26. The Rain and the Rain

     My friend Harpo is in town. This never happens. Really. It’s never happened once. We’ve been friends for twenty-seven years, and I’ve seen her twice in the last twenty-six (at our weddings). I drove up to her hotel the first day and fell into her arms and then onto her bedspread, where we proceeded to hyper-talk for four and a half hours without taking a breath. There is never a “So…” with Harpo. We are too easy together for awkward pauses; we always have been. She may not have been there in person for my growing up, but she was there when the seeds took root and she gets the ins and outs of the person I’ve grown into, so even though she might not know where all the bodies are buried, if she had to guess, she’d likely find them anyway. You have to understand that, and the fact that she has all my intimate details, and the fact that she has just as many of her own kinks, and that I have the intimate details of those, to understand how candid we can be with each other. So yeah, you get two old girlfriends together and they’re going to talk (among many other things) about sex, but you get a couple of freaks who accept and love each other for every last twist, and who haven’t had a chance to dish to each other in person for decades, and the conversation is going to go deep. You have to understand that, if you’re going to understand how spun up I was, by nightfall.
     We went to dinner together, all four of us, so that the boys could meet and so we could meet each other’s boys. (Yes, they are Men with capital letters and all that, but if I’m reclaiming the word girl – which I am, if you haven’t noticed – then I’m not going to be gender-biased about it.) Dinner was three and a half hours long. Safe to say we all got along. You would have been hard pressed to find another party of four in a thirty mile radius, who gave less of a collective fuck about what anybody else thought. Not only that, but it was common knowledge among us that Harpo and I had been spilling details all afternoon, so there was a certain freedom to the conversation. So much so in fact, that my husband was the first one to turn it to sex. That’s another thing that never happens – he always leaves that to me. Just that little bullet-point cranked me up another several degrees because I didn’t see it coming at all, but the atmosphere that led to it, plus the open truths of the afternoon, plus the state I’ve been living in for these last weeks, and I was wound up pretty fucking hard.
     We parted ways at the restaurant (sorry if you were hoping we’d taken them home with us), in an absolute downpour. I love absolute downpours. I have no interest in light sprinkles or cool spring showers, and winter drizzle makes me want to hibernate, but give me a sky-ripping hot summer thunderstorm, and I will walk right out into the middle of it. I didn’t have any real distance to walk this night, we weren’t parked far, but it was far enough. The entire surface of the parking lot was a churning puddle, so stepping into it meant not caring that the toes of my badass knee high boots were submerged. I was wearing a tank top and a skirt, so I had a lot of skin exposed, and the rain splattered all of it. They were those big, fat raindrops that you can hear hitting you individually, not like the blended whir of rain coming in sheets. I was splashed by rain as it hit me and then splashed again as each drop exploded on my skin. My clothes were thin, and I was drenched and dripping in a moment. Excellently so. I have always been like this about huge rain. My husband experiences it entirely otherwise, and so though we were both at the car in a matter of seconds, we spent those seconds very differently. He was going to the car. I was crossing the parking lot. He was giving up trying to stay as dry as possible. I was feeling what it was like to be wet. I was very wet.
     I was the driver, so I had a lovely view of my bare arms and the rivulets running off them. I could feel the same thing happening on my legs, water trickling from the tops of my thighs to the in-between where they met and it pooled and dripped slowly onto my seat, rolled back to further soak my skirt and my panties. Rain ran from my hair, traced tactile lines from my scalp to my neck, my ears to my shoulders to my chest, like streetlights coming on one at a time. We had to turn on the defog because of all the humidity we had contained in the car, and the blowing air raised goose bumps all over me. After awhile we were able to turn the air warmer and I got that full body shiver that happens with a sudden increase in temperature. That’s such a delicious feeling – it always makes me think of the way a horse’s skin will visibly ripple over its whole body. We had the radio on, but the ride was quiet. I don’t know what was going through my husband’s mind; mine was preoccupied with what was happening to my skin and what it was doing to my brain and therefore under my skirt. Sometimes being wet on the outside is the same as being wet on the inside.
     Apparently his mind wasn’t far off from mine, because he had bondage porn on the bedroom TV before I came out of the bathroom. By the time I had stripped off my wet clothes (I left the wet panties on), he was casually stroking himself, but I got the feeling that I should abstain rather than follow suit. I didn’t know if I was reading him right or if it was a mental result of my deprivation game, but if it was my invention he was certainly playing along. When I tested it by moving to give him a blow job he slapped me hard across the face without saying a word. So I sat very still by his side, my cheek stinging with the shape of his palm and fingers, and watched that hand now on his cock. Occasionally he’d reach over and stroke my pussy, pinch my lips and clit and then leave off just as my tension had started to build. A few times he was cruel to my nipples until I gasped. Once he pushed me over onto my face, ass up, and toyed with me, fingers and thumb. Always he left me bereft just when I thought he might not.
     Suddenly he got up, left, and returned with a cigarette from the secret stash he keeps for me. He dropped it on the bed with a lighter and said “I like it when you come back from smoking with your ass wet, and stand over me.” Something about the way he’d said it, the fact that it was a statement, not an order, that he’d said I like it when, instead of I want you to… I had to look him in the eye. There was a time in our marriage when I finally understood with absolute certainty that he loves me as much as I love him. It was like a slow-erupting emotional orgasm, and it has never dissipated to this day. And what I was writing in February, about the state in which love and sex are not merely comingled, but fused to become the same thing, that is intrinsic to every one of our encounters. So when I looked at him, and saw in his face that behind the stoic aura he’d been creating for me, he wanted me every bit as much as I wanted him… Well I had to move the cigarette out of harm’s way and put his cock in my mouth. My confirmation was immediate, and his responses to me set off a physical response of my own – gods there are few things that make me feel sexier than when he cannot help himself, when he cannot maintain his calm or turn me away any longer, when he might just lose control.
