobody saw. He is gentle about it. He tells you he covered your tracks, that no one in the world knows where you are now, and then, almost kindly, that he is the only one who does. That is the turn: the safety he is offering has a price, and he sets it out as calmly as he sets out everything else. He likes you frightened, and he is honest about that too. By the end he has arranged things so you cannot leave him, and he says he loves you as though that were the same as freedom.
A boat is pulling out, he is hurrying you aboard barefoot with your bag in his hand — then the water comes up to meet you. You wake somewhere older: a fire, a cup of tea he has blown cool for you, a Highland burr telling you King George's men are close enough to kill you both. He admits the running is half a game, until a scout appears and it stops being one. He takes you deep into the forest, to a grove where his family has married for a thousand years, says neither of you may have long, and asks you to marry him so you will find each other again in whatever comes after. Vows first, then a bed of leaves. Then you surface in a hotel room with a sore head and dinner still booked.
You are alone at a country dance hall when an easy-talking stranger asks whether the prettiest woman in the room will tell him her name. He is all manners and no polish, calls you Miss Lady, and can hardly keep up with you on the floor. Outside, what he really wants to show you is land: a hundred acres up the road, where the cows go, where the pond has to sit. Say the word, he says, and he will take you as far as you want to go. So you show him a sign he was not expecting, and the drive to his hilltop nearly ends in a ditch. Up there he spreads his jacket, asks permission, and takes his time under the stars. Afterwards he offers you the pasture, and a quiet life on it.
You bring your boyfriend a bag of lemons, the way you always do, and he starts planning out loud: lemon bars, a meringue pie, maybe lemon chicken — which he remembers, mid-sentence, that you do not eat. Then you tell him that tonight you will. He cooks fast, before you can change your mind, and watches your first bite of meat like it is a holiday. The joke that follows is his: he offers you a second kind of meat, then produces an actual sausage, thrilled with himself, until he catches what you thought he meant. From there he takes you to bed adoring and slow, and somewhere in it he decides that tonight is the night he puts a baby in you. It ends with him talking you to sleep in his arms.
trauma dumping from your boyfriend
Boyfriend compliments your new lingerie (first video I posted on Youtube)
You are on a blanket in the park on a warm afternoon and your boyfriend is doing his whole routine: a mock-medieval toast, a long unhinged theory about leprechauns, Shakespeare he is plainly inventing as he goes. Then he tries to say something real and stops. Tries again, tells you never mind, changes the subject. When it finally comes out he is crying in public and mortified about it, because he has never felt like this, because he guards himself, because holding it in hurts more than saying it. Then the mood turns and he wants you right there on the grass, half-joking that people can watch if they like, entirely serious about wanting to get you pregnant. Afterwards you are both under the blanket, and he has never sounded happier.
You are shopping alone when a stranger stops you between the department stores and asks, in complete earnest, what year it is. He calls himself Luke, and an hour ago he was in Heaven — thrown out of it for saying the unforgivable thing about a saint, and landed, to his disgust, in a food court. He walks you back to a hall he keeps hidden, where it snows indoors and something molten glows far below, and asks you to model what you bought. The turn comes when the flirting stops: he is not looking for a girlfriend, he is looking for a queen, and he intends to found his kingdom with you tonight. It ends with him admitting he has watched your entire life, and asking for the next hundred years of it.
It is the last hour of a summer fair and the man beside you is your partner of years, holding your cotton candy, laughing because the clown did not frighten you. Rain moves the crowd out. He walks you to a gazebo at the dark end of the park and starts remembering out loud: how you could not look at him when you met, the excuses you invented to go home after he kissed you, the night he put your hand over his heart so you could feel what you did to him. Then the remembering stops being safe. He undresses you where anyone could pass, takes you the way he did the first time with nothing between you, and does not stop when he finishes. Afterwards he is sheepish and pleased with himself, teasing you all the way home.
Funny boyfriend spoons you in the morning
Your boyfriend has a fun game he wants to play with you. He knows you like being told what to do, and he likes to tell you what to do. It just so happened that he got some clothes he thinks would look very good on you. However he thinks they would look better off of you, so he commands you to remove them.... his way.
He is the man who crossed a crowded room on a Friday night and asked whether he could paint you. Now you are in his loft studio, arranged on a velvet couch in the moonlight while he sketches, hums show tunes, and knocks his brushes onto the floor because you make him nervous. He keeps adjusting you — a strap lower, your chin tilted, your hand where a viewer of the finished piece should not be looking — until the painting turns from casual to intimate. Then he mentions a friend who signs his work with a handprint, you tell him to do it, and he coats his palm. What began as a favour ends with him undone, wrapped around you, asking you to stay.
A good story doesn’t need a screen. Every title in this library is a complete erotic audio story — a scene with a beginning, a build, and an ending that lands — performed by the one voice this whole site is named for. Some are ten-minute detours; some are hour-long slow burns. All of them tell you exactly what you’re getting into before you press play: the length, the mood, and how filthy it gets.
If you found your way here searching for audio porn stories, fair warning: these run deeper than clips. Sex stories in audio work because a voice takes its time — it sets the room, says your name like it means it, and lets the scene build until you’re in it. Sort by most popular to hear where everyone starts, filter by length to fit the time you actually have, or flip to the free stories and see what a full title sounds like before you decide anything.
Most people land here after searching sex stories audio and wading through scattered clips that end before they begin. A library is the opposite of that: one narrator, one standard, every story complete — written, performed, and finished. Start with the most played if you want the crowd’s shortlist, sort by newest once you’ve heard those, and save the long ones for a night when nobody needs you anywhere.
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