The Scream

She was screaming. She was yelping. She was howling with unabashed, unrestrained, almost agonised delight, her back arching and her hands clasping my head as I continued applying the fine art of cunnilingus even as she came. And she kept coming, because I gave her no rest or reprieve, until finally her cries were sufficiently coarse and ragged; I decided to spare her, and I let her wind down a little, her cries turning to gasps and her back returning to the bed.

"Oh my," she finally said. "Oh boy, you are good at that."

"Mmm hmm," I agreed, with a triumphant grin. "I do love to hear you scream."

She rolled her eyes. "Why is it that I'm always the only one who screams?"

"Because I've usually got my mouth full."

"No, you dickhead," she chided, digging at me with her elbow as I clambered up the bed to join her at the pillows. "I mean when we're shagging, or when I go down on you, you hardly make a sound. When we shag you're almost stony-faced and stoic."

"Only because I'm concentrating on pleasuring you," I defended myself.

"Alright then: what about when I'm playing the skin-flute? The best I get out of you are a few little gasps and a grunt, and that's if I'm lucky."

"What can I say?" I said. "I must just have a whole lot of self-control."

"Well that's no fun," she pouted. "What have I got to do to make you scream? What am I doing wrong? I haven't got a sloppy cock-sucking technique, have I?"

"No, no," I assured her emphatically. "You suck cocks with the best of them, dear. A champion cock-sucker. I oughta get you a trophy."

She looked a little unconvinced. "Well, what about our shagging? Is there anything more I can do? I'm not boring in bed, am I?"

"What, are you kidding?" I said. "You're a top shag, love! I swear!"

"But I wanna make you squeal, and yell, and beg for mercy, like you make me do!" she said. "Is there nothing that makes you scream?"

One thing occurred to me, but I instantly resolved not to mention it. She must have seen something in my face, though: "There IS something!" she cried, and she started poking and prodding at me, as though she could dislodge the secret with her fingers. "Come on: spill it."

"No."

"Spill it!"

"No! There's nothing!"

"There is! Tell me," she warned, "or you'll never make me scream again."

I hate it when she threatens to withhold sex, because when she says she will, she does. Usually when my past girlfriends have threatened to withhold, I've been able to tempt it out of them anyway, but this one is a hell of a lot more stubborn than the previous girls. It's probably one of the reasons why I like her so much. "Okay," I relented.

"Oh goody!" she squealed joyously, and clapped her hands like an excited child. "Go on: what makes you scream?"

I sighed. I didn't really want to go down this path, but hey: it might prove to be fun. "Wanking," I confessed.

She blinked. "What, that's all?" she said. "Wanking?"

"Yes."

"Just a hand job?"

"Well, not 'just' a hand job," I said. "There's a bit of technique in it."

"And you're gunna teach it to me?" she asked, with a naughty little grin.

"Looks like it. Well, come on," I said, getting out of bed and heading into the ensuite. "Come and learn from the master."

She followed me in, not even pausing to put any clothes back on, and I cast an appreciative eye over her naked body. "Righto," she said, rubbing her hands together eagerly. "What's first?"

"Well, warm me up with a bit of a snogging first," I suggested.

"Good idea," she agreed, and we kissed for a while: naked skin against naked skin, my hands brushing along her face and through her hair, her finger-tips tracing along my back and making my skin tingle. Kissing this girl is always an arousing experience, and it wasn't long before she glanced downwards at my rising pride. "Looks like we're about ready to start," she observed, in a marvellously husky voice.

"Yep, just about ready," I agreed. I turned my back on her, and she moved in closer, pressing herself up against my back and reaching around my hips. "Start out nice and slow," I suggested. "Just get acquainted with the boss down there; use your fingertips, like you were doing on my back just then."

She followed my suggestion, using her fingertips to explore my lower pelvic area ever so gently. Her fingers brushed lightly through my pubes; they traced a path up and down my shaft; and they danced ever so gently across the tightly-drawn skin of my scrotum, the sensitive skin tingling electrically and forcing me to repress a little shudder. "You like that, don't you?" she observed, looking me in the eye via the bathroom mirror.

"I always have," I confessed.

"I've always known," she grinned, doing it again and making me tremble a little more at the exquisite sensation.

