The Summer Rain

The Summer Rain

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


My golden circus girls all sailed away The lion tamers are no longer due to play Whoever breaks the seven seals and lets the angry angels free out I do not know... Just waiting here... For summer rain... For summer rain... Or anything else... - M. Gold -


My golden circus girls all sailed away
The lion tamers are no longer due to play
Whoever breaks the seven seals and lets the angry angels free out

I do not know...
Just waiting here...
For summer rain...
For summer rain...
Or anything else...

- M. Gold -


Submitted: January 24, 2013

A A A | A A A


Submitted: January 24, 2013



altOh fuck! Not that city!

It wasn’t the most ideal place to meet with him again, but it had its advantages. Offenbach was to Frankfurt what Newark was to New York. Once you crossed the river the glamour faded. I knew this city; loved and hated it. It had fucked me over and I had screwed it. We knew each other like an old pair of shoes knew my feet, and yes, it did have a certain amount of old world charm. Modern and romantic, decadent and conservative, brilliant and abysmally stupid – just like me, a city of dichotomies.

To explain it in a nutshell: Offenbach had to be the only city in the world where you could have a threesome in a public park in broad daylight with a pigeon-feeding, gin-swigging granny watching you from a park bench and she’d threaten to call the police – not because you were fucking in broad daylight in a public place, but because you tossed your used condoms on the ground instead of the rubbish bin.

I stood in front of the Offenbacher Hof, casting my gaze to the building to the right, the Ludwigstrasse 29. I shook my head thinking I could have written an entire book about that house. It still haunted me sometimes, but like the paint peeling on the old façade next to the hotel it only reflected old memories. How strange Mr Lennox had booked this hotel of all places. There had to be at least three better hotels in this area to choose from and there wasn’t even a trade fair on.

I pulled the glass door and bounced up the short set of steps to the lobby desk. The young woman smiled and asked if she could help. I spied a pen and a pad of paper, and wrote Mr Lennox’s name on the top of piece of paper adding mine to the bottom before I handed it to her and spoke to her in Offenbach dialect.

“There’s peak-fine gent stayin’ in your hotel. That‘s his name. Ring him up and tell him that I’m a-waiting ‘round in the lobby.”

She smiled at my mixed accent because I’d let her know I was no stranger to this town. She attacked her keyboard. “Ah ja, der Ami!” she said finding him.

“That’s Herr Lennox, the Canadian to you!” I snapped. Offenbachers were like that. Renown in the entire country for their smart mouths.

She smiled, typed some more, then demanded my passport.

“What for?” I frowned.

“Just gimme your passport! Your peak-fine Herr Lennox booked you here too,” she explained.

My eyebrows raised in surprise. “Did he?”

Jawohl,” she affirmed. Her smug smirk tried my patience because it was making me feel cheaper than street hooker delivering pizza. I fished my passport out of my purse, saying with level sarcasm, “If you book me in here as ‘Mrs Lennox’ I’ll have to slap you.”

She broke in a loud laugh, but then stifled it with her hand. “Don’t do me any favours,” she commented as her fingers slid over the counter to take my passport.

She wore a ring on her middle finger that caught my attention. It was fashion jewellery, but elegant with some kind of Celtic pattern that seemed vaguely familiar.

“You need reservations for tonight?” she asked handing me back my passport.

“Tonight?” I frowned at her familiarity. She suddenly had switched, and was addressing with informal pronouns. Yes, Offenbachers had smart mouths, but she and I had never shared beer out of the same glass. Talking to me at that level was border-line audacity.

Her blue eyes danced in the mirth at some secret joke I wasn’t getting. “For the Grande Opera, of course.”

I snorted. “Since when does Offenbach have an opera? You don’t mean the Old Synagogue?”

She laughed loudly again. “Oh, come on! You two are here to for the Grande Opera.”

A puzzled look crossed my face. “Did Herr Lennox make any reservations?”

“No, but,” she stifled a laugh, “you two are Lifestylers.”

I bristled. “We’re what?”

