4 comments/ 20983 views/ 9 favorites If It Rains By: MrFoxwood In my three short decades it has come to my attention that faced with inclement weather men, some men, are inclined to loiter in doorways, smoking and brooding. It is as if as the first few drops began to fall they leapt from wherever they were seated and lit-up, declaring to their wives and girlfriends that they were off to involve themselves in some man business out of doors, only to be halted by the rain they'd thus far pretended not to see. Some men of course go further, leaving the house and heading away down the garden to their shed, banging nails and sawing things with no apparent agenda, just enjoying the solitude with fair certainty that the women folk won't follow them through the wet to the drafty, spidery, shed. If I'm honest I'm pretty much just talking about my own father now. Of course there is yet a third party of men: those who take the opportunity afforded by rain to make an exhibition of themselves by becoming involved in manual labour, chopping wood, digging a hole or some such with apparent disregard to their increasingly damp state. If I must align myself with one of these categories I suppose that I belong to the third by default as I am neither a smoker nor am I inclined to linger anywhere. However, I don't think I'm normal, I don't think most people are normal, but in addition I think I'm probably less normal. It is said that with age comes wisdom, I could point you to a few examples that directly contradict such claims, but if there is one truth that age realises it is that short of some brain trauma one cannot avoid accumulating knowledge. It is impossible not to pick up scraps of information as one progresses along life's path, but that is not to say that one is necessarily capable of processing or utilising said information. As my years have wandered onwards the observation of my youth has led me to the conclusion that a great many men employed, or not, out of doors as a result of the rain, means a great number of women left alone indoors. And it is here that my mind began to float away. Imagine an apartment building, perhaps two-hundred domiciles, half of which are inhabited by couples. An afternoon thunderstorm brings a crowd of men to stand despondent in the foyer. Perhaps some go further and tinker with their cars, taking turns to tut and blow smoke as they inspect engines that may or may not have faults. It is to this crowd that I return having completed my day's business. The Summer downpour causing me to hurry, the overcast sky dark enough that the street lamps are lit. The green foliage dancing erratic against the low charcoal clouds. I enter the apartment building, muttering and nodding the most basic of greetings, little more than semi-conscious acknowledgements of each others existence as our bored eyes meet in passing. It is an animal approximation of speech without any expectation of hearing any response other than a simultaneous grunt of acknowledgement equally lacking in expectation. Indeed, if one were to answer the question implied by that male noise, it would be a very odd world, and who knows where such rampant sociability would lead us. So I enter the building barely registered, soaked clothes dripping on the tiles and in to the elevator. I come face to face with myself in the mirror, this is habit. I work in an office, in the basement of the building, actually I prefer to refer to it as a cave, and therefore my colleagues, the other cave-dwellers, are troglodytes. I cannot help but see my place of work and its inhabitants in this way, the association is fixed in my mind. Don't ask about how this affects my sense of self-worth. In the mirror a partially drowned creature looks back at me through bedraggled hair, black shirt plastered to his chest and jeans clinging to thighs. Still, I am home, a long hot shower, warm towels and then food while I read. Quiet, warm and contented. I can hear the hen-cluck and chatter of neighbours as the elevator ascends, the peck for gossip. I offer muttered prayers that the voices drifting down the shaft do not originate on my floor. Alas, as the elevator's rise comes to a halt the voices are clear as day. I exit, ready to nod politely, replying to greetings with my own, only slightly more developed than that offered to the men downstairs, and keep moving, that is essential, always keep moving. It's the octogenarian I could hear, she squawks nineteen to the dozen, she knows everyone and everything. But who is she talking to, who got stuck? I risk raising my head, that's the other rule: avoid eye-contact. It's one half of the couple next-door: Lana, for whom I'll admit I carry a torch, a discrete torch. I can't help but notice the way the wet black