Caught In The Rain 9

Rio is a city of surprises. For example, I would never have thought that on my first day in the city, I'd find myself bouncing up and down on a large black cock - the biggest I've ever had - in a public place, and coming so dramatically that I thought I'd pass out. But then they say that travel broadens the mind - although in my case, it most certainly stretched my pussy!

I'd checked into my hotel in Ipanema after a long and rather tedious flight from London via Salvador. I had at least managed to sleep on the plane, but having walked along the famous Ipanema beach and across the headland to Copacabana, I was already getting bored with it all. There was little evidence of bronzed lovelies of either gender. Lately, I'd found myself attracted to beautiful women almost as much as handsome men, but there were few of either in evidence on the day I arrived. There was a threat of a storm, and the weather was humid and rather oppressive, so few people seemed to be on the beach, and those that were there were mostly fat and/or ugly. Without the attraction of people-watching, there's only so much appeal to a wide strip of sand and a seemingly-endless parade of high-rise hotels.

The clouds were low, so there was no point in heading for the Sugar Loaf or Corcovado; the views would be non-existent and the Christ statue would be lost in the mists. So I took a cab and headed for the botanical gardens, with a rucksack containing a light, waterproof jacket, my camera in a soft case and enough money to get back to my hotel and maybe buy a drink. I'd heard stories about muggings and decided to travel light.

Though I was here mostly for a holiday, I'd also hoped to take some pictures I could sell on my website. I make a few thousand a year from selling photos - just a paying hobby, really - but lately I'd been considering making more effort and seeing if I could turn professional. I suppose I thought that if I could cover the cost of the trip with the shots I took, that might set me on the right road.

The gardens were deserted, and I saw almost nobody as I wandered around with my camera, feeling stickier by the minute in the oppressive, tropical heat and humidity that seems to precede a storm. I was wearing just a light, cotton sun-dress and a pair of flip-flop sandals, but even so, I felt stifled. By the lily-pond I put my bag down on a bench and carefully negotiated the stepping stones to get some interesting angles on the small waterfall and the reflections in the pond's surface, though the light was far from perfect.

It was about then that I felt the first drops of rain. By the time I'd reached the bench, it had turned into a heavy shower, and before I could get my jacket out of the bag I was already soaked. At least I'd managed to put my camera back into its case, which I wrapped in the jacket and dropped into the bag for additional protection. By that stage, there seemed little point in trying to protect myself from the increasingly-intense downpour.

The torrent of heavy raindrops on my skin stung, so I ran as fast as I could in my flip-flops towards the only nearby shelter, a grotto made of rocks and concrete. I dashed into the covered space, gasping with the relief of not being violently hosed-down.

I was, quite literally, soaked to the skin. My thin white cotton sundress, which had been relatively comfortable in the oppressive heat and humidity of a few minutes earlier, was now completely drenched. It felt cold and clammy, stuck to my body, rivulets of water pouring from the hem of its skirt. Even my little white panties were soaked through. My hair was plastered onto my head, and I checked with some concern that my camera was still reasonably dry. The few banknotes I'd slipped into the rucksack pouch were damp but had fortunately not disintegrated; at least I had taxi fare to get back to my hotel.

I set my bag back down on a rock shelf on one side of the space, and looked out to see what my options might be. I knew it would take at least five minutes to walk or try to run to the gate, by which time I'd probably be washed away. The only option seemed to be to stay here until the storm ended, or at least abated a little.

Then I heard a noise from behind me, and realised that I wasn't alone in my shelter. I turned and saw a tall black guy, stripped to the waist, wringing out a white t-shirt. The strong muscles in his arms stood out as he squeezed the liquid from the fabric. I watched, fascinated, as he stretched it out over one of the concrete benches inside the little cave and then extracted a towel from his bag and started to use it on his body. At first I was a bit scared. He was big - tall and muscular. But then he looked up at me and smiled. He seemed like an ordinary guy who'd been minding his own business when, like me, he'd been caught in the rain.