“Yeah, he’s your…” she hesitated. “You’re Lifestylers! You must know what I’m talking about.”

Up until now, I’d never heard the term used like this, and even then I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. Off her tongue it sounded like something dirty or pathetic.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on! Dark suit, white dress shirt, black tie... we both know he’s your ‘Daddy’, don’t we? How many Daddies do you think check in here every weekend?”

She handed me a glossy, coloured brochure for a BDSM night club. I shouldn’t have been surprised, given the fact that Offenbach had every kind of nightclub there was to have, except for brothels. The brochure revealed that the Grande Opera was some sort of public dungeon, and tonight they were featuring some kind of show where they were binding and flogging women in public. I noted the address. How apt it was across the street from the hospital, I thought sarcastically, and vaguely wondered if a place like this was even legal.

My eyes narrowed, but I tried to keep my smart Offenbach mouth friendly. The hotel receptionist really didn’t mean any harm. Still, I didn’t like being considered a foregone conclusion.

“Listen, you obviously know all about this ‘Lifestyle’,” I gesticulated, making quote marks in the air with my fingers. “Still, I’d like to make something perfectly clear, so we understand each other, okay?”

She nodded mutely.

“You’ve got it spot-on with Herr Lennox. Still, he’s not your neighbourhood ‘Daddy’ from the corner news shop. He’s no player, dungeon master, or any kind of weekend opera-house warrior. And I am – God knows – not one those rabid bitch-sluts who needs to slide off one of your weekend wife-beaters. That being said, I’d suggest you treat Herr Lennox with a little more courtesy, like you would any other guest from a foreign country. Black suit or not, he hates strangers calling him ‘Daddy’, and he doesn’t like other people making plans for him. That includes you, me or anyone else. Alles klar?

“But I only meant to–” she protested.

“What room is he in?” I cut her off.


I took the lift up to the third floor smoothing my blouse and jacket, and pushing an errant lock of hair out of my face I’d spotted in the lift’s full length mirror. The kind of affair I was having with John Lennox was nowhere near ‘conventional’, but if there was one thing he disapproved of it was looking like a cheap slut in public. Naturally, that was contrary to all of the things we did in private, but that was just one of the many dichotomies of John Lennox. After knocking briefly I waited for him to open, holding my breath until I heard a curt “Enter”.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and opened the door.

John Lennox sat in an armchair as if it were a throne. He was the picture of composure with his legs spread wide, his arms resting motionlessly on the arms of the chair. His jaw was set, but his eyes... his eyes were bright, full of want and desire. My first impulse was to run and throw my arms around him, having not seen him in so long, but he’d never accept that. First things first.

“Good evening, Mr Lennox,” I greeted him with a wide grin on my face.

“Good evening, my dear,” he answered in a pleasant voice. He remained motionless, looking at me expectantly.

I walked into the room placing one high-heeled foot in front of the other, feeling like a feline stalking its prey, while slipping off my jacket and laying it over a nearby chair. Stopping in front of him I stood for a moment, smiling down at him with my legs spreading to a wide stance. At my waist I bent over placing both hands on the ends of the arm chair next to his. A hint of a smile tugged at his face as he stared down my blouse. Then I slowly sank to my knees, pulling my skirt back slightly so that I could spread my knees to shoulder’s width. My back went arrow-straight and my eyes never wavered from his until my hands disappeared, folding behind me to the small of my back. Then I lowered my gaze to stare at his shoes.

His hand reached out to cup my face and brush my cheek. I closed my eyes and leaned into the roughness of his palm, kissing his hand, then licking and sucking on his thumb when he plunged it into my mouth. My eyes opened again to stare into his face, making no secret of my hunger.

He leaned forward. Strong hands circled around my waist to capture my wrists and pull me into his lap. My arms wrapped around his neck as he pulled me close and kissed me, his mouth covering mine in a long passion kiss that spoke of how much we’d missed each other. Time dragged as one drugging kiss and caress followed the other.