blouse clings tight to the high round curve of her breasts. I have heard the octogenarian refer to Lana as a whore, I swear, in hushed tones and in discussion with one of the other fossils that inhabit this building, sharing a thin-lipped frown. God knows why such accusations were being made, I guess accusations ferment where hate takes root. Of course, such animosity is never direct, she's all pleasant hellos, that's how it goes. Lana is holding a heavy grocery bag, her key is in the lock, her hair wet like mine. She's been caught, she didn't keep moving, to be fair it's damned hard to get the key in the door and get the door open in one fluid action, especially if you're weighed down with groceries. I pass the pair with no more than a flashed, empty smile, hiding first contempt and then desire, hoping their conversation won't suddenly swell to include me, unsure if both sentiments can be concealed simultaneously. Key out already, my hand is going to reach the door a pace before my feet do, that's the trick: key, step, shoulder, push, and door closed behind you with your foot. My door is open, I can see at least three inches of wall inside my apartment, it's not fair, that should count, but a word snatches it away, my name is said. I could ignore it, I could pretend I didn't hear, but I paused, I know I did. Fucking amateur. I allow myself a small, defeated sigh, back-up half a step and turn my head to look at Lana, dimly aware of the frail figure further along the hall. Lana smiles and realisation dawns on me: it was her that said my name. She's speaking, actually asking me something, making me be involved in their conversation. Does she hate me or something? She's stopped now, her forehead is furrowed like she's awaiting an answer, but the corners of her mouth have turned up and her eyes are creeping to the side as she turns her head a fraction, she's looking back at our other neighbour, gauging her reaction. Mischief, that's what this is. "The thing, you wanted," she says, I guess she's repeating herself, "you want to come in and get it?" Mischief and deliverance, brains and beauty. The door on the opposite wall opens and Blue-rinse appears. Lana turns her head back to look at me, haste and pleading in her eyes. I nod, muttering a brief greeting to the new appearance and pull my door closed, allowing Lana to lead me in to her apartment. She closes the door and leans heavily against it, the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest as she feigns immense relief at the horror she has escaped. "I owe you," she smirks. She leads me through. Now, I said that Lana is half of the couple next-door, the other half is frequently away, I assume, I have met him once or twice, and that was enough. In my musings on the subject I've always considered that his prolonged absences are the result of some employment that requires him to reside elsewhere, having said that there's no reason why he couldn't be in prison, or the military. I can hear them talking outside the door, between their faltering memories, their failing hearing and the insatiable desire to share every piece of gossip, they could be there for hours. Lana has shed her shirt, bare arms and bra disappearing around the corner as I turn to look. I've not spoken to Lana a great deal in our time as neighbours, but she's obviously very good at putting people at ease, she has a habit of making you feel like you're old friends. She's warm and welcoming, open and witty. I'm not great at personal interaction, I work in a cave remember, but for all the times I've failed in the most basic codes of sociability she has remained relentlessly happy to see me and willing to accept my faltering attempts to be normal. "I'm trapped," I hiss at her as she reappears drying her hair, black shirt swapped for white tank top and jeans replaced with a skirt. "Coffee?" she asks. "They'll be out there talking for hours," I reply, pointing my thumb back towards her front door. "You'll have to hideout in here then," she shrugs, "imagine the scandal," she adds, mocking with eyes wide. Barefoot she wanders, through to the kitchen, clicking the coffee pot on. I've got my hands in my pockets, facing her as she leans against the counter and folds her arms. "You look cold," she observes. "Soaked, and freezing," I reply. With a sigh and a hastily suppressed smile she marches out and along the hall towards the bedroom. "Take your things off," she calls back over her shoulder as I watch her go, "I'll chuck them in the dryer for you, ten minutes and they'll be dry and warm." I hesitate, it'd be easier to just leave, get out the door and in to my apartment before the women have a chance to speak to me. I really don't want to get caught in here by Lana's other half, Brad