Actually, he wasn't such an ordinary guy. Back in London, I'd never found black guys attractive. Perhaps it's mostly to do with attitude, but the ones I'd been unfortunate enough to meet treated women with a lecherous contempt. All they wanted was a quick shag, and they were arrogant enough to think that they could be fat, lazy and aggressive and still get it. The sad thing was that it seemed to work for them far too often. Apparently, many girls liked the thrill of having a 'bad boy', and were prepared to put up with the degradation it brought them. It had never worked for me.

But that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate a good body, black or white, and my companion certainly had a

very

good body. His dark-chocolate skin was glistening with the water, and the sheen seemed to accentuate the attractive curves of his broad shoulders, the nicely sculpted planes of his strong pectoral muscles, the washboard contours of his amazing six-pack. This guy was seriously fit. I guessed he may have been one of the many Capoeira performers who seemed to be on every street corner, performing their strange cross between martial arts and dance as a way of earning money.

He said something in Portuguese that I couldn't understand. I know a few words - hello, please, thank you, enough to order a beer in a bar or get a taxi back to my hotel, but, like most people who speak English, I'm totally rubbish at other languages. Also, Portuguese as spoken in Portugal is very different from that spoken in Brazil, so what little I knew only drew uncomprehending stares here in Rio. So I managed to convey that I was English (i.e. crap at languages) and he just smiled and switched to sign language.

He offered me the towel, which I took gratefully, drying my face and hair. Then he pointed to my dress, and through sign language, suggested that I take it off. Now this is the sort of thing that usually only happens to me when I meet someone who is seriously drunk at party. I mean, why would I show my body off - such as it is - to a complete stranger? It wasn't as if we'd been introduced... I shook my head.

Through sign language, he indicated again that I should remove my dress, and then I could dry myself while he wrung the garment out, as he had with his own t-shirt. At first I was reluctant, but with some hand gestures and a grin, he indicated that if I removed my dress he could hardly see much more than was already on view. The torrential rain had made my dress pretty transparent, and my nipples were erect and clearly visible through the wet fabric.

So I nodded, handed the towel back to him, demurely turned my back and pulled the dress over my head. He came up behind me, draped the towel around my shoulders and took the soaked garment from me. As I wrapped myself in the comforting warmth of the towel, I could hear him wringing out the dress, the liquid dribbling onto the dusty ground. I turned and watched him carefully lay it, crumpled but rather less soaked than before, alongside his t-shirt on the concrete bench. Perhaps he hoped it would somehow lose more moisture that way, though I couldn't see how. But now that my skin was relatively dry, I certainly had no desire to put it back on in a hurry.

Then he turned to me with another gesture, tugging at the towel and saying 'por favor?' He indicated that his trousers were still soaked through, and that he'd like to dry himself as well. I reluctantly surrendered the warm cotton wrap, turning my back in an attempt to give him some privacy. Still, I couldn't resist peering around as I heard him wringing out his trousers. He had his back to me, and his tight bum and muscular legs looked just as attractive as his chest had earlier. He also didn't seem to be wearing underpants. Having put the garment with the others, he started towelling himself dry, raising first one leg, then the other onto one of the concrete benches. I couldn't take my eyes of those tight, chocolate-brown buttocks. My friend Vanessa would have said 'Oooh, nice arse!' and I suppose that's what I thought, too.

Then he stood up straight, flipped the towel around his broad shoulders, turned around and

oh sweet Jesus!

My gaze had been at hip level, so the first thing I saw - and what a

thing

- was this, frankly

enormous

cock. My first thought was that it looked like an elephant's trunk, bent downwards in almost a quarter-circle arc. Even though it was still soft, it was already thicker and longer than any cock I'd ever had - or even seen - before.

Now admittedly, the number of guys I'd had full sex with could be counted on two hands - not including both thumbs! Since my first experiences in my teens, I'd had three long-term steady boyfriends, a pair of short-term relationships and four fairly-indifferent one-night stands. I'd also had three girls between my legs, one wielding a decent-sized strap-on, so I suppose that ought to be counted. Even so, none of the penises - real or rubber - were above around seven inches, and almost all were circumcised. Looking at my new companion's cock - and frankly I couldn't take my eyes off it - I judged that it was already over seven inches long - maybe more - thick and uncut. By the fact that the head had barely begun to protrude from the foreskin, I guessed there was even more in there, waiting to be revealed.