I nuzzled his cheek fondly and asked him softly, “How was your flight, Sir?”

“Long,” he murmured, his hands roaming my body, teasing my nipples into hardness through the light material of my blouse.

“I’m so happy to see you again, Sir.”

My hands caressed his temples and the edges of his beard, laughing softly as I felt his warm hands sliding up under my skirt. The smile of his discovery made my heart beat faster.

“You’re not wearing panties.”

“No Sir, I am not,” I tried to look apologetic, but failed.

“And you’re wet.”

“Guilty as charged, Sir.”

My eyelids fluttered closed and l gasped when I felt him slip two fingers inside of me.

“Whose property is this?” he teased.

I moaned softly, lost for words.

His fingers pushed in further and pressed against my sweet spot. “Who owns this?” he demanded. His tone was slightly harsher.

I pulled myself closer to his head, nipped his ear and whispered, “You do, Sir.”

He pushed harder and my fingers bit into his strong shoulders in reflex. I groaned, fearing I would climax before I could stop myself. But he knew my body better than I did. My trembling arms screamed of my want and my need. He eased off, extracted his fingers and licked them in front of me. His face was a study of joy and lust and I had to fight the impulse to cover him in kisses.

“I will have you tonight, but for now I would like to eat first and you should, too.”

A frown creased my brow because I wasn’t hungry, at least not for food. His face grew hard, and this time I did manage to look contrite. This was how John Lennox always won a disagreement; without words. Sometimes he said things I didn’t just go over with me, like now. I wasn’t hungry. But when he gave me just one thunderous look like that, I usually changed my mind in spite of myself. I don’t know why I never wanted to argue with him. Everybody quarrels with their lover sooner or later. But we never did that. And why we never did that was the true mystery of John Lennox. He was just one of those people nobody ever argued with. It was probably that look. He must have been the angel God sent to turn Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt. He had that kind of look.

I changed the subject. “Interesting you chose this hotel, Sir.”

“Why? Is there something wrong with this hotel?”

“No, it’s not a bad hotel. I used to live next door to this place. This hotel’s of better class, but… uh… it seems to cater to the things that please you, Sir.”

His mouth went to a flat line as one eyebrow arched. “Oh?”

Oh dear, not that look, again! He thinks that I used to... and I told him I didn’t know anything about his lifestyle before I met him. “The receptionist, Sir,” I tried to explain quickly. “This used to be an ordinary hotel when I lived in this town, but now they’ve opened up some kind of palace of kink here called the Grande Opera and the hotel receptionist’s caters to their guests. She asked me if you wanted reservations. She’s got you pegged, Sir.”

“She’s got me what?” The outrage in his voice was barely contained.

I palmed my forehead. Wrong word choice again, damn it! “She saw your suit and assumed you’re a Dom, Sir.”

That thunderous look on his face scared me more than words could express, but he seemed somewhat mollified. I got up and dug the coloured brochure out of my purse and handed to him. “She gave me this, and wanted to know if you need reservations for tonight.”

He flipped through brochure. “Have you been to this place?”

“No Sir. It’s new.”

“What did you tell the receptionist?” His tone was deceptively soft.

“I told her that you make your own plans, Sir.”

“Good,” he commented quietly. “Would you like me to take you there?”

I considered, my stomach churning at the thought of watching women so masochistic they could only climax in if their asses had been beaten to a bloody pulp. In his absence I had done some research of my own, hoping to learn more about the things that pleased John Lennox. I had discovered that a surprising number people from this part of the world were attracted to this lifestyle because they were vicious sadists, who enjoyed inflicting real pain. They tended to regard dominance as an irritating responsibility they weren’t particularly interested in, preferring carte blanche contracts over fun-spoiling safe words.

“No Sir, I don’t want to go there,” I declined, my face clouding. I looked away, knowing he hated to see any kind of doubt on my face. But he was faster. He grasped my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Good,” he commented, satisfied to see I really didn’t want to see this house of horrors.

“Where would you like to go instead?”

“You wanted to eat, Sir,” I reminded him.