     He had the presence of mind to throw me off of him before the tipping point, and I happily fetched my cigarette and put my boots back on (panties and boots – gotta love that combination – he simply said “Good choice”), and traipsed to the door. Before I went out it he added “If you aren’t actively fucking your ass, make sure it’s spread.” As you wish my love, as you wish. Outside, I bent and braced my upper body against the wall, ass out toward the alley in case anyone decided to stroll down it. I wanted spit, not lube tonight, so I twirled my finger around my tongue until it was wet enough, and then twirled it around my ass while I stretched up to take a drag from the cigarette in my supporting hand, my elbow and forearm steadying me against the wall from above. Then I was actively fingering my ass. I progressed quickly into the accelerating assault that has been known to bring me off hard and fast. I didn’t want to get there that easily, though. I didn’t want to get there at all, until I was back within reach and sight of my husband. So I carefully (and cunningly) traded one finger for the tight breach of two, and the rapid penetration for the somehow more deviant invasion of a slow, deep ass fucking. Oh, that worked so well that I kept forgetting I had a cigarette to smoke not two inches from my face. It was so good that I decided to stop (remembering to spread my ass as I’d been instructed to), and do it all over again. Tongue to finger, finger to ass, finger insertion, one, two, three, frenzied plunging, back off, withdraw, cautious press and stretch of the second finger, slow, measured, deep defilement… And right there I was on the brink of coming. It was all I could do on quivering legs to ditch the scorched filter of my cigarette and get back inside with my ass spread.
     He was lying on the bed where I’d left him, cock hard in his hand. I stepped up on the bed and straddled him, turned to face away so that he could see my ass, then I showed him exactly what I’d been up to, outside. Again, he responded visibly and audibly, jerking himself off while he watched my progression of finger to mouth, to ass, one to two, fast to slow, and again his responses drew a physical echo from me. He reached up when he saw how close he’d brought me, and took my clit in his fingers, squeezed and rubbed me while I fucked my ass for him. I don’t think I’d had an orgasm that was a combination of 1 and 4 before. Maybe I’d find it if I read back a few pages, but it doesn’t matter – it felt new, and I came all over him, from above. Poured onto his cock like hot rain. The orgasm left me trembling and I almost lost the support of my legs, but I held there while he used my come as lube all over his cock. Then, when he was as close as I’d been, he reached his free hand up again and slid his fingers into my pussy, found my g-spot. As relentless as the storm earlier in the night, he gave me three 3s in a row with only enough time between to register the full measure of my arousal and make the connection to the deluge we’d come home in, from the deluge I’d become standing over him. I think my rain soaked him nearly as thoroughly as I’d been soaked. His cock was dripping with my come as he stroked it.
     He pulled my pussy down onto him, then. I was still facing out and yes, there was still bondage porn facing me. He took hold of my hips while I watched a defiant sub spit in the face of her Dom and get tied to a table and punished for it. My husband dipped his cock in my slippery, drenching quim and began to alternate between just the teasing tip and sinking into a full-to-the-hilt burial. At the same time he alternated a vertical lift and plunge with a horizontal back to front grind, and all the while I had that super-sensitive pussy sensation I’ve written about before (15. The Night That Followed), acutely experiencing every changing quality of friction and touch, from labia to cervix. I don’t know if he was responding to my responses like I still was to his, if we were spinning each other up further and further that way, or if he was hypersensitive himself, but he got too close again and I had that same dizzying sense of the potency of my sex as he pushed me off of him again. I went back down on him then, and looked him in the eyes while I sucked the hot liquid of my own personal storm off of him. Usually blow job eye contact is a transitory event, with me. I’m too enamored of his cock to look away from sucking it for long. This time I couldn’t look away from his face. I was completely absorbed by his looking back at me with the exact way I was feeling, in his eyes. True Love–True Fuck.
     I climbed up to ride him as I so love to do, and added kissing to the look still passing between us. At some point in my history I managed to convince myself that I am no good at kissing. It’s not true, and I know that intellectually, but I can only completely let go of that nagging thought when I am swept up in the complete abandon of this kind of soul fucking. It makes it all the more intense when I go there, and I guess not just for me. I duplicated the alternating motions he’d used when I was reversed on his cock, tip slip to full immersion, vertical rise and fall to horizontal slip and slide, and I could see the wave he was cresting in his eyes. He warned me that he was going to come, and hearing him say it triggered me, drunk with the power to make him unable to help it, “Come inside me, come inside me…”
     The whole thing was both quick and infinite. The soaking panties (which had only ever been pulled aside, never removed), made an audible splat when I peeled them off and threw them from the bed. They went unreplaced, and when I woke this morning I couldn’t stand the idea of re-covering a pussy still so aware of every pleasure it sustained last night. So today I go pantyless, with soft hair long and loose so that I can feel it fall against my skin, trail warm and dry but no less reminiscent of rain.

Epilogue: My husband went to London on business the next day, and two days later I woke in the night to a thunderstorm that shook the house. The rain fell in torrents while I lay soft and warm on his side of the bed. I couldn’t help myself. I came, thinking of standing over him with his dripping fingers in my pussy and mine in my ass, and then the rain slowed and I drifted back to sleep. In the early morning, it stormed again... I made a thinly veiled remark about it while we were chatting today, because as usual I am incapable of keeping anything from him. He did not fail to notice that he hadn’t received pictures. (Did I do that on purpose? I think I probably did, yes. Why? I do not know.) This was his response: “…given that I sense it's not a single infraction, you can bet your sweet ass you will have marks to show for it, and a little something else...” He comes home tomorrow night.