I think his name is. "Put this on," she offers, a silk robe that'll be ridiculously small on me, hanging from her outstretched finger. Reluctantly I take the robe. "Are you sure it's OK me being here?" I ask. "Why wouldn't it be?" she answers, straight-faced. "I mean-" what do I mean? I'm intent on not insulting her by implying that any male in her apartment would only be there for sex, but refusing to acknowledge that possibility would insult her too, wouldn't it? I think the problem is that I don't know where I stand, I have a feeling that she's been flirting with me, but maybe that's just wishful thinking. "Wouldn't Brad object to me being-" I begin, knowing it sounds condescending as the words leave my mouth, like she doesn't get a say in the matter of who enters her home. "That, won't be a problem," she says, silencing me with the first syllable and throwing a cool glare at me. "Not a problem," she repeats, her eyes now positively frosty. I've clearly touched a nerve and I'd love to know which one in order to avoid further faux pas, but I'm pretty sure asking would be as bad as the original crime. This is probably why I'm single. Relieved, at least for the time being, that my presence here is sanctioned and rubber-stamped, and eager not to irritate my neighbour, I look about for direction as to where to get changed. Risking another glance towards Lana I see her impatient expression and immediately begin to undress. She doesn't watch me, she turns away, gazing at a print she has hanging on the wall. I watch her though, as she absently chews her bottom lip and folds her arms, drumming fingers on her elbows. By the time I've got the robe on, bare thighs barely covered, and the heavy rumble of the dryer has begun, we're both back in the kitchen and she's chuckling to herself over how ridiculous I look as she pours the coffee. I've kept my shorts on under the robe, they weren't wet and I'm not enough of an exhibitionist to walk around without them. She directs me through to the living room which, just like mine, looks out towards the opposite building, another apartment block just like ours. It's all new-builds around here, lots of concrete and glass, floor to ceiling windows and open-plan. The opposite building appears as randomly placed rectangles of orange and yellow light where inhabitants are home. The overcast sky has darkened as the sun set behind the thick layers of cloud and the narrow balcony is awash with a sheet of rain blown by the gale-force wind. A low beige couch lies across the middle of the room, a thick white rug and an Ottoman occupying the rest of the floor. It's sparse but warm and comfortable. A violin case leans in the corner and a sheaf of sheet music sits neatly beside it. She sees me looking. "Uh, I wish I had more time to play," she sighs. "Sit down," she offers, turning away, and I feel the coarse couch on the backs of my thighs as the robe rides up. She plays the violin. Who plays the violin? I mean, who plays it casually? Lana takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch and curls her legs up as she turns to face me. Her skirt has crept up her legs and it seems impossible that she's not exposing herself. For a couple of minutes we exist in this awkward silence, well, I think it's awkward. Every time I look her way she's smiling to herself and letting the steam from her coffee rise to her nose. This isn't like her, she's usually chatty, I can't help but think she's enjoying my obvious discomfort. "So, how was your day?" she asks at last, sipping her coffee as her eyes find mine. Of course, why didn't I think of that? "Not bad," I nod, "y'know, work, office, telephones." I shrug. Scintillating stuff. "Not really," she replies with a chuckle. "Oh, well..." I hadn't counted on that, everyone has worked in an office at some point, haven't they? I assumed there was some kind of agreement that we'd all share that mutual hell at some point in our lives. "Sorry, what do you do?" I ask. "I dance," she replies, "I'm a dancer." "Oh, OK," this has come as a bit of a surprise, obviously dancers exist, I just don't expect to find them living next-door, and playing the violin, sorry, I can't shake that. I'm not sure how to process the information. "And what does, Brad, yeah? What does Brad do?" I ask, pleased to be on safer ground and defusing the sexual undercurrent that probably only I think is here. I'm sure Brad does something I could pretend to relate to, and I'm reminding her that I remember that she has a man and that I have no intentions beyond the platonic. "Brad works for a security firm," Lana replies, leaning forward to place her coffee on the Ottoman. She lingers, turning the mug by its handle, her cleavage on display as her breasts hang inside