I'm Only Happy When it Rains

Every time it rains, you leave a list of instructions on the kitchen table. It reads like a grocery list: shaved pussy, peach-scented lotion on the labia and nipples, no panties, shirt, bra or socks, black cotton tights, freshly-shined raincoat and galoshes.

I love the rain. Not because of all of the usual reasons people give for loving it. Like because it cleans the air or because it's so romantic on a rainy Sunday afternoon. It's really just because I love the feel of rubber.

There's nothing better than waking up on a rainy morning and knowing that I'll get to feel the sticky slickness of my rain boots on my feet and my old yellow Mackintosh raincoat against my breast. You removed the stiff cotton lining years ago so that when the skin from my pale heavy tits catches the rough textile, it reminds me of how it feels when I'm tied to the bedposts and you brush up against me to tighten the wrist cuffs. The snug red rubber dress you make me wear pulls the sensitive skin of my nipples roughly as I stretch in protest, anticipating what the next few hours will bring.

All day I'll walk around with the knowledge that you'll run your big hands down my rubber-covered body and my core will grow wet as I sit at my desk, banging away at the keyboards, trying to distract myself and praying someone doesn't stop by my desk to chat. I know the looks I get from my co-workers as I sit in my slicker and rain boots, rubbing my ankles together slowly and sensuously but I don't care. My reward is the slap of your hand on my pussy, the rubber amplifying the pain as it radiates outward on my lips. When you flick my nipples - first slowly, then harder and faster -- I'll throw my head back and close my eyes, relishing in the delicious pain. This will make the stares worth it because I'll know that my pain and humiliation pleases you. That the ache that forms in the pit of my stomach is all because I can't wait for the thin, sharp strips of leather to slice against my stomach, against the rubber that will make the sensation sting in that special biting way.

And you know that I'll clench my thighs together as I stand on the 6 train on my way home, gripping the metal pole to steady myself. I imagine that the scent of my pussy is filling the subway train though I tell myself it's probably all in my head. I'll rush up the station steps and try to pace myself as I make my way down the three blocks and up the three flight to our door. Without a word, you'll press me up against the door as I cross the threshold and you'll stand on my boots so that my toes are crushed. It hurts but I won't dare cry out because I don't want you to stop. I'll shutter as you claw at the snaps of my rain slicker and snake your hands down the front of my body, starting from the nape of my neck down to the tops of my thighs. This is when I gush and your hands snap to my neck and squeeze. But it's the bite that really sends me over the edge.

It's hard to say if it's the rubber, the rain or your quiet, brutal strength that gets me off. Or maybe it's your thick cock ramming into my throat as you force me to take you that makes my pussy drizzle and my clit tremble. It's possible that it's your hand across my mouth and your fingers pinching my nose that cause my eyes to roll back into my head.

No matter. The rain always reminds me of the syrupy-sweet juices flowing out of my pussy and my eyes watering from swallowing your spit-covered cock. It reminds me of the moisture that pours from your forehead onto my tits and your hot come as it splashes across my face. And it's the rubber that captures the sweat, the heat, the stickiness and the lust that reminds me that I am yours. It's the stretchy, gummy material that honors the purity of your steady brutality, the love that only your fingers can imprint on my skin. Until then, I'll happily buff and shine the cool, slick surfaces of my raincoat and boots, eagerly awaiting the next downpour.