Torrent

Rain falls, cool and heavy. Ten thousand oblique spheres of liquid assail my face and my arms. The thin cotton of my shirt is already plastered against my torso, and my jeans lie tight and wrinkled against my thighs; the denim is nearly black in the dappled sunlight.

I don’t care.

I lead the way forward, pushing aside and flattening saturated grass with each step of my heavy boots. There’s a path here of sorts, old and forgotten, trodden by so very few people. I can’t help but wonder if the people who last walked this way came here for the same reason that I have.

The tree line is just ten yards away now.

I glance back over my shoulder. You smile. It’s not the same, confident curve of your mouth that you shared with me as we got out of the car, a hundred yards away now, and out of sight behind the dense hedgerow. But it tells me that you’re still with me in desire as well as body. I turn my attention back to the path. Just as well you still want this. It’s your fantasy, after all.

The rain loses a little of its potency as we pass beneath the first branches of birch and hazel. Light and sound take on a subdued quality beneath the canopy of green. Noises separate in the half-light, isolated upon their individual tracks: leaves and twigs crackling beneath our feet; the raggedness of your breath interspersed with my own; the ever present rain as it falls through the leaves overhead, forever bound by gravity to the Earth.

I stop.

Far enough.

I turn to look at you as you come to a stop a few feet away from me. The body in your hair is all but banished; it frames your expression limply, hanging down to your shoulders. Your cream dress adheres as tightly to your body as the shirt does to mine. As I instructed you, you’ve forgone your bra, and your nipples are indecently obvious; twin circles of shadow, their proud centres pressing the wet cotton wantonly outwards.

“Come here,” I say. I make no effort to cloak my voice. If there’s another person within three miles of this place, they’re only passing by. No one else will come here, not when it’s raining like this. We have it completely to ourselves.

Inches between us now. Even in the muted light, your face shines with rainwater. I want to taste each drop, capture them one by one with the tip of my tongue, to see if that will help quench the thirst rising within me.

I already know that it won’t.

“Kiss me,” I tell you.

Your lips are warm after the chill of the rain. No, not warm; hot. Searing. Your clever tongue finds mine, and together they tease and swirl and dance as you press yourself hard against me. I feel your body as though we were both naked: the softness and strength of your belly; the tautness of your thighs; the imperious curves of your breasts and the unmistakable peaks of your nipples. My cock rises, filling, thickening, and even though my jeans are as stiff as calico, your gasp tells me that you feel me well enough.

There’s a tree at my back, a tall birch, two hundred years old if it’s a day. I slowly turn us, so that it’s aligned between your shoulder blades instead of mine.

I press you back against the cold, wet wood.

You shiver, and try to push back towards me. I hold you in place.

“It’s cold,” you say in a petulant voice.

“Stay there.”

“But I-”

I still your voice with a single index finger pressed against your lips. “Don’t make me tell you a second time.”

After a moment, you nod, but say nothing. Your eyes are dark with displeasure and … something else. Something that simmers.

“Reach back,” I say. “As though you’re trying to wrap your arms around the tree.”

You start to say something, then think better of it. You reach back, the insides of your forearms against the gnarled bark. Vague discomfort flickers across your face. I reach into my pocket, and draw out the length of black silk rope. I step behind the tree and wind the rope around your right wrist. A few seconds more, and your wrists are bound together, anchoring you to this immovable post.

I walk back in front of you. “Now we can begin.” I kiss you again, my fingers stroking down the sides of your face, trailing along the outside of your throat, drawing naturally together into the deeply vee’d neckline of your sodden white dress. A glistening droplet rolls down into your cleavage.

“I like this,” I murmur between kisses as I finger the soaking material. “Did he buy it for you?”

“Yes.”

“His choice?”

“Yes.”

I raise one eyebrow ironically. “Really?”

A hint of vexation. “Yes.”

I nod contritely. Then I grip hard and pull down sharply on the front of the dress. The ripping of cotton as fabric tears and buttons separate is shocking in the semi-silence of the woods.

“Bastard!” you spit.

“Yes.”

I stand back to look at you, and for the first time, I experience bewilderment. All the carefully conceived plans dissolve as I drink you in. The sight of your nakedness is devastating. Your rain-streaked body gleams as though lit from within.

“Damn,” I whisper to myself.

“What?”

“You are … glorious.”

“Am I?”

I nod. “Oh, yes.”

And you are. The dress that he bought for you, chose for you, hangs ruined from your shoulders. Yet the violence of my act has not defiled you. It’s freed you. When you slipped into the dress this afternoon, you became a conventionally attractive woman, conventionally desirable. As the rain moulded the fabric to your body, the decadent potential within you began to emerge.

And now…

I know that you’re watching the intensity of my gaze, perhaps with a degree of trepidation, but I can’t meet your eyes. Not yet. I’m bewitched. The rain runs over your breasts, across your belly and along your parted thighs in a thousand tiny rivers, and I envy each one of them. Vulnerability and desire come off you in waves. I can smell it so clearly over the musky dampness of the woods. I can almost taste it. You’ve never looked so beautiful, so wanton. This is where you belong. Bound to nature. Bound to me, to my will.

I can’t wait any longer. With a single stride I’m upon you, kissing you passionately, almost frantic in my need to savour your mouth, to draw on your warmth, your desire. Your need seems just as great. My hands resist the frenzy, slowly coming up to find your breasts, to mould them to my insatiable grasp. Your damp flesh is delicately textured from the chill, your nipples deliciously knotted. I draw upon them with my fingertips and my mouth waters even as you gasp.

