Tea and Rain

I have an umbrella, but it's no use against the rain, keeping only the top of my head dry. The street is mostly deserted and the figures rushing past, into doors, cars, down other streets, don't seem to notice each other, including me. As I stroll south, a block or so away, a man in a hooded cloth anorak comes into view, and he's strolling in the same unhurried manner. Maybe he too has given up the resistance, and is caving to the pleasures and punishment of the elements.

I watch him with directionless longing gripping my mind, and he sees me. He has a look of recognition on his face. I know him vaguely, but please can he be happy to see me? Could he please just see me as being same?

I smile the pained smile of a wet, breathless girl, and he answers the assured smile of a man better prepared against the elements. Will he judge my comparatively unfortunate state? Or will he see my exposedness happily?

His face softens with playful pity, and in a different life I might have been too proud to plead with my joy, but now I ask him wordlessly to take me in. And he crosses the street to meet me. I breathe relief. He hums assertion and warmth.

"I know you," I say.

"Yes you do," he answers.

I extend my umbrella to share it with him, and he pushes it away, "You keep your umbrella." He smiles, I doe-eye at him, and resignedly smile back. He hooks my arm with his and turns me around easily, and I back track. Where, he wants to know, was I just heading?

Truly nowhere.

He nods shrewdly, and I offer that I was looking for anything. He says I've found it.

We walk closer together. If he's unnerved by any of this, it doesn't show. If I am, and I am, I'm fairly certain it does.

We walk one block trying to talk, but the cool rain is ravaging my voice into breathlessness. He is fine. He pulls me closer still. The next block, we just breathe, match steps, fit together, anticipate.

We cross the street again to his apartment house. He unlocks the door, I fight my umbrella down, he takes it, holds the door open for me and I pass through. He says quietly, "this way."

I follow, every move timid, but bold in making them at all. He moves fluidly, assured of his upper hand, his territory, his very assuredness. His eyes reply softness to my micro-fits of worried or apologetic movement.

There is love. Love to me, curiosity to us both, concealment by him. His base intentions on hold until further inspection.

We walk the steps to his door, he let's me in, and I step through the door and follow his instructions and accept them as welcoming. The game changes here.

I am more than a guest, I'm a tiny or maybe large slice of what-will-be that's ambled into the world he controls. My wet jacket goes on a hanger and is carried off somewhere. My shoes are abandonned, my hair meets with his bath towel which smells strongly of him, damp, and now me and rain.

"You want tea," he states more than asks and, "please, yes, thank you," I reply all feminine humility. He warms and his movements turn more graceful. I warm and my movements turn more affectionate. I follow him, watching. He leads, aware.

We reach the kitchen, having spanned no more than a dozen significant feet.

Destiny blots us in like fog we feel.

And in the kettle he's filled, the steam begins to rise and curls through the fates hanging in the air. The tea is magically imbued, or will be shortly.

I stand closer, for being cold, for seeing him, for wanting to touch his soft warmth. He stays still, allowing me, and welcomes my shivering damp as necessary neediness. I wait and he continues with the tea, my encroachment noted with a tug at the corner of his mouth.

I need him far more than he needs me for the moment, but the moment will pass. He wordlessly enjoys it. We speak our names, his as if a direction, mine as if a request.

He pours, fiddles, drawers opening, stretches to shelves, lunges to table, and a hot cup lands gently in my hands, he makes a circle with his finger, and as if steered by this, I turn to find the way to the coffee table. From behind me, he reaches beyond me to place his cup. I wait.

I'm soaked through.

He produces an invitation into him by way of a blanket from his bed placed over my shoulder, and he breathes suggestively close to my ear. He could say 'undress'. He won't, but the thought charges the room the instant we both think it. He clears his throat and sits in front of my teacup. I sit close. This is success he and I both sink into easily.

The tea is too hot to drink. Kiss or talk? We glint, and silently smile too aware to do either.

He places an arm around my shoulder. Too easy, just perfect. I curl into him and he surrounds me.

I turn my face to him too quickly, his eyes say. He will make me uncomfortable. I demure away. He squeezes me with the slightest joviality. This would be where he makes light, and I shrink, but there'll be none of that.

We'll be lovers for how long, we wonder. Many steps ahead of ourselves, but we'd never admit something like this.

He turns his face to me, and I wait. We lean closer, our lips graze, and we move deeper into one another.

Sweetness like this will find you once in your life only.

Careful.

This is where tea is left, suggestions of stripping away the rain, still against my skin, are made. Watching, exposure, trepidation and excitement slip in. I feel warm bubbles swell in my cunt, opening me, and I sense the burning and hardening coming from him, forcing him on. We become all giving and taking.

My clothes peel away and my cold skin begins to feel more slick and silken where it had been burdened before. His eyes peer into the colors in my skin, locking on to the whiteness here, pupils swelling to the pink shades there. I bore searing looks into the denim swelling on him.

Blanket or man? He chooses. How long does he watch? When does he seize? His fingers stretch and his hands close on my hips. Wet, his nerves light up. Wet.

The bubbles of warmth are multiplying inside me. He knows. And I ache instantaneously.

Where my chills render me weaker, his burning renders him stronger, and we move together. Any withholding from me and we have tiny moments of awkwardness. I relent and it's ease and thunder together.

How I move from standing to spread out on the blanket, on the couch, under him, is a film he can play back in his head, but the movement happens with my barely being aware of it.

My body is begging him. His doesn't need to beg. I watch in fear, awe and lust as he pulls his shirt over his head. My eyes trying to take it all in. I think of myself for a moment and my body volunteers itself. My hands meet his skin. My cool trembling touch surprised that it generates more heat from him. He unbuckles, unzips, pulls away, and his face bobs up in unison with his cock.

He plunges in and I buck upwards, but the collision is sharp and painful. I gasp and there's more. I move to try to spare the pain, but luckily there's only more.

He stabs out sounds from me, and I can't regain myself. His merciless assault has me pressing into the sofa away, but soon wrapping around him. I can't move away from it. My arms and legs and breasts and cunt spread around him and the stab becomes fucking. And we pound together, my pain heating into cumming. I cry out and he responds with shudders, vengefulness in his breathing, chiding in his moans, desperation to hold me down and master me.

I hand him my desire, and he consumes it.

We kiss, and he keeps up the fucking. And just as I ease into it, he's out. The same blind power that guided me to my back, brings me to my knees, and he rounds behind me and the fuck is a stab again. He wants to keep it this way, but my pussy bargains for fucking with every blow.

He beats sounds out of me that I have no control of, and it commutes from gutteral wails to high pitched cries. He rallies to each of them pounding harder.

He pulls away again, and I'm relieved and destroyed, and he lays back and my mouth follows. I lick my cum from his shaft and my mouth closes over him, and I suck. My mouth countering the pressure of his fucking in response, and he breathes disbelief. I suck harder until I feel him push into me, and my mouth finds a rhythm that makes him shudder. I feel him tense in my mouth and I feel the blood rushing into his veins against my lips.

The taste of my cream and sweat gives way to the warm salt of his pre-cum, and my mouth softens, my mind vacates, and my sucking becomes fucking again, my mouth as sweetly thoughtless as my pussy, and he pulses into me, quiet exclamations yielding to moans. The moaning moves up his throat and opens as his cum moves up his cock and surges silently into my throat. I move longer and slower and he jerks into me, my mouth closing sympathetically over his cock, he needs warmth, and I stay motionless as he moves, spasms of orgasm subsiding.