"Okay, moving along..." I said, and I grabbed the pump-top liquid hand wash dispenser. "Here we have the miracle oil for all secret wankaholics."

"Ah, so that's what it's for," she said. "And here I am thinking you only used it to wash your hands."

"Well, it's good for that too," I allowed, pretending to ignore her sarcastic teasing. "Versatile stuff, this liquid soap. Now: go ahead and get yourself a couple of squirts."

She did, and without any prompting she went and lathered up her hands, with a very naughty grin.

"And just before you go crazy," I added, as she went straight for my cock with her soaped-up hands, "I'll let you in on the technique."

"Lemme guess: pump like mad?"

"Oh contraire," I averred. "Slow and sensual is the way to screaming and shouting. You could drive up and down on me like a piston in a racing engine, and I'll come in thirty seconds, but it'll be a pretty cheap and shallow orgasm. But: if you stroke me slowly, and sweetly, and lovingly, the pleasure builds up but the juices stay down, so to speak."

"I think I get you," she said. "How's this?" And, with her hands clasped around me, she ran her hands from the tip of my penis oh-so-slowly down the length of me, coming to the base of my shaft and cusping her soapy digits about my balls.

My eyes were wide with surprise and pleasure. "That's good," I said. "That's very good. In fact that's it, that's the very way to do it. Have you done this before?"

"Perhaps," she allowed, but she didn't say any more, and frankly I didn't care to hear more; instead, she ran her hands back upwards, slowly and surely as before, and pausing only momentarily at the head she went back down again. I settled back a little more into her arms, closing my eyes in deep contentment as she applied her ministrations.

It was clear that she was enjoying her task; when you're getting up close and personal with someone, you can always tell if they're into the activity or not. If they're enjoying it as much as you are, that heightens your own enjoyment: it's something that you're doing together, and enjoying together, and that makes it all the more special. Conversely, if they're a little bored or even unwilling, that detracts from your enjoyment and you start to wonder if there's any point. But we were both getting into this and enjoying it, very much so; we were sharing something new, a private little secret of mine that had become a private little secret of ours. And while I knew she was hoping for a bit of screaming and shouting and the pulling of funny faces on my part, I didn't want to make any promises: I'm a little shy about that sort of thing, and I have never really made much noise or fuss in the presence of another person. Not just because it would be a little embarrassing, but also because I like to think I'm almost always in control of my faculties, and I didn't know if I'd like to be seen losing control. So I was just going to wait and see what happened.

But she was doing very, very well, and I think we both knew it. I could tell she was finding enjoyment in taking her time, getting to know my member in a bit more detail; she was exploring me slowly with her fingers, tracing all of the contours and bulging veins as though she was trying to decipher something that had been written in brail upon my cock. "How am I doing?" she purred.

"Very nicely," I said, reaching back to run my hand up and down her thigh.

"I'm not hearing any noises yet..."

"It takes time, sweetheart."

Whether by accident or design, she had managed to get the perfect amount of soap onto her hands: there was not so little that there was too much friction, nor so much that there was nothing but a huge layer of lubricant between us. We were greased up just right, and I could feel the texture of her skin as she kept going, slowly, up and then down, up and then down, with the momentary cusping of my balls each time she got to the bottom of the shaft. "You're growing," she said.

"Am I?" I looked down to see. "Well, so I am."

"Then I must be doing something right."

"You bet you are." It was a phenomenon we had seen before, especially when she was going down on me: I have an average girth, maybe around seven inches or so, but when things are really going my way I can, and do, get bigger. We've seen eight inches from the thing, maybe more: it's not like we've ever felt inclined to reach for the ruler, I'm talking in educated guesses, of course. And she was right: it was doing its 'let's get a little bigger' trick, and relatively early in the piece too, which boded well for the way ahead.

Onwards she wanked, and further into her arms I settled, eyes closed again with the wondrous sensations she was provoking. "You certainly look content," she observed.

"I am..." I murmured.

"Want me to do anything different? Bit faster, maybe?"

"Patience, my pet," I soothed. "That's the temptation we have to fight: wanting to go faster, to get it done quicker. We could do that, could do it easy, but the longer we stay at this rhythm and tempo, the better it feels. Trust me."

