The Scream

"Aw, it can't be THIS bad," I argued.

"It is," she maintained. "It's so bad it's fantastic. And now..." she paused, to stroke me so slowly I almost tore the sink out of the wall "...I'm finally getting some payback."

I couldn't believe what was happening. This was almost a vendetta she had against me; for so long I had been driving her up the wall with such exquisite sexual attentions, and now she had finally found a way to get me back. It was simultaneously the best and the worst thing that had ever happened to me; I didn't know whether to swear I'd never let her do this to me again, or if I would beg her for more of it at the next available opportunity.

I was almost gone, now; my knees were growing week, my lungs were straining to pull in enough air, and my cock was so engorged I truly feared that it was ready to burst. Her touch was so delicate, so light, so fine that my every nerve-ending down there was ablaze with almost unbearable, searing delight. I wasn't screaming, though; my vocal chords had gone as rigid as every other part of my body, every inch of my being was paralysed with this indescribable sensation. The noises that did come out were surprisingly feminine: I was putting out these embarrassing little squeaks and high-pitched grunts, and she was trying not to laugh as I begged and pleaded with her in a halting falsetto: "Please... uh!... honey... ah!... finish me off, oh please finish me off...!"

And then, without warning, she just stopped, leaving her fingers draped tenderly about my agonisingly bulbous cock. "So," she said. "Who's my bitch?"

My eyes went wide with horror. "No," I said.

"Go on," she prodded. "Who's my bitch?"

"No, no, no, no, NO!" I nearly sobbed. She was only doing this to me because I had done this to her before, of course, more than once in fact: I revelled in bringing her to the peak of her pleasure, then refusing to tip her over the edge until she had confessed to being my bitch. Only now, with the shoe on the other foot (so to speak), did I realise what an extraordinarily cruel thing that was to do to a loved one.

"Go on!" she said. "Tell me: who's my bitch?"

I was on the brink of tears. I'm a very headstrong sort of guy, you see, and never in my life, under any circumstance, was I prepared to declare myself somebody's bitch. "No," I said. "Never!"

And then she went and did something - she beat me, hard and fast, just once: up-and-down, and then nothing more. I lurched violently at the unexpected wank: it was just the thing, just what I needed, just the very pounding I required to finish off and come, except I needed a hell of a lot more than just one beating. "Oh please," I begged of her. "Please don't stop. Please, give me more!"

"Not until you tell me... who's my bitch?"

"No!" I cried. And she did it again: one beat, hard and fast, and then she stopped. "Ohh!" I cried, and then I nearly wailed when nothing more came.

"I can do this all night..." she teased.

I looked into the mirror, and fixed her eyes with the coldest, most murderous gaze I could muster, as my chest and my shoulders heaved with the exertions of being held to ransom over an orgasm. "Damn you..." I hissed.

"Yes...?" she prompted, and her hands started moving again: softly, slowly, wanking me lightly.

"Daaaaamn yooooou..." I growled.

"Yesssss...?" she said again, the very definition of cheeky, as she stepped up the pace a little: a bit faster, a bit harder. It was not enough to make me come, but it was a lingering promise of what she would do to me should I relent.

I trembled with an odd combination of expectation, pent-up excitement, and fury. I closed my eyes and rumbled, ruminating upon whether or not to submit.

"Go on," she whispered in my ear. "Say it. You know you want to."

My eyes opened again, and I regarded her with a cold, hard, strong stare.

"You'll like it," she grinned. "Submitting is kind of fun, in a kinky sort of way. Trust me: I know."

I shook my head, closed my eyes, and took in a breath. She paused in her ministrations, awaiting my pronouncement:

"I'm you're bitch," I confessed, softly.

She said nothing. She merely grinned, and got back to it: light at first, but building with each stroke, firmer and firmer, quicker and quicker. I could feel the pressure building now, and the initial signs of an orgasm were finally, agonisingly present; my head tipped back again, I gritted my teeth, and my muscles began to tense up of their own accord: my chest and shoulders flexed again, my biceps went taut, my buttocks clenched and my thighs and calf-muscles almost went "twang!" with sudden stiffness.

She was really putting in some elbow-grease now, working me hard and fast, without mercy; I could feel the orgasm building deep within me, bottling up under a pressure I've never felt before. I truly lost control now, gasping first with every beat, then moaning, then grunting sharply, and more sharply, and more sharply, until I could feel it rushing through me now, as though it was pouring into some deeply hidden chamber, priming for the final shot. I was uncontrollably vocal now, every beat accompanied by a cry of "oh!"; she'd beat, beat, beat and I'd cry "oh! Oh! OH!". I'd reached the very end of my tether, lost every scrap of my control and dignity, and though I'd prefer to say it was with a roar, I did actually scream when I finally came: a great, steaming shot of come streamed forth from my agonised cock, and it shot more than half-way up my chest; she beat me again, and with another cry I let loose with another shot, which flew over the sink to make itself known upon the mirror; and she beat me again, and the third shot jizzed all over my stomach like some crazy, organic streamer. After that she kept wanking, and it kept coming, though under less pressure now, more of a gushing cascade that pumped out of me, spilled down my shaft and over her hands; she made good use of it, wanking me with it and driving me to new heights of orgasmic hollering as she did so. Finally, after an eternity, my voice and my reserves were spent, and she let me wind down, and I nearly slumped into the sink with incredible, satisfied exhaustion.

"Ohhhh...ohhh...ohh...oh," I moaned, as she held me tightly, victoriously, in her arms. I looked down at the viscous goo I had covered myself with, and at my twitching, tortured member. "Look at this mess," I said. "I think I'm going to need a shower."

"I think we'll both need a shower," she said, and she turned me around, squinched right up against me, and kissed me hard; the ooze squelched a little between us, but it was all good, and we got very close and personal and sticky, revelling and savouring the moment and trying not to get too much of the mess in each other's hair.

After an age of kissing, we came up for air, and regarded each other warmly. "My bitch," she grinned.

"That's so unfair," I said. "That confession was gained under extreme duress."

"Well now you know how I feel," she said.

I considered that for a moment; then I smiled. "It is kinda fun, submitting and surrendering completely, isn't it?"

"Mmm hmm," she said. "You should do it more often."

"Maybe I will," I allowed. We both sighed contentedly. "Alright then," I added, "let's have that shower."