“Yes, I could do with some lunch.”

“It’s past lunch. We’re six hours ahead of you. But I’m sure we’ll find a restaurant to your liking. Most of them are located in the same quarter. It’s just a short stroll. Shall we walk, Sir?”

He agreed, and so we walked down the Geleitstrasse while I related old anecdotes as we passed the houses. Eventually we came to the market square. Restaurants ringed around it – about ten in all – and we went to each one, where I patiently translated some of the menu items until he found one that suited his tastes.

At the threshold he clasped my wrist, holding me back. I stared at him quizzically before remembered he was waiting for the hostess. I suppressed a giggle. “Sir, they don’t have hostesses in Germany. You may sit wherever you wish to sit.”

He gave me a chagrined, brief smile before he took the lead and my hand, pulling me to a table towards the back of the restaurant. The waiter appeared out of nowhere, bringing us a pair of menus and asked us what wanted to drink. To my complete surprise, he ordered wine in fluent German.

My mouth dropped open. His smug smile was my undoing. He reached up and pushed my dropped jaw closed. After a moment I asked him, “Sir, may I ask why you had me translate all of those menus for you?”

“Because I knew you didn’t want to eat. I also knew that if I can get you to think about food long enough, then you will eat without arguing.”

Oh, you bastard, I thought looking down at the menu so he couldn’t see my annoyance.

“What would you like to eat?” he asked cheerfully.

Now I was obstinate, saying nothing out of sheer protest. He’d probably take it out on me later, but for now I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t even look at him, much less answer him. Not until I saw his hands disappear from the table and heard the distinctive sound of him unzipping his trousers. His hands were back on the table in a flash. He took the menu away from me as if I were an errant child, grabbed my wrist and guided my hand to his crotch. I flushed. There it was – his cock – thick, hard and waiting.

“Hold it!” he hissed.

My eyes widened in shock. Hold it? Here? For Christ’s sake, we were in a public restaurant.

“Hold it, and just hold it until I tell you to let go of it.” His voice was adamant.

“Yes Sir.” My answer was rhetorical. I didn’t even think about protesting at this sexual move right out of left field.

Then I felt it – the spark of the challenge. It was hard to explain. To any other woman I imagine this might have been humiliating, perhaps degrading or insulting. For me it was a challenge; a test of wills. He trusted me to do as I was told. I trusted him that he would see me through this without any adverse consequences. So, what would happen now? How long could I hold him before he’d come in my hand? He long would he make me hold him, torturing me with my own lust before I came? He could drive me crazy like this, and knew it. I didn’t necessarily need his hands or his tongue or my clit, or his cock in my pussy to come. He could make me come simply by forcing to feel his lust like this. And torture it was, because his rules were clear. Hold his cock. Don’t work it. Don’t squeeze it. And don’t even think of rubbing my thumb over its swollen head. If I did any of those things there’d be nothing for later.

I let out the breath I was holding, and let my long fingers fold firmly around his hard cock under the table. John Lennox’s cock seemed to swell and expand in my hand, and as it did, my fingers twitched to squeeze. I held them in check the moment his hot cock twitched in my hand. That was a warning. I closed my eyes for a moment and willed my hand to stay still, trying to stop all of my errant thoughts, because I realised I was becoming wet and I wasn’t wearing any panties on. I had to stop thinking about how good his hot cock felt in my hand, or I knew I would lose it here and now.

So I tried for some small talk, but he chose to listen, and now and then he would twitch his cock in my hand, should I forget for one single second how much I wanted to crawl under the table and let him fuck my mouth until he came deep in my throat.

He wasn’t listening to me, so I tried to distract myself. Of course, I was aware that if anyone in this restaurant caught on to what we were doing, they’d throw us out. I don’t they’d call the police, but somewhere deep down I knew that if we were thrown out, John Lennox would punish me for being a spoilsport. So, it wasn’t just a challenge of not giving into the overpowering lust that threatened to consume me; it was keeping up appearances so that we wouldn’t be ‘caught’. I let my other hand disappear under the table as the waiter returned. Mr Lennox ordered for both of us in flawless German. Annoyance was a good emotion to distract myself. What a waste of time, reading all those menus.