"Okay," she said. And on we went; I shut my mind to the passage of time, aware only of the movement of her hands upon my shaft, her naked body pressed against my back, her chin resting on my shoulder as she watched me in the mirror. Gradually my breathing deepened, and my head started tilting back a little further, as the pleasure built up and began to spread, a marvellously warm feeling radiating from my member into my hips and permeating throughout my body.

"I've never seen you worked up this much," she said. "But still no screaming..."

"You keep prompting me to scream and it won't happen," I said. "Try something a little different now: go a little quicker on the stroke, but pause a bit longer between strokes, and maybe squeeze a little harder."

She frowned at my complex instructions. "Quicker strokes...longer pauses..."

"And harder."

"Like this?" She did it perfectly, and my eyes flicked open as I gasped a little.

"Yep," I said, letting my eyes flutter closed again. "Like that."

And she kept doing it like that: with the faintest amount of increased pressure, she inched up my shaft, and then down again, provoking a ragged intake of breath each time she did. After each upstroke she'd tease the swollen, sensitive head of my cock for a little, then after the downstroke she'd tickle my balls ever so gently, which was feeling better and better as my cock slowly became more engorged, which in turn pulled my sack tight across my balls, like a drum. I was biting my lip now as she kneaded and teased my knob, and when she did that trick with my balls my whole body would snap tense as I tingled, head-to-toe, breathless with unspeakable pleasure. She was getting to me, in the same way I always got to her: she was inflicting such incredible sensations upon me in such a tender, loving fashion that I was almost being goaded into submission, my inhibitions were dissolving, and my control was gradually disappearing.

Occasionally I would open my eyes, to look into hers via the mirror. She was looking pretty pleased with herself, and when I'd look at her she'd look back with a cheeky little grin of triumph; I'd shake my head, but I couldn't keep myself from matching that infectious grin of hers.

My pleasure, which was building up with each stroke and tickle, was starting to grow faster, to increase a little bit more each time than the last. I had long since passed the point where, had I been doing this alone, I would have lost patience and beat myself into a climax; at this slow-and-steady pace my pleasure could build up without limits, keep bottling up without exploding. It's a curious ability I have, to be able to keep doubling my pleasure without release if manipulated at this speed and with this style, and I don't know if it's unique to me or common to all guys; all I know is that I don't often build myself up too far, simply because I become too impatient for the orgasm and I can't hold myself back very long. But here, she was in control; she was pulling the strings and running the show, and all I could do was get a firm grip on the bathroom sink and hang on tight.

I was breathing very raggedly now; my breath was catching a little in my throat on every other breath, and when she tickled my balls my entire being tingled with electricity, and I gaped in a silent, strangled gasp of exquisite pleasure. "Are you all right?" she asked, concerned at the never-before-seen state I was in.

"Oh yeah," I assured her, somewhat tremulously.

"You seem to need this orgasm pretty bad..." she observed. "Should I just beat it out of you?"

"No," I said, firmly. "If I come now, I won't scream; you'll probably only get a few grunts and a squeak. You have to keep doing exactly what you're doing, at this exact pace and this exact style, until I'm a quivering mess - an absolutely out-of-control, uninhibited beast. You got me?"

"I got you," she nodded, knowingly. And onwards we went together, as she continued to stroke, knead, stroke, tickle, and repeat; and I held on to the sink for a bit of balance, and braced against her naked body for a bit more. I revelled in every aspect of the situation: her hands lovingly caressing my growing member, her breasts soft as they squished against my back, her nipples hard and erect - betraying her arousal - and digging little indentations into my shoulders, the soft curve of her cute little tummy nestled up against the small of my back, and her furry little strip of pubic hair tickling my buttocks. She was such a sexy bit of gear, and her proximity heightened my enjoyment.

My pleasure was increasing faster still, each stroke feeling better than the last, and each gentle caress of my tingling scrotum now provoking a whispered sigh. It was starting to build a little too fast now, and I was worried I would suddenly come before I truly lost control. "We need to slow down," I said, breathing hard. "Slightly longer pauses between strokes, and perhaps a bit less of that funky stuff you're doing as well."