Don't get me wrong here. While I found the sight of that enormous cock intriguing and fascinating, it was actually more intimidating than exciting. I'm not one of those girls for whom it's a case of 'the bigger the better'. I'm just five feet two inches tall and skinny - some unkind folk might say 'scrawny' - and I've sometimes found sex with even some of my more modestly-hung boyfriends uncomfortable or even painful. When I was nineteen, one drunken fumble with a very pretty but terminally vain boy after a party left me sore for a week. My one disastrous attempt at anal sex, with a boy I'd known for around two months, hurt me so much that it ended that relationship and sent me into the arms (and legs) of my first long-term female lover.

Nonetheless, this guy was so intensely and beautifully

male

that I kept looking, fascinated. He must have seen the expression on my face, because he grinned broadly and started sauntering toward me. When he stood close to me, I realised that I was looking down at his cock rather than up at his face. I've see guys do that with girls' breasts - not mine, I hasten to add, as they're too small for most boys to notice them - but until that moment, I'd never felt the urge to 'crotch-watch'. I finally dragged my eyes away from that mighty and rather scary monster hovering at waist level and looked up into his face. His smile was friendly, almost sweet, his eyes big, dark-brown and warm, looking at me as if he felt the same attraction for me as I did for him. He took the towel from across his shoulders and draped it around me, and although the cotton was a little damp, it still felt pleasantly warm on my skin.

He rested his hands on my arms and said something in Portuguese that meant nothing to me, but sounded friendly and affectionate. And then he kissed me. The guy clearly knew how to kiss - not the sloppy mouth-mauling I've had from some boyfriends, but a soft, delicate exploration that literally left me breathless. When our kiss broke, he straightened up - he was head and shoulders taller than me - and then encircled me with his arms and drew me close.

Then I felt it; this big, semi-hard, hot, pulsing beast, pressed tightly up against my abdomen. The sheer length of it was impressive, seemingly from below my belly-button halfway way up to my breasts. But just feeling its bulk and thickness was almost surreal, like a giant exotic fruit, nestling against my belly. The sensations of his strong arms around me, the warmth of his body and those firm muscles under his smooth, dark skin, his spicy aroma filling my nostrils, all conspired to make me even more excited by this tall, dark stranger. And as he held me, I could feel his cock, still growing, hardening against my skin.

After maybe a minute of his warm, comforting and exciting embrace, he took the towel from my shoulders, carefully folded it lengthways and laid it out along the nearest bench. I watched, fascinated by how his now-almost-erect penis bobbed as he moved. It was even bigger than when I had last seen it. It looked enormous, dark, menacing - and strangely exciting. He moved gracefully, like some mythical one-horned beast, some dark stallion eager to charge. And I realised by his state of tumescence that I was his quarry, that he wanted to bury that fearsome horn in

my

flesh.

I felt strange - excited and terrified in equal measure. I couldn't imagine how he could possibly fit that long, thick rod inside my tight little vagina without splitting me in half, and I was frankly rather scared. But what were my options? I could run out into the torrential rain, naked and screaming - and then what? Where would I go? Who could I ask to protect me? Would I simply be picked up by some passing gang and treated like the silly bitch I was?

And this was the most impressive male body I'd ever seen. I've always thought of myself as very average-looking, and most of my boyfriends fall into the same category. As I said, I'm petite, skinny, with reddish hair that I keep short because I can never do anything with it. One girlfriend said she loved my pale skin, green eyes and freckles - I burn really easily in the sun - and another said I looked like a sweet young boy with my pert little bottom and negligible boobs. But I'm not the sort of girl to attract a real hunk, and I'd probably be tongue-tied if that happened to me. Sure, occasionally I've been chatted up, felt up and fucked up - to be completely crude about it - by some cute boy who either was too drunk to care or just wanted to see how far he could get with me. I think men see me as being rather prim and proper, which perhaps I am, and therefore a challenge. 'Can I get inside her strait-laced knickers?' I can almost hear some of them thinking. And if the guy is reasonably good looking - that is, better than I usually manage to pull - or I'm drunk enough, then I'm usually happy to oblige. Unfortunately, what they gain in attractiveness, they normally lose in technique, and I've often been deeply disappointed and rather disgusted afterwards.