“You’re very good, Sir,” I commented dryly, resisting the urge to squeeze his cock after he twitched again in my hand. Oh God, my fingers ached to work his cock and make him come, but I knew if I did that, he’d send me home right after dinner, and I did not want to die the death of frustration tonight.

“I know,” he commented before he leaned over and whispered, “Tell me what you want to do with my cock.”

I looked down at the table, a slow smile spreading over my face. Oh, no you don’t, I thought. Two can play at this. “Now? Or later, Sir?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Because if I tell you what I’d like to do with it now, you might allow me to do it and that would be a shame if we had to leave before you had something to eat. At least I might not go hungry, Sir.”

He stared at me, his eyes burning. “You know what will happen if that happens.”

A small smile of triumph tugged the corners of my mouth upwards.

Before I could answer the waiter returned with our drinks, a sceptical look passing over his face. He frowned as he followed my arm down to Mr Lennox’s lap covered by a napkin.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked him innocently.

The waiter smiled laconically and simply snapped back in Offenbach dialect “Alles klar. Dinner will be on the table in a couple minutes if you two can wait that long.”

“Fantastic. We’ll wait… I think.” I answered in dialect.

Mr Lennox looked at me quizzically, not following the dialect. His German was perfect, but there was little chance he’d ever been exposed that awful Offenbacher dialect in any of the schools he’d attended. So I translated it for him, explaining that the waiter had just figured out that my hand wasn’t in his lap because my hand was freezing. John Lennox’s low voice rumbled in my ear as he laughed.

Eating dinner was harder than I imagined it’d be. Naturally, he refused to grant me permission to let go of his cock, not even to eat. It was more than awkward, eating with just one hand and trying not to laugh while he cut my food into bite-sized pieces and fed me. When I think back on it, I don’t even recall what he ordered because the only thing I remember was his twitching cock in my hand. For all I knew he could have fed me cold tripe. I envied his composure, his ability to eat as if he’d always eaten dinner with someone holding onto his hard cock in a restaurant.

“Stop laughing and eat!” he scolded me from time to time.

When it came time to leave he simply picked up my hand and kissed my palm, before he adjusted his trousers and stood up. His self-control, his ability to turn his lust on and off like a light switch, never ceased to amaze me. It was beyond me how a man could demonstrate he wanted to fuck me now, only turn this thought off a moment later, as if it had never occurred to him in the first place. For me, wanting like that something was all-consuming. It distracted me to the point of madness. And if the want wasn’t satisfied then it mutated into all-consuming frustration. I seriously doubted John Lennox even knew what frustration was. His lust had almost magical qualities. One minute it was bigger than life, promising to fuck me all the way into next week, and the next minute it had vanished into thin air.

Outside night had fallen and the thick summer air was muggy and pregnant with a thunderstorm. This summer air matched my mood, in a way. The air was full of static electricity, but like it I didn’t know if I’d be discharged tonight. The only way I knew how to relieve this frustration was to move – if not under his hands then otherwise, like walking.

His mood was unreadable. Did he want me tonight? Or didn’t he? It hung in the air, like the weather. We should have brought an umbrella I realised, but we had none and I now I didn’t care if it did rain. Rain would distract me from the fact that I’d just lost his game again. But then I always lost from my point of view. He saw things differently, though I don’t know why. I gave trying to understand why John Lennox liked me, was attracted to me, or even enjoyed fucking me. There were no answers to those questions.

“Would you like to walk down to the river?” I asked him.

He nodded as we walked over the square. We passed brightly light facades, the French Huguenot church, continuing down towards the Main River, sometimes speaking about what we saw, and sometimes lost in thoughtful silence. When we reached the river, we strolled by the Lily Park and I turned down the path into the park, curious to see the restored temple.

“What’s this place?” he asked.

