Make Me Scream!

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Author’s note: The following humorous tale is probably mostly fictional. All sexual actors are living humans aged 18+. Views expressed are not necessarily the author’s. It’s only a story.


Make Me Scream!

How could she know till she tried them all?


Do you know where the word LORD came from? It is Ye Olde Ænglish, from hlaford, bread-keeper, meaning the guy who feeds his people, just like a Big Man of New Guinea or a Potlatch chief of the Ecotopia redwood coast.

But in Ye Merrye Olde Ængland the word LORD came to mean a monopoly miller, the fellow with the strategically-located watermill who ground your grain and took half or two-thirds as his fee. You don’t like the deal? Then eat it raw, peasant! LORD came to mean the local rich guy upon whom your livelihood and life depended. It came to mean, The Boss. The Master.

Delia was a Lord’s daughter. Oh, her father was not a Great Lord, nothing fancy like that, not at all. He was merely the richest, most powerful, most ruthless guy in his corner of Suffolk, Ængland. You do NOT fuck with The Lord. Or with his daughter, the Great Bitch of Ipswitch.

Delia was rich. She was beautiful. She was of marrying age. And she was bored, very bored.

“Look at those pissants,” she thought as she rode her sorrel mare through the villages across her father’s domain.

“Look at that arrogant bitch,” the local people thought as she rode past, nose in the air. But they said nothing.

“Daughter dear, it is time you were married,” her father said absently one morning while reviewing his clerk’s accounts.

“Oh father, do you have a mighty lord lined up for me? A great, handsome, powerful, and rich lord to suit my needs?”

The clerk kept his mouth shut and his head down.

Her father was concentrating on the account numbers more than on Delia. “No, I have other concerns. Choose someone yourself.”

The lord and his clerk were deeply engrossed in determining how much more could be squeezed from prosperous farmers and how much more muscle they would need to hire to enforce higher fees. The lord did not see himself negotiating with another lord for his daughter’s hand.

“Why put myself in another lord’s power?” he asked himself. “Much better if she finds her own victim and does not bother me.”

Delia had bothered her poor father, the lord, for a very long time, ever since her mother died when Delia was young. He dealt with her via a long string of housemaids, tutors, pastors – that is, he did not deal with her at all, not personally. That was the chore of vassals and servants.

But she was still a bother. A beautiful, demanding, never-satisfied bother.

“Very well, father. I think I know what to look for in a man. Yes, I shall find myself a most suitable husband.”

The clerk did not dare to look up – until she stomped away.

From the corner of his eye he caught the distinctive wiggling of Delia’s shapely ass inside her tightly-wrapped robe. He finally looked at his lord.

“Sire, your daughter is a most willful girl. Do you think it wise to allow her to-“

“Oh, shut up, Murgatroyd. You are in no danger from her. Whatever fool she finds will inherit nothing of mine; my worthy son takes all. Forget about my daughter. Hey, what is this about?” The lord pointed into the ledger. “Did Winterbottom really only pay…” and yada yada.

Delia’s swarthy groom saddled her mare and helped her mount, careful to spy under her robe as her legs swung over the horse’s back. People did not wear knickers in those days. And she did not ride side-saddle. Delia did not mind displaying herself to the help, and did not mind at all feeling the motions between her thighs as her mare trotted along.

“What kind of husband do I really want?” she asked herself as she rode the rutted trail from the watermill to the nearest village. “Maybe a man who makes me feel as good as when I am riding. He need not be a rich man. I will get all I need from Father. No, I need a strong, dependable, studly man.”

The rocking, rolling ride did wonders for Delia’s private parts. Samsun Escort She would leave her fine Spanish saddle a bit damp when she dismounted.

Delia rode through the village and issued orders. She was very good at giving orders – she had a lifetime of practice. She rode on through the next village, and the next, transmitting more commands. Most were trivial. Some were absurd. Some were deadly.

And people obeyed. If they did not want to deal with the lord’s ire and his hired muscle, they obeyed.

Delia rode into the ancient port town of Ipswitch and issued more orders but these were backed with silver coins. Fine rings; rosewater; bright ribbons; tart snacks; a dog to flog; beads to decorate her slender ankles; rouge to redden her soft cheeks.

Delia did not really require rouge or other makeup. Bright blue eyes flashed from high cheekbones in a peachy face under long hair of dazzling gold. Firm ruby-red lips pouted or pursed over her bold chin. A long, strong neck held that commanding head aloft from her enticing stretched-hourglass body. Those beaded ankles and feet demanding to be kissed extended from under her robe.

Delia was simply the most beautiful female creature her countrymen had ever seen. And she knew it.

She mounted for her homeward ride. She did not really need a manly groom’s help to mount her horse – no, she merely liked to exhibit herself and tease the pissants. She had flashed two deacons when she mounted in front of St Mary le Tower church. Enjoy the show, boys.