My palm runs down across your belly. Only my palm. I arch my hand backwards, outwards, so that my fingers don’t even brush against you. And like that, I caress your belly in slow circles, in lazy, meandering paths. My touch leaves a wake upon your skin. The circles slip lower, my palm running over the fleshiness of your mound, sweeping over the slender line of hair that leads my voyeur’s eye to your sex.

The first time you feel my fingertips is when they swoop in swift succession across the taut nub of your clitoris.

“Oh fuck!” you gasp into my mouth, and your body sags against the tree.

My hand slips lower, until I’m cupping your sex as though it were a glass of Cognac. My fingers stroke up and down your full lips, easing them apart so that the cool, damp air can find its way to the secret heat at the heart of your desire. I draw my middle finger slowly up through your cleft. My skin delights in the warm viscosity of your juices, just beginning to flow. I raise my finger to my mouth to taste the nectar, and I shiver at the ocean tang of your lust.

I ease my finger between your labia again, bringing it to your mouth this time. I slowly run the tip around your parted lips, and watch as you lap at yourself hungrily. When our mouths meet, your kiss is even more desperate than my own.

“You make me so fucking wet,” you gasp.

I unzip myself, drag my cock out into the light and thrust the underside of my shaft against your naked thigh. “You make me so fucking hard.”

“Fuck me. Now.”

“No.”

“Please? Oh fuck, please!”

“No.”

I descend along your body, my mouth trailing over your breasts and your belly, the head of my cock drawing a new wake the length of your thigh, your calf. I press my lips to your mound, the insides of your thighs, your labia. The musk scent of your cunt is so potent; it’s as if it’s been nourished by the falling rain. I run my tongue along your wet cleft, through the soft folds of flesh that are meant to hide you, guard you, keep you safe.

Nothing can keep you safe from me now.

My lips suckle on your clitoris, drawing it softly into my mouth. My tongue beats out a rhythm that makes you gasp, makes you writhe against the tree holding you in place. You strain against your rope bonds and force yourself hard against my mouth, until the sinews stand out along your arms and your legs tremble with the effort. I ease two fingers inside you to the hilt; curl them to probe and caress the front wall of your cunt. My tongue lashes you into ecstasy, and my fingers beckon to your orgasm.

I hold you on the brink for a long time. When you finally come, you scream full bloodedly. The echo of your scream is just fading when you come for the second time.

Your third orgasm seems to carry you to the brink of insensibility.

I stand up, stripping all of my clothes away, dropping them to the muddy ground without a glance. I’m oblivious to the rain falling against my nakedness. Nothing matters now. Nothing, except being inside you.

“Fuck me, please,” you intone breathlessly. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

I step back against you, crouching slightly, guiding my cockhead until it nestles within the portal of your sex. Your heat is already staggering.

I reach around you, grip hold of the tree, and then kiss you; slower now, more thoroughly. I roll my hips, stirring my cock inside your labia. “Is this what you want?”

“God, yes. Fuck me now. I’m begging you.”

I smile. “I like it when you beg.”

And I enter you with a single thrust.

You cry out, then still your cry by sinking your teeth into the meat of my shoulder. The pain is sudden and cruel, and I piston my cock into you more vigorously in response, which serves only to intensify the force of your bite.

Vicious circle.

Even without looking, I know that you’ve marked me, perhaps even scarred me. The ground seeded for yet another lie. Another lie for another life, a hundred, a million miles distant. I push the guilt away. The lie will be there when I need it.

I glance at where your even white teeth are embedded in my flesh. You pull back, looking at me with such depraved desire. A thin rivulet of blood trickles down from the corner of your mouth, instantly washed away by the rain. Then you kiss me with such savage intensity, the taste of copper all over your tongue as it presses into my mouth.

You break the kiss. “Now fuck me hard,” you hiss.

And so I take you, ravage you; piston my hard flesh into your greedy, vulnerable cunt as you stand there, lashed to your post, helpless to stop me even if you wanted to. You gasp my name over and over, lift your leg, drape it around my hip; I cradle it in my hand, stroke the underside of your thigh to your ass, grip your taut buttock and open you even more widely to my thrusts. No pausing now. No going back. So many things that I’d planned to do to you. Tying you so that you faced the tree instead, tearing the clothes from your back and then lashing your bare arse with a handful of dripping birch twigs. Having you kneel before me, naked, worshipful at the altar of my cock; my fingers entwined in your wet locks as I fucked your mouth. Being inside you as we rolled across the soaking ground, oblivious to the rich mud coating our skin; locked in our world of licentious sensation.

Of course, our plans rarely play out as we originally envisage them.

In the end, everything is wetness; the rain on our bodies, the juices of your cunt, the surge of my come as I erupt inside you, into the epicentre of your own orgasm. A torrent raging over us, drowning our senses.

We crumple as one, spent, your face tight against mine. The tree supports us. And as I stand there, listening to your breathing as it eases amidst the rain drops, my mind begins to wander. What would someone be thinking if they’d seen us? If they’d followed the path we made, walked stealthily into the semi-darkness of the woods and watched us raptly, quietly from a distance? Would they understand what they were beholding? Not the animal sex. The delicate balance. The intricate ebb and flow of desire and control.

I’m not sure that they would. I’m not sure that they could, because I’m not sure if I understand it myself.

Rain falls, cool and heavy. Ten thousand oblique spheres of liquid assail my naked form. Time to leave soon. I draw back; see the hunger burning in your eyes again.

Yes, time to leave soon.

But not yet.

Not yet.