“Lily Park. This is the Lily Temple. It’s a bathhouse, built in memorial to young Goethe, who once made love to his adored Lily in this place hundreds of years ago.”

“Did he now?” he asked, his gaze enigmatic yet carnal.

Thunder rumbled overhead and in the blink of an eye a large drop of water fell upon my face, quickly followed by another and another before the heavens opened and water cascaded down upon us. I laughed, feeling giddy and light. I kicked off my heels to dance in the rain, not caring how it plastered my hair to my face.

“Come here,” he ordered.

I laughed and came in within his reach. “No!” I teased, defying him and stepped out of his grasp.

“My dear!” His voice held warning, charged as the lightening that flashed in the sky.

I laughed and ran off towards the temple shouting behind me, “Sorry, Mr Lennox, but your property is getting all wet!”

The temple was completely dark, deserted and locked. I slipped around to the other side, climbing over the balustrade railing. It had a semi-circle porch, crowned by a half-domed roof overlooking a grotto pond. The rain was now pouring in torrents by the time Mr Lennox vaulted over the balustrade railing. I pushed my wet hair out of my face and leaned with my hands behind my back against the cool stone wall, feeling like a naughty child. Here it was cool and dry in the dark recesses of the temple porch.

He walked over to me, my shoes in hand, and loomed with one arm over me against the wall. He let my shoes fall with a clatter to the floor. “No?” he repeated ominously.

“It’s raining, Sir,” I said breathlessly.

I flashed him a coy smile. His eyes shone like polished onyx in the dim light from the nearby streetlights. He looked like the Devil himself, his features grim and chiselled, especially when the lightning flashed. It gave him the appearance of man possessed by a demon. The water cascaded in sheets, roaring like a waterfall over the temple’s half-dome roof and thundering down into the grotto pond below. His mouth descended upon mine, hard, uncompromising and burning with need.

Reflexively I put my arms around his waist drawing him closer, but he captured my wrists and twisted them so that I was suddenly turned with my back towards him. He pushed me roughly against the cool stone wall.

“No? Because it’s raining?” he mocked in my ear. He pushed his hips against my ass. I gasped feeling his erection. It was back, this time pressing through his damp trousers against my wet skirt. I pushed my ass against him, my breathing ragged. Yes, I wanted him. That’s what he wanted, didn’t he? To have me want like this.

But maybe not. He held my wrists tightly – a little too tightly, and he lifted them, so that I had stand up straight, moving my ass away from his hard cock. Oh, no! What had I done now? He wants me? Or he doesn’t. Or he does but he’s mad at me because I teased him, and that was breaking one of his many rules again. Apologise now, before you regret coming here! I told myself.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I was just getting out of the rain.”

I knew he wasn’t buying it. I wasn’t sorry because I’d teased him. I was sorry for disappointing him, though. He lifted my wrists behind my back higher before marching me over to the balustrade railing.

“Bend over!” he said in a harsh voice.

A waterfall of rainwater tumbled from the half-dome roof. I hesitated. What was he going to do with me? Toss me in the pond? His grip shifted. Locking both my wrists with one hand, he grabbed a fistful of my wet hair and pushed my head out into the pouring rain. My knees braced themselves against the balustrade to keep from falling. I let a cry at the feel of cool water pouring over my head, drenching my back, running over my chin and down my face. He held me there. I couldn’t stand up straight or else I’d drown under the waterfall. He let go of my hair, but still held my wrists in a vice-grip. If I leaned forward I’d fall over the balustrade into the pond. I felt his hand move quickly to my thigh and lift my skirt, pushing it up over my ass, shoving onto the small of my back.

“Don’t fall!” he shouted over the din of the waterfall.

The light was dim, but if anyone besides us was caught in this cloudburst they must be getting one hell of show by now. But I didn’t care. I only felt: the cool water drenching my body; the tight grip on my wrists; my inability to do anything else but endure his touch.

