The Call of the Drip

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Melanie got up, yawning and groaning. It was chilly and that damn fucking tap was dripping again.

Scratching at her underwear-clad body as she stiffly stumbled bleary-eyed towards the bathroom, all Melanie could hear was that fucking dripping. It seemed to kick off at any hour it chose, and when it did, it echoed through the house at just that right frequency to be audible anywhere until some poor schmuck ended up going and smacking the tap again. More often than not, that ended up being Melanie.

Plodding into the bathroom, the cold tiles stinging her bare feet, she moved towards the tap, hearing that incessant drip coming louder and louder with every step she took. She made it almost all the way to the damn thing before realising in her sleepy state that she was busting. Quickly diverting her course to the side of the shower in which that infuriating slice of metal and plastic was located, she approached the toilet, turned, dropped her slacks and sat down.

Instant gratification rewarded her as she went and the pleasing sensation mingled with the sound of the stream to at least somewhat dull that motherfucking tap, but it didn't remove it completely. Somewhere outside the range of her body, outside the small sphere of sleepy Melanie, that evil bent cylinder still dripped away, slow and steady, pulsing out a rhythmic beat out on the shower floor.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Melanie was used to it now - that is, used to hating it. Every hour of every day she'd grown used to hearing that sound, come to expect that repetitive drum beating out a pulse that found her no matter where she was in the house. It started up regardless of temperature or recent use and it always pounded out the same slow tapping pace no matter where it was positioned or how it was angled, and nothing short of turning off the water would make it cease.

Distantly in her drowsy mind, Melanie could still hear it, regardless of whether it was still out there or not. She knew she'd hear it when she went back to bed, and she knew she'd wake up expecting to hear it. She could always hear it.

As she relieved herself, Melanie found herself relaxing a little as the sensation of her body doing its thing played a counterpart to the frustration of that tap's dripping in the background. Almost unnoticed, her fingers drew themselves gently towards herself, and she scratched at one of the itches that her freshly awoken body readily presented her with. There was often an itch there, especially when she woke up, and scratching it now felt as natural as going to the toilet.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

A few moments passed by and Melanie finished her business, but still she sat, gently scratching at the itch that had formed itself just above her entrance. The dripping tap continued in the shower and idly she realised she could still hear it - of course, she was in the same room as the tap after all - although interestingly, her rage seemed to have abated somewhat. Instead of the angry frustration she had felt a minute earlier when it had woken her up, now all she felt was mellowness and the sleepiness of someone who's just woken up recently from a deep sleep.

The itch continued to demand her scratching, and she continued to scratch it distractedly. The tap dripped on.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Melanie's back sagged a little more as she let herself relax a little more. Drip. Drip. Drip. Slow and rhythmic, the water droplets pounded out their repetitive beat, and Mel's itch remained. She subconsciously began to scratch around in circles and found that to much more effectively satisfy her itch, and she signed softly with a drunken smile as she found the key to controlling it. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Slowly, steadily, in pace with the looping rhythm, Melanie's legs began to droop a little, as did her head, and as she slumped more on the toilet, her fingers found it easier to slide closer to the source of that little itch, and scratch it more effectively. Another little wave of pleasure and a smile ensued as those digits did exactly that, slipping silently down a little more until they found the epicentre of the frustrating little sensation, gently rubbing around and around, up and down on the itching spot until she felt it finally, blissfully slip away, satisfied. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The last of Melanie's tensions fell out of her as she slumped back in her seat on the toilet, slackening completely, only the muscles in her arm moving as her angled wrist twisted about at her pussy, rotating slow circular movements over her clit in time to the beat of the tap, so that for each drip, drip, drip, she made one full turning pass over it. A little shiver rolled through her - perhaps from the cool air, or perhaps from the rapidly increasing arousal, or more likely from both. As her arousal increased, the heat inside her slowly overpowered the night chill she could feel nipping at her extremities. Already hard from the cool air, her nipples retained their tension as arousal took over the job of keeping them ready for action.

Drip. Melanie's fingers flicked about her clit. Drip. They rotated again across her hood, the rapidly lubricating skin of her sensitive love cave folding under her fingers. Drip. Hard as rocks, Melanie became aware of her nipples, and her until now forgotten free hand went happily to the task of finding and twisting at them through her sleeping bra. Drip. With a giddy shiver, Melanie felt the arousal building inside her. Drip. Another turn, another pinch, another wave. Drip. Hotter now, heat filling her, pushing out the cold air. Drip. Her toes curled a little. Drip. As if it's what it were made to do, her middle finger dipped inside her as she teased her clit in sync with the water-beat. Drip. A tiny gasp, a hitch of breath. Another twist, another pinch.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