her tank top. Of course he does, and I'm going to die. "Well, he used to, I assume he still does, he loved his work." I frown and look up as she turn her head to face me, her eyes catching mine and the slightest raise of her eyebrows as she realises I was looking. Her face breaks in to a grin, she's enjoying this, keeping me off-kilter. "We're not together any more," she winks, smiling quietly to herself. Oh, that I didn't know, how am I meant to respond? She's resting her elbow on the back of the couch and leaning her head on her hand, that same quiet smile waiting for me to speak. "I'm sorry to hear that," I say at last, but it's non-committal, it's clear that the words sound empty. "People change," she shrugs, "we had our reasons to end things." She tucks some loose hair behind her ear and reaches for her coffee again, keeping her eyes on mine, daring me to take another look. I deliberately cast my eyes down but I know what I could see if I choose to, and that's enough. I don't look up again until she's risen and holding her coffee to her lips. "What about you?" she asks, "a girlfriend?" I shake my head and permit myself a self-depreciating smile. "I didn't think so, I don't think I've heard anyone in there with you for months," she silences her giggle by taking a mouthful of coffee. "You mean-" I begin, pointing through the wall behind me with my thumb. She nods, swallowing. "These walls aren't exactly soundproof, and your bedroom is right there, yeah?" I nod, feeling my cheeks flush hot. "Don't be embarrassed," she reassures, her voice dropping a little lower and her hand out along the back of the couch to touch mine. "I'm sure you heard us in here often enough." "Your bedroom is right along the hall," I laugh incredulously, but then notice the way she dropped her hand to the cushions and patted them as she spoke, and realisation hits. "And if it's any consolation," she adds, "she sounded thoroughly satisfied." There's that mischievous grin again, disappearing in to her mug to drain the rest of her coffee. "This is fun," she announces, beaming at me, setting her empty mug on the Ottoman and making a show of not keeping her eyes on me. "Stay for dinner, I'll call for something." "No really, I couldn't," I reply, but she's already leapt up and heading back out in to the hall. "Nonsense," she shouts back. I get up and walk to the door, wondering where she's gone. She's standing at the front door, her face pressed against the peep hole. "They're still there," she hisses, turning to look back at me with a look of mock terror. She saunters back towards me, "perhaps you'll never be able to leave," she laughs, her fingers dragging across my chest as she passes. She wanders over to a stereo, running her finger down a stack of CDs beside it and selecting one. Some classical piece begins slow and low and she nods to herself, apparently happy with her choice. We sit back down and chat once she's ordered food and when it arrives we move to sit at the kitchen table. I like how she eats, evidently unconcerned with calorie intake, truly enjoying her food. She's animate, speaking continuously, gesturing with her cutlery and I realise that both knife and fork seem to point to her chest by default whether between mouthfuls or during the brief times her hands rest beside her plate. We're drinking a bottle of wine, which she'd selected from a small rack in the corner, held up and read quietly to herself before shrugging and announcing that it'd do. "Not bad, is it?" she hums, tipping her glass back. "More?" she asks without waiting for a reply. She pours the last of the bottle in to her glass, seeing it amount to only a little more than an inch. "Jesus, did we drink that much?" she laughs. "Oh well." She rises, turns and goes to fetch another bottle. The music which has been playing continuously comes to an end and she heads over to start it playing again. She uncorks the wine, draining her glass quickly and refilling it. Then she leans across the table, eyes on mine before slipping down to watch my glass fill, she pours slowly and the alcohol has emboldened me to the point where I'll happily take in the view of her cleavage without much concern. Sitting back down she sighs happily and resumes eating, unusually quiet for a few moments while she grins back at me. Eventually, sated and enjoying the warm buzz of the alcohol, we both down our cutlery and lean back in our chairs. "That was good, thank you," I sigh. "You're welcome," she smiles, her glass in her hand as she swirls the dregs around the base. Outside the storm hasn't let up, the lights out in the dark are broken and scattered through the endless raindrops pouring down the window. "I'd offer you dessert," she says absently, her voice pulling my