With his free hand he stroked my sex, sliding a pair of fingers in and out, while his thumb massaged my clit. I squirmed against him at first. I didn’t want or expect being fucked like this here and now – not under these circumstances, but suddenly I did want it. At least my body did. I felt alive, lost in sensuous wet lust – half-drenched from the water pouring over my upper body, fully drenched from the liquid within oozing between my legs. I shifted my legs wider to give his hand better access.

“Don’t fall!” he admonished again, his relentless hand finger-fucking me faster until I was writhing and fighting for breath. My nipples were rock-hard against my wet blouse and bra, droplets falling off the tips, like rest of my body, down into the grotto pond below.

I moaned loudly over the roar of the water. I was close to coming, and began to move my pussy rhythmically against his hand. He stopped abruptly, twisted my hair, and pulled my head upwards, leaving my face still under the onslaught of falling water.

“This is my property,” he hissed in my ear, “and when I want it wet there is no such thing as ‘No’.”

I couldn’t answer. I was holding my breath against the sheet of water pouring over my face. He bent over me again. I felt his chin on my spine as he continued massaging my clit with his thumb. Oh God, I wanted to come. I needed it. All of this. Like this. Here and now.

“Tell me what I can do!” he demanded.

“Whatever you wish, Sir,” I moaned, feeling myself tremble with aching and close to climaxing.

“Damn right, I can!”

His hand was momentarily gone. I felt bereft. But it was only for a moment, because then I felt the hot tip of his hard cock probing for entry. When he found it he slammed into me with the full force of his hips. I cried out as my wet hungry pussy expanded to accommodate him, lifting my upper body slightly and almost slipping. The motion would have brought me to my knees, if he hadn’t had such a firm grip on me.

He released my wrists and grabbed hold of my elbows. He withdrew slowly then slammed hard against me again, making me cry out again. I groaned as he withdrew slowly, squeezing my pelvic muscles around his cock. I tried to ease myself back against him, eager to feel his fullness inside me again, but he lifted my elbows making me immobile. He continued his sweet torture, slowly withdrawing then slamming back inside me so hard, it smacked hard against that deep sweet spot inside me.

I ached to come and he knew it. But he was in his element – a demonic Prospero, conjuring and in full control the tempest in- and outside of me. I felt the exhaustion gnaw at me for a climax that had been drawn out to the point of torture. He slammed into me again and remained motionless. He let go of my elbows. My arms dropped to cling limply on the balustrade.

He bent over me. “Do you want to come on my cock?”

“Yes Sir.” Nothing but a weak prayer for sweet release.

He moved again, this time holding onto my hips to guide me to rock with him at his pace, fucking me slowly at first then picking up the pace to fuck me harder until I felt the full force of his hips slapping hard against the bare cheeks of my ass. I didn’t know how much more of this sweet torture I could take, moaning at each of his punishing thrusts, not giving a care if anyone saw us, fully consumed by this all-encompassing hunger.

“Please!” I begged breathlessly.

“Now! Come on my cock!”

He reached underneath me and rubbed my clit rhythmically, but alone his touch was my undoing. No sooner had he touched me did the spasms of my orgasm rack through my body, my pussy convulsing against his cock. I arched my back crying out my sweet release. His growl thundered in my ear as he bent over me. He thrust again, once, twice, before I felt the sweet satisfying hot flood of his cum shoot through my sex. My arms grew weak and I lost my balance, but didn’t fall. He was there. His strong grip held me fast. I continued to shake uncontrollably, letting the caged animal inside of me out, climaxing a second and even a third time.

He pulled me back from the balustrade, into his arms and down to the floor, where I continued to shake, moaning quietly against his shoulder. Patiently he stroked my hair and my face, giving me occasional soft kisses until the wave of raw passion subsided. For a few moments I floated off into a hazy light sleep. When I opened my eyes again, he brushed my face with his rough fingers.

“Let’s go back to the hotel. You need some dry clothes.”

I smiled, kissed his temple and whispered in his ear, “No!”

© Copyright 2019 Celeste Neumann. All rights reserved.

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