But now my strange, exotic friend was indicating that he wanted me to sit down on the towel-covered bench. And he was simply gorgeous-looking, beautifully proportioned, fit, and with a handsome, smiling face. And despite him being naked, and me being in just a pair of virtually-transparent wet panties, he was behaving in a very gentlemanly manner. I had a choice between fleeing into the torrential rain or sitting down with a gorgeous, very fit black guy and risking having to have sex with him. What would you choose?

Despite his apparent gentlemanly behaviour, I could tell what his intention was. Every time I looked at his cock - and to be honest, it was difficult to drag my eyes away from it - it seemed to have become harder, more erect, and astonishingly bigger. I suppose that I'd already decided what was probably going to happen, and if it did, I knew it wouldn't be rape. But, given the strangeness and scariness of the situation, and his sheer intimidating size, my sexual arousal was tinged with more than a bit of fear.

At first I was afraid that he might try to stick that enormous beast into my mouth. I doubted whether I could have got even the head past my lips, and if he'd tried to shove it in, like one or two guys have done, I'd either have choked or bitten him. But it seems he'd recognised this, and instead he just helped me to lie down on the towel, removed my wet, cold panties - and then set about making me wetter. And as for me - I just went with the flow.

To be fair, he homed in on my pussy quite slowly, teasing up and down my legs, stroking and licking behind my knees, caressing my skin and my nipples with his big and surprisingly gentle hands. But when his head arrived between my thighs, I just arched my back and moaned out loud. His tongue was hot, wet and soft. So was my pussy. The combination was deliriously joyful.

God, it felt good. Like a lot of teenage girls I guess, I'd had a crush on my (female) teacher. One strange night, not long after my eighteenth birthday and at a rather drunken party to celebrate our 'A' level results, I'd spontaneously kissed her. To my surprise - and, I think, hers - she responded. We'd ended up in bed, and when she licked my pussy I came more strongly than I think I ever had since then. A woman's tongue, I'd always felt, was so much better at pleasing a woman than a man's. But this guy was even better - or at least, in my mood at the time, that's how it felt.

In no time, I was thrashing around and delirious as he took me to within inches of the peak, then pulled me back and took me slowly back up again. I loved the way he licked, nibbled and sucked on my inner lips, and then worked his way around to my clitoral shaft, and kept lapping away until I was almost there - and then went off on another tour. He got a thick finger inside my vagina, located my g-spot and kept teasing it until I was almost screaming. Three or four times he drove me to the edge, then pulled me back, before finally releasing me. I'm not normally the noisy sort, but this was so spectacular that I just threw my head back and screamed. If it hadn't been for the thunderous downpour outside our little cave, people would have come running from every direction.

It felt like several minutes before I stopped shaking. I was aware he was holding me, his strong, hard body stretched over me, his long, thick cock resting against my abdomen. I looked down and saw that the beast was sticking up past my navel. God, if that was going inside me - and I couldn't see how I could prevent it - how far would it go in? And how on earth could I stretch to accommodate it?

And then I thought 'Oh my God! What about STDs? He could have AIDS or anything!' He started to move back, and I guessed that any moment he'd try to shove that thing inside me. And I was terrified but desperate for it at the same time. I put my hands down and took hold of his cock - it felt enormous in my hands - and my face must have been a picture of confusion.

"Please. Wait! Must use rubber? Oh shit, what's the Portuguese for a bloody condom?" I mimed putting a condom on him, and he grinned.

At that point, he could simply have ignored my pleas, lined up and shoved it in. I mean, who would believe a silly bitch like me, naked, lying on his towel with my legs apart, wet as a very wet thing, if I claimed rape? But he reached under a corner of the towel and pulled out a condom. He must have got it out of his bag and hidden it when he had draped the towel on the bench. I guess he'd have preferred to screw me without it - and to be honest, so would I, if it wasn't for the fear of STDs.