eyes back from the window, "but you look ready to blow." She stretches her hands over her head, pulling her breasts higher, and folding her arms above her. Her dark eyes are glinting at me, full of implication and trouble. "I couldn't eat another bite," I reply. A pout flashes across her features but turns in to a grin. "Scotch then," she replies, lowering her arms and pushing her chair back. I stand and lift my plate, beginning to clear things, but she tuts and sits me back down. She reaches for the bottle, her skirt rising just enough to reveal the soft low curve of her pert round cheeks peeking out. She takes two tumblers and I wince as she drops ice in to each, but I smile as she slides a glass across the table to me. If It Rains "You didn't ask me," she says, splashing the rich amber liquid over the ice. "Ask you what?" I reply, my relaxed intoxicated hum leaving me unusually open. "What kind of dancer," she says, running her finger around the rim of her glass. I'd just assumed. For a moment my buzz fades but her fingers reach across the table and flick the edge of my glass, letting the ring vibrate around as she smiles at me. "Oh, er, what, er, what kind-?" I stutter, letting the alcohol excuse my awkwardness. "Exotic," she replies, her hand back on her own glass, her eyes seemingly daring me to comment. I'm still not sure how I'm meant to respond to this: pity? She's obviously doing all right to be living here. Admiration? Maybe she hates it and wants out. For all I know 'exotic' just means she holds a snake while she dances. "You enjoy it?" I ask. She cocks an eyebrow at me and doesn't answer, taking a sip instead. "Any good?" I ask, lifting my own glass. She smirks at me, swallowing and reaching her drink across the table to tap her glass to mine. "Now you're talking," she grins, "that's a proper question, maybe you've got some balls." She pushes her chair back and gets to her feet, her movements at once smooth and feline. There isn't a straight edge on her. She rounds the table, takes my glass from my hand and places it back amongst the plates. Without a word she stretches a leg over my lap and takes a seat. But it's awkward, her grace falters for a moment as she frowns, turns on me and pushes the table backwards a foot, her chair opposite leaning on two legs and threatening to fall. Satisfied with the extra space she's created she turns back to face me, one hand on my shoulder, the other rising up and running through my hair as she sighs and looks down at me, setting her expression to happy contentment. "You let me know if I'm any good," she says softly. Her skirt has risen so high it seems impossible but the apex of her thighs is still hidden from view below the slightest curve of black cloth. My hands are instinctively hanging at my sides, vaguely aware of a general 'no touching' rule in such situations. I see her eyes dropping and taking note of my hands, she doesn't comment, just smiles to herself and shuffles her body tighter against mine until my chin finds the warmth of her chest. I'm gazing up at her, looking for some sign that this is anything other than the most magnificent dream. I swallow, aware that my mouth may be hanging open a fraction and my breath coming hot over her exposed skin. She idly runs her fingertips over her cleavage and lets her hand keep moving to sweep back up in to my hair, gently pulling my head to one side and lowering her mouth to my ear, wetting her lips as if about to speak but just holding there, breathing, steady and slow, letting me know of her control. She's barely moved and I'm already feeling myself swell rapidly in my shorts. I assume she's aware too, there's not much between our bodies down there. She hums in to my ear, flicking her tongue out against the lobe as an almost silent syllable begins. "There it is," she hisses. And with that she begins, holding the back of the chair behind my shoulders as she lets her snake hips slither, feet finding the floor to lift her and deliver, a sudden press back as she re-seats herself, catching me between my thigh and hers. She lowers her mouth back to my ear, kissing below it, pressing her breasts back hard against my chest as she whispers again. "I love this bit," she confides, humming a few bars of the music and grinding her hips in time. "This bit," she clarifies as the music drops and immediately begins its slow rise again. I'm pretty sure I recognise the piece, I have no idea what it's called though. She softens her movements. The music isn't what you'd expect to accompany a lap dance but she knows it perfectly, her gyrations slow and sensuous, passionate and anything but crude. As the pace quickens so does her body, and without me realising she's caught my wrists and brought my hands up