With a soft sigh as her body tensed and relaxed in time to the beat, Melanie's fingers dived with reckless abandon into her body, the utter warmth of her arousal bleeding out through her pussy as if her natural lubricant were somehow the lifeblood of her sexual ecstasy. Every breath was a deep inhale followed by a throaty sigh, and with every new drip she sunk a little deeper into her own cunt, her mind filling with only two things; the feeling of her vagina and the dripping beat.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Melanie couldn't help it. She let out a soft, almost plaintive yip as this next rhythmic tap yielded an almost orgasmic sensation. Still she twisted her fingers about her crotch; still she rolled her nipple between finger and palm, now freed of her restraining undergarments by way of a quick movement in between all-important drips that saw her freeing her tit so that she could twist at her nipples unrestrained. After the next droplet hit the floor, she'd slide along and free its companion so that it too could be squeezed and pinched at will.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Still the drips beat out that unceasing rhythm, and still Melanie writhed about, gripped in mindless pleasure now, her fingers buried inside herself, her bosom reddening from her rough grip. Every action was timed, synced with the dripping beat, aligned with it as if it enabled her next thought, her next action to proceed.

Slowly, slowly, after several more drips, almost as she felt herself starting to slip, almost as she reached the point of no return and began to overload on the build-up, as the dripping continued at the same relentless pace, never slowing or quickening, one final droplet escaped the tap and slapped against the plastic below. It wasn't, in truth, the final drip - many more would follow it, all with the same gap in between - but it was the last one Melanie needed.

Clenching together and tensing up on the toilet, Mel came, her chest jouncing and her body twisting as that last droplet unexpectedly pushed the sensations home and brought her over the edge. She shook, fingers buried inside her body, her lip curled up to sit between clenched teeth as she let out soft pulsing sighs that caught in her chest, almost as if she were trying to suppress a cough from within. When the tensed moment passed, those lips parted wide in a rasping exhalation as she let out everything inside her that was tight and full through both sets of lips, her mind blank but for the steady, hypnotic pit-patting water and her orgasm.

Across the house, in his own toilet, on his knees on the cold tiles, naked and with a firm, reddened erection gripped firmly in his dominant hand, Eddie, young and youthful and fit and just as subconsciously attuned to the dripping's steady, ever-present beat, slowly moved his slicked hand back and forth in time to the pulsing rhythm, feeling it inside him, feeling it like his own heartbeat, hearing it in his mind as his hand moved of its own accord up and down and up and down his length in almost painfully slow movements, steadily and robotically, each droplet pounding out the beat to which he drew back and pushed forth the skin of his cock.

He was red and raw and practically dripping, but unlike the older Melanie, his final drip hadn't come yet, and so neither had he. Never speeding up, never giving in to the natural desire to cum, unable to resist the pulse of the dripping tap, he knelt before his attached bathroom toilet, his eyes wide, his stare glassy, his body slack but for the core deep inside his chest, a core that burned hot with arousal and bliss and which held him taut until his climax overtook him.

A few more strokes. A few more drips. A few more motions, back and forth, drip, drip. Almost overloaded with bliss, almost unable to foresee his own orgasm through the regimented pace, Eddie felt his pleasure slipping, felt his will emptying as the desire to cum was denied before it even began. His arousal burned and his sweaty skin gleamed in readiness, the muscles in his arm visibly present as he gripped himself, but still he didn't finish. He felt that backwards sliding sensation of someone who made it almost all the way and stopped, but he didn't let up. The dripping wouldn't let him.

One final drip hit the floor, and just as the feeling grew real inside him, as Eddie pulled back one more time, he spontaneously came, his groin tensing and pushing forwards as a stream of cum shot from his erect length. Jetting with the pressure a man gets when he's edged for long enough, Eddie coated the side of the seat as the dripping freed him and allowed him to cum. Even as he released, his hand still moved back and forth in that same now somewhat unsteady rhythm, shaking as he struggled through his own spasms.

Five minutes later, awaking somewhat from their stupors, embarrassed and a little perplexed and having cleaned themselves up a little with toilet paper and hand washes, both occupants retired back to bed, sweaty, wet and exhausted. Both would fall asleep once more in little time, and both would not wake up with a very strong memory of the night before.

Come morning, whoever got up first would find, to his or her frustration, that the damn tap had started dripping again at some point during the night, and would give it that necessary smack to shut it up before moving off to their morning business.

Come tomorrow night, perhaps early, perhaps late, or perhaps not at all, the drip would start again. And should there be someone sleeping peacefully within earshot, the call of the drip would speak to them again, to their subconscious and their animal, their compulsive, easily distracted inner self. And should any unconscious person wake up and hear the dripping and decide to shut it off, needing to go to the bathroom anyway, well...

... Who knows? It's just a drip, after all.