She thought carefully while riding. Very carefully.

She stopped in every village on the way back home, and diverted to other villages along side tracks, to issue more orders. But these were orders of a different order – more than suggestions but not full commands.

“I seek a husband. Tell every man who would seek to win my hand in marriage to gather in St Timmon’s Wood this upcoming Sunday at noontide. Every man must be clean and presentable and willing to win me. That is my wish. Tell every man.”

Delia had devised a test to choose the best man for her. A clever test. An audition.

The choppy meadow before St Timmon’s Wood saw a strange crowd gather in the midday of that Sabbath.

Delia arrived early with housemaids leading a donkey laden with jugs of fresh water. One maid carried a bulky pack, revealed to be a large padded bedroll she laid on the ground at the designated site. A small bonfire was lit to heat a pot of water. A supply of cloth lay adjacent.

The meadow slowly filled with men, a vast assortment of men, several dozen men dressed from all stages of life – hearty fieldworkers, thin old merchants, hopeful youths, guardsmen, teamsters, and more. Some had foreseen the possibilities and wore only loin wrappings above their rough sandals, and maybe a loose tunic. Many were decently overdressed. All had taken care to clean themselves.

And all wanted Delia. They had weighed in their minds the pros and cons of marriage to this powerful, arrogant, immensely beautiful woman – and yes, she was now a glorious woman, not a sallow girl-child. Her ripe body exuded sexuality. Her fierce eyes showed fortitude. Her goodies proclaimed wealth.

Yes, they wanted her. Her position, and her power, and her pussy.

Delia stood beside the bedroll, barely draped in a shimmering coverlet. She faced the silent crowd of men with her legs wide and her hands on her hips.

“You, men, if men you are. Listen to my words. I seek a husband. I seek a real man, a stalwart man, a forceful man, a man who can satisfy me. And a man who will attend to me and to me only. Whichever man wins me will marry me – marry ME, nobody else – and will attend to no others.

“The man who wins me need only do one thing. He must fuck me, fuck me truly, and I must scream his name. MAKE ME SCREAM YOUR NAME! If I scream your name, I am yours. You have won me. And if any other woman screams your name then I shall have your punished, punished in ways you could not imagine.”

This last threat was a bit of a bluff. Delia was merely a minor backwoods aristo, not royalty. Samsun Escort Bayan She did not possess “Off wi’is ‘ead!” authority. But she could surely make a wayward husband’s life miserable.

Delia dropped her thin robe and stood naked before the men. She moved her hands down her upper arms and across her magnificent breasts. She pinched her nipples and bounced her boobs. She ran her hands over her flat belly and inny navel and beside her baby-wide hips. She slid one finger past bright blonde pubic hair, deeply into her now-damp vagina. She put that finger to her mouth and ostentatiously licked. She stared at the men.

“This is what you win – IF you are man enough. Who here is man enough for me? Any of you?” She broadcast a withering sneer.

Delia squatted lasciviously on the bedroll and spread her thighs. Her blonde pussy gleamed in the noon sun. Her areolae stared like wide brown eyes. She glared at the assembled men.

“If any be a man, come and win me.”

Joshua Dent stepped forward. He was a great strong farm lad with with a bit of a reputation as a cocksman. Joshua has thought to have impregnated a few incautious local girls. He pulled his plain tunic over his head and dragged his rough trousers down from his waist. He stood tall and strong and muscular, hair and eyes as dark as the Ulsterman sailor his mother had fucked while her husband was away serving the King, and with a thick drooping cock like a stallion’s. He leered at Delia.

“I am a reliable man, my lady. I will satisfy you.”

Joshua moved forward. He spit on his hand and rubbed his dickhead with slobber. He lay between her well-turned knees, and slid himself into her. Hmmm, a bit dry, but not bad.

Joshua moved steadily, reliably, with strong strokes of great penetration. He moved slowly at first, then faster, and then in a frenzy. And he came.

Delia did not.

She pushed his limp form off her bored body. “Next,” she called.

Two of her maids dragged away the unconscious Joshua. Another laved her mistress’s loins with a cloth hot from the stewing pot. She carefully sponged away Joshua’s spunk. Delia would not become a sperm repository.

Elsmith Tewksbury was one of those thin older merchants, a pinch-faced middle-aged goods-broker who had buried four wives over the years. He wormed out of his dignified apparel and stood lean, moderately tall, adequately muscled – and possessed of an enormous penis, well over a foot long. “Hung like a horse” was coined for him. He grinned expectantly.

“No,” Delia said. “You will not put that inside me. No. Go away. Now.”

The naked Mister Tewksbury stepped forward, still grinning, led on by his massive horse-cock. Two men stepped from the crowd with drawn swords. Tewksbury stopped.

“Smart move,” Delia said. “Leave me and do not return. Now.”

Tewksbury looked at the much-too-close sword points, picked up his clothes, and walked toward the nearest trees with as much dignity as he could muster.