"What, don't you like it?" she said, looking a little dismayed.

"No no, I love it," I promised her, reaching back to caress her cheek reassuringly. "I love it too much, that's the problem; a bit of it every now and again, say between every other stroke, is good; but too much will push me over the edge before I truly go wild."

"Ah, I see," she said, and with a wicked little smile she changed her technique accordingly.

It wasn't long before we were back in the zone, as she settled into her new rhythm and I got back on the boil. My muscles were beginning to tighten involuntarily, across my shoulders, my chest and my abdomen. Every now and again a little moan would escape my mouth, but I was caring less and less each time. She freed up a hand to run it over my shoulders and across my chest in a reassuring fashion; I wanted to reach back and pull her even closer, and perhaps reach down and return the favour for a bit, but I seriously had to keep a hold of the sink for fear of swooning with pleasure. In retrospect, while it would have been nice to pleasure her while she was pleasuring me, it turned out well enough even though I didn't; we were focussed entirely upon my gratification, searching for that elusive scream, and we wanted no distractions.

Things were still building up for me, not as disastrously quickly as before, but still in that same gradual yet exponential fashion. My breathing was truly ragged now, coming and going in very shaky inhalations and exhalations; my moaning came louder and more often, and I couldn't have stopped it even if I had wanted to. I tipped my head back to rest my ear against hers, and she responded by squeezing herself even harder against me as her hands continued moving expertly up and down my throbbing erection.

Very suddenly, things took a dramatic turn; the pleasure had been building up fairly slowly, gradually becoming better and better, but now things were rising sharply. My mouth opened, and new noises started coming out: I was belting out a short, surprised "Oh..." with each stroke. She was starting to go harder now, with quicker strokes and less of a pause in between, but I made her slow down: "Not yet," I said, between gasps. "Keep to the beat, don't go faster yet."

"My god," she said. "Look at yourself, will you?"

I frowned, thinking she was going to pay me out about whatever faces of enjoyment I may have been pulling, but then I realised she was referring to my girth. I did look at myself, and boggled a little: I hardly recognised the thing, it was longer and harder and more swollen than I had ever seen before. "Well hello," I said. "There's a new personal best." I had an idea. "Whaddaya say, love: wanna get it in ya?"

"Ooh, it's tempting," she said, with a small grin, "but I'm on a roll here: I wanna see how this turns out."

"Suit yourself," I shrugged; I would have been just as happy either way, it was her choice. Onwards she went, and better and better it felt; I tried to keep my mouth closed, but I couldn't stop myself from making more noises: there was a muffled "mmm..." with each stroke, and a sharp intake of breath through my nose every time she caressed my sack. But it just kept getting better and better, each stroke sending waves of tingling pleasure across my skin and through my innards, and there was no way to help it; I was gasping now, moaning softly with each gasp, clinging desperately to the sink for balance. Physically, I maintained a tight grip on the sink, but metaphorically I had lost a grip on my self-control; my inhibitions, my embarrassment, my civility were slipping, almost completely stripped away in the face of her onslaught. I knew, and she knew, that she was gaining control over me; and what I had not expected was that I was enjoying it. I was glad to be under this amazing, intoxicating spell, and I really, really wanted her to drive me wild and make me lose control.

"Having fun, dear?" she asked, with an enormously naughty grin.

"Oh god yes," I gasped, as the pleasure became almost unbearable. "Oh," I added. "Oh!" I said again. "I think I'm just about ready."

"Do you?"

I gritted my teeth, letting loose with a tortured groan of exquisite sexual gratification. "Uh huh," I said. "You can finish me off now..."

"Nuh uh," she said, shaking her head as she kept wanking, slowly, purposefully, fantastically.

"Aw come on, love," I said, pleadingly, "I don't think I can stand much more of this... oohh... it's so exquisitely good, I can't stand it... oh!... honestly, hun, it's almost agony... ugh!"

"That's right: time for a taste of your own medicine," she beamed viciously - and she started stroking me slower, the way we had started out, and it was driving me bonkers. The slower she went, the better - and worse - it felt. "You do this to me every time," she accused. "EVERY time! You push me so far beyond what I can take, you just keep going and going until I've screamed myself hoarse, every time - and you LOVE it."