Sexing in the Rain
It was shaping up to be one more boring Monday night in a long string of boring Monday nights. Master is back on that 4:30am rotation, and by 9pm, he’s usually nodding off in the recliner.
It was already after 10pm, and he was yawning over his book. I stripped and got into bed, kicking the sheet off. It was just this side of humid. No air conditioning and an upstairs bedroom equals bluck. Warm, heavy air is the only thing that the ceiling fan manages to blow around and because of the swarms of mosquitoes that populate this area, we’re reluctant to open the windows at night. The little blood suckers worm their way in somehow.
As we settled down into silence, we heard a noise. A slow but steady roar, reaching a rather alarming crescendo that had us looking at each other in surprise.
“Is that rain or a jet taking off?” Master asked, grinning.
I laughed. “Well. We’re nowhere near an airport, sooo…”
We both flipped over to our bellies to the huge window behind our bed. Sliding it open we groaned in unison in appreciation of the wet, rain-cooled air that puffed through the window, chilling our sweaty, naked bodies.
“God that feels good.” I mumbled, watching the rain pour down in the weak light of the streetlamp.
“I love the rain,” Master said. “I have a water fetish.”
“You have a wet fetish,” I noted. “In fact, you have an everything fetish.”
We moved closer together, sharing the open window. On our tummies, chins propped on our hands, watching, listening as the rain fell in waves. First, tapering off to a barely noticeable sprinkle and then building back into the impressive roar that got our attention in the first place. Rhythmically, the sound rose and fell. It was enticing somehow.
I sat up on my knees to fight with the curtain, trying to wrap it around the bedpost so it would stay open. Maybe it was my naked form silhouetted in the light of the streetlamp… maybe it was the wet, slapping rhythm of the rain against the roof… maybe it really is that he has a water fetish… whatever the reason, as I was on my knees, twisting the curtain, his finger was suddenly in my cunt, probing, pinching.
I groaned and instinctively widened my knees, giving him access, my hands stilling on the bedrail, curtain forgotten. His other hand reached up to my breasts where he squeezed painfully hard. My hand fluttered off the headboard as I gasped, reaching down to touch him before I could pull it back.
Sometimes, when I move my hands, reaching for him during sex, he growls at me to “put those hands back where they were”, getting off on the mental bondage and the unencumbered access to my body, my hands well out of the way. Other times, he encourages reciprocal groping. I never know which it will be.
This time, he wanted groped. Seeing the shadow of my hand move away, he slid closer to me, spreading his legs. “You can touch,” he said, half-lifting his groin toward me as I remained kneeling above him.
I was surprised to find him already hard, and it turned me on like crazy. Whichever part of it had aroused him so quickly- me, the sound of the rain, being naked in front of the open window, or my wet cunt spasming around his fingers- whatever it was (and I like to think it was me), the feel of him in my fist was… amazing. Erotic. Arousing.
I didn’t wait for permission, I just slid over and straddled him, sinking myself down on his cock. He ooh’ed appreciatively, pleasantly surprised at my forwardness I think. I don’t often take the initiative in that way and I rarely ever move to be on top. But… I had to have him. I had to have him right then, right in that way, with the rhythm of the rain outside, riding him in the dark in front of the open window, with the cool air drifting over us.
Though being on top feels like the dominant position, and as such, I tend to shy away from it, he always shows me that it is not. With his hands free, he pulls and twists at my breasts, my nipples, making me gasp and shiver under his touch. He takes my hips and manipulates me, moving me to match his pace or lifting me so he can pound, deep and hard as gravity and my weight work to his advantage. He pulls me down to his mouth so he can bite and nip at my chest, my shoulders and neck, delighting in the quiet mews of pain that I whisper into his ear.
And he talks to me, telling me that he can feel my juices dripping down his cock because I’m a slut, a whore, telling me how I’m going to come, and come hard, and keep coming until he tells me I can stop, until he’s through with me, used me up, talking, growling at me while he’s pinching and squeezing and pumping, and I do exactly as he says- I come, and come, and come, squirting down his thighs and I just… wallow. In being a slut. A whore. A fucktoy. In being used. Being fucked. Taken and enjoyed, and then tossed aside. Wet, sloppy, dirty.. and well-fucked.
Afterward, he left me in a puddle of goo, both mine and his, and got up to thump his chest and howl at the moon, his cock still jutting stiffly from his naked form, still wet, glistening in the dim light of the streetlight shining through the window.
I laughed, shaking my head.
When, after washing up, I informed him that I needed a Tylenol because he’d fucked me straight into a headache, he replied “Right on!” and gave me a knuckle-bash.
He’s such a man. A big, barbaric caveman.
And he’s all mine.
~knuckle-bash~
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