Summer Rain

I don’t normally write in the first person. But I wrote this for someone, and she encouraged me to share it.

For L.

— — — — —

You’re giggling, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

We did it. We finally got away.

… it’s not quite as glamorous or romantic as I would’ve liked. The weather is all wrong, too hot for the rain to be much comfort.

But the way it makes your shirt cling to your body makes all the muggy steaminess worthwhile.

The bugs are horrible too, though. I wince and swat at one in mid-stride as we go, almost there. You seemed so damned eager, it’s ridiculous. I don’t even fully get it, but don’t need to. Maybe don’t want to.

You struggle with the zipper of the tent, but soon yank it down. I playfully shove you inside, onto the air mattress, which only elicits a laugh from you.

I duck in, and am met with a vision: You, uncoiling your body, propped up on your elbows, chest heaving with post-running breath, wet hair slicked over your back, one leg spread just-so as your eyes meet mine in one glorious moment I wish I could freeze in a snowglobe and revisit at will.

My body crashes atop yours, all rough angles and taut sinews in contrast to your giving softness and pale curves, my hands boyishly looking for a landing pad amid the disheveled sleeping bags and extra blankets, pillows to and fro, the —

Well, our lips don’t have any problem finding each other. You crane your neck to reach me, your back arched, and we’re not in perfect sync but we kiss and kiss hard right away. Your lips even taste good. I don’t understand that, either, but I clap a hand on the back of your head and pull you into the kiss deeper. You try to inhale against me, even your flared nostrils struggle to avoid the press of my face, and you squirm, and I feel your torso heave, struggle in the most delightful way.

I twist your head somewhat, just to listen to you suck in a desperate, gasping breath. I didn’t even notice your hands sliding under my shirt, just to feel me, on my firm body, neither in great shape nor anything to be ashamed of.

You fall down to the makeshift bed. Your hands hover, for a hesitant second, but I pounce, greedily and eagerly grabbing your shirt and yanking it up your body, forcing your top and bra roughly over the slopes of your soft breasts. Your body is bending, squirming as you try to accommodate and react to my motions, your elbows splaying here and there as I quite enjoy forcibly shoving the whole kit over your arms and shoulders and —

— I feel the slightest tinge of frustration from your legs, forced a little too far apart for the moment by my own for you to be able to strip any further. I lift, and move, and you’re shoving your panties down, and I practically break my zipper to get it o —

You make an elongated, pained squealing sound as I force my way into you right away, just kinda barreling forward with my rigid dick and trusting nature to guide its way; I can feel that you’re wet, but not thoroughly, like you’re in the process and I get to enjoy its fruition.

Your fingernails clamber and scrabble across my arms, my back, my sides, as I grunt like an animal and manage to slide an arm under yours, our chests pressed together, fuck it has to be 89 degrees in here, I’m already a sweaty beast and you’re my prey, trapped beneath me, and you whimper as I’m balls deep, and you feel so fucking good, your walls sheathe my dick like you were built to please me.

I don’t have any sense of leverage or balance, and our wet clothes are ruining half the covers in here, but through sheer force of willpower and spastic red-haze-of-lust enthusiasm I’m thrusting, and groaning, and just working my way back and forth inside you, rocking my hips and putting my legs into it, gradually finding my place, my shirt stuck somewhere half up my body.

I can see it, I think. The moment you surrender. Your grip tightens at my ribs, and one of your thighs slides up mine, your leg around me. I hear you, feel you, start to pant and groan and bite your lip halfway through an earnest ‘fuck’ that might have been a ‘fuck me.’

Both my arms are underneath you as I move, now, with an unbridled aggression, pent-up over too much time, one of my hands gripping a fistful of your hair and shoving your face into my neck as I moan over you, my hot breath spilling over your pretty face, my other hand violently grabbing at you, just to grab you, cradling your cheek in a sweet way even as my thumb fish-hooks into your mouth and stretches your lips out sideways.

You moan, and I groan, and my knees find their footing as I absolutely start pulverizing you, pounding your pussy like a piece of meat in need of tenderizing, like I’m trying to beat you to death with my dick, our glistening bodies making that wonderful ‘pop-pop-pop’ song of a hard cock simply ramming into your raw cunthole, over and over, over and over, over and over.

You make the most pathetic little noises, your lips splayed on my finger and brushing against my shoulder as well, my neck, your little halted-breath yelps of pleasure-plain nearly but-not-quite drowned out by my own groanings of a triumphant conquering, your tits jiggling against me as you buck, you writhe, you bounce and you rebound off every slam of m —

It feels like a fucking water gun, as I lean into you, every inch inside your luscious little body and pumping my thick, warm load of cum into you hard enough for it to squirt out of your pussy and onto your thighs right away. My face is a contortion of agony, celebrating the fabled ‘little death’ as my thighs quiver on yours and my grip only tightens against your scalp.

I pant, and sweat profusely, and breathe, and lean back, up — just enough. Just enough to let you down, and look at your face, and see your eyes and cheeks so red from blushing and capillaries bursting and, god, you are beautiful. You are beautiful.

I love the way your smaller body shakes just to catch your breath. The way your eyes don’t leave mine. The way your mouth hangs open, on its own.

I hold my breath, and savor this, as I finish my load: Between the suffocating walls of the tiny tent, and the trees around us, and the white noise of the rain, we might as well be in a cabin in the Himalayas or in a pod on the moon.

You lean up, of your own accord, and kiss my chin, and my neck, and all the skin underneath and all around and in between, your delicate hands sliding up and down my waist and torso as I catch my breath, and stare, and.

And I wrap one hand around your slender neck, and I squeeze. Hard. Just for a moment.

I can’t help but smirk a bit, lopsided and familiar, a smirk full of sentiment and sensuality alike.

“Mine,” I hiss, and squeeze extra-hard for a half-second, and then release.

I feel a two-handed squeeze pawing at me, accompanied by a subtle pelvic movement, as I hear the prettiest voice in the universe whisper back:

“Yours.”