A ruddy young man clad only in long singlet and rough sandals stepped forward.

“I am Harry Claypool and I am your man,” he said, stripping.

“Oh no, you’re not hairy at all,” Delia giggled at the glabrous body.

“You are correct – I am a very smooth fellow,” Harry said.

He settled beside her on the wide bedroll, not very far up, just enough to kiss her waist, and her navel, and between her breasts. He looked into her face.

“Some men have no appreciation,” he said.

The tip of his tongue circled her puffy areola and then traced across her chest to the other. He nibbled and sucked, and then back to the first, and back again, and again, a bit longer and stronger each time. She gasped.

He moved up to kiss her long throat, and her strong chin, and her ruby-red lips. His tongue touched her lips. Her tongue touched his. They danced.

He moved atop her, his thighs over hers, between them, nestled in. Their faces joined with closed eyes. She raised her knees. He shifted, settled, slid inside her, stopped.

“Oh,” they breathed.

He was good. He was very, very good. Escort Samsun His mouth worshiped hers, and her neck, and her breasts – when his hands were not occupied there. His curved cock struck all the right locales inside her. He brought her to a light climax, and then another, and then – right as he came too – a groaning monster.

A groaner. A deep moaner.

She moaned – but that was all.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, “oh, almost…”

Harry left. Her maid cleaned her.

A familiar, tanned young man stepped up. He dropped his cape, all he wore.

“Well, Delia, finally…”

She stared at her own older brother.

“David, no, you can’t…” she whispered inaudibly.

Yes he could. He could touch her in many familiar places and rouse her with familiar sensations, her blood taste, her blood scent, oh god, oh god… and a flash of ecstatic guilt when she came thunderously, as if her dying soul was ripped to bloody shreds by avenging demons.

“No, no, no,” she moaned. David left.

Others came. And came, and came. Delia mostly did not.

Men young and not so young, fit and not so fit, skilled and not so skilled, nor motivated…

Men with mighty cocks. Men with subtle talents. Men who might otherwise have been tolerable but who somehow possessed some scent or texture or shape that failed to win Delia. Those were most disappointing – the might-have-beens.

Some made no attempt to please her. She was a woman to fuck and that was quite enough for them. For some it would have been rape had she resisted. She did resist some; others quickly dragged them away.

Few remained by late afternoon. One came forward. “I am Mordechai, my dear,” he croaked. Oh fuck no! Not him! That ugly old toad! But he did not smell bad, and his naked body was not too mis-shapen, and his tongue… that tongue, he licked his eyebrows!

That tongue started around her toes, and slithered up her legs, tickling under her knees, and across her inner thighs, and around her mons veneris, and up and down her slit, and inside, oh fuck, so deep inside! and around her clitoris, some magic instrument playing her there, oh fuck, oh fuck…

Delia whimpered. She hyperventilated. She moaned. She squealed. She was in fucking ECSTASY! like being transported to heaven on angels’ wings. Every nerve in her body tingled. Every muscle throbbed. Every cell sang.

But she just could not bring herself to cry his name. No, not this old guy.

Mordechai stumbled away. Delia’s maid cleaned her. And time stopped.

A shape stepped from the shadows. A massive shape. A black shape. A black man – not from around here. A sailorman up from Ipswitch port – he must have heard of her offer. And now he was here, wearing only sailor’s white breeches, and sailor’s cord sandals, and a stern face above his massive gleaming ebony chest.

“My name is Shit,” he growled.

He peeled himself naked. His cock was smaller than Tewksbury’s monstrosity and was in the realm of normal humanity, but only barely. That meaty weapon stood out from his obsidian loins like a cannon prepared to fire.

He threw himself forward and roughly spun Delia over onto her startled belly. He pulled her hips up and her thighs apart. He spit on his hand and rubbed his cock wet. He spit on Delia’s asshole and thumbed-in the bolus.

He slammed his big black clock deep into Delia’s virgin Anglo-Saxon anus.

“OH SHIT!” Delia screamed.

And that is how he won Delia’s hand in marriage.

The black sailorman (who was actually named Lucius Sainte-Croix, from Barbados) was quite happy to give up the merchant navy’s regimen of rum and buggery for a nice landside position. He got along quite well with his new father-in-law The Lord, providing admirable muscle when needed. Nobody fucked around with Shit, er I mean Lucius.

But he fucked around quite a lot. He was not quite the loyal, exclusive husband Delia wanted. But she could never punish him because nobody else screamed his name.

Nobody screamed out, “Oh Shit!” anyway.

That is because he told his other women that his name was Fuck.



Author’s note: This story by Hypoxia is copyright (c) 2015 and came to me out of the blue. Actually it came to me as a verse. I’ll post that in a comment. Anyway, your constructive comments are welcome. If you like this, join the 1%ers and VOTE!

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