to her thighs. Her skin is warm and flawlessly smooth, my fingers press lightly, my thumbs dipping down towards my own legs. I look up at her and see her gazing over the top of my head, her eyes evidently fixed on something behind me. I turn my head to look but her hand on my chin turns me back to face her and she grinds harder. I realise that with the huge picture windows, the darkness outside and the warm light in here, the inhabitants of the opposite building are also able to enjoy the show. Although not as much as me as I throb, caught between our thighs. "They can see us," I mutter. "They don't care what we're doing," she replies softly. Her mouth is back by my ear but I know she's looking outside over my shoulder. I sigh as her pace accelerates again, massaging my swollen length, I begin to speak but her hand in my hair tips my head back to press her mouth to mine. Her tongue is quick and withdraws to permit her teeth to close on my bottom lip. "I don't care," she says, practically snarling as my lip retreats from her mouth. Then her mouth is gone from mine, curled tongue tracing long cat lick up my neck to my ear, biting the lobe, her hips elliptic, dragging the tight press of her body back and forth, side to side over me. I let my hands run higher up her thighs, fingers disappearing beneath her skirt but edging backwards as they touch the edge of her underwear taut across her skin. I reach behind her, following the lace line until I cup a cheek in each hand. The music is building, rising impossibly, her body below her waist is keeping pace while everything above moves with a seductive grace, hands in my hair, breasts pressed to my face. She reaches down, removing my hands from her behind and at once I feel an all too familiar pang of guilt, the sudden terror that she'll ask just what the hell I think I'm doing. But she doesn't speak, just guides my grip to her hips and leaves my hands there, trying to keep up with her. The crescendo comes, she is back at my ear, breath quick but steady as she utters two words: "Hold tight," she says. And as the music peaks, and with a movement that I hardly register let alone understand, she's spun on me, leaving me looking over her shoulder as she tips her head back beside mine and continues to writhe on my lap. Her body slows as the climax fades, allowing her movements to grow more deliberate and focused. She leans forward and I feel her dancing her hot core directly over mine. Ordering my rational brain not to interfere my animal mind slides my hands up her flanks, fingers splaying out as they reach her breasts, slipping forward to cup her fully through her tank top, her nipples hard through the thin fabric. With a satisfied hum she leans back against my chest, pushing hers out as she invites me to explore its divine contours. Meanwhile she dives a hand down between our legs and grasps my balls through my shorts. "I thought so," she smirks, releasing me and stroking her fingers along my sheathed length, letting her touch linger over my head, her fingertips slick in my arousal seeping through the cloth. Slower now, lifting one leg then the other, she turns back to face me, her hand reaching back down between us, and mine on her hips once more, but holding her now rather than just resting there. "So?" she asks, turning away to reach back towards the table and fetching my glass, "am I good?" I nod and go to take the glass as she tips it back against her mouth, but she holds it aside and lowers her mouth to mine, sharing the cool liquid and warm flavour as our tongues slip slowly side by side. She pulls the loose knot that holds her robe closed across my stomach and pushes the whole thing down off my shoulders, taking another sip and using it to lubricate the deep bitten kiss she delivers to my collar bone. The scotch trickles down my chest and she follows it with her mouth, licking and sucking as low as she can before tracing the trail back up and locking her mouth on mine once again. Next she fishes an ice cube from the glass, holding it up between her index and middle fingers before running its melting surface over my skin, running her lips in its wake. Guiding my arms from the sleeves of the robe, lifting my hand as the ice glides up my forearm, resting my fingers back on her breast and chasing the wet line as close to her own body as she can, letting the sliver of ice disappear in to her cleavage. She presses the following cube to my lips, traces of scotch warm on my tongue as she brings me forwards and runs a slow thick line down her throat, stifling a gasp as I bite and suck its trail, its lazy zigzag over her chest and on to her voluptuous breasts. She allows me to nuzzle there for a few moments, long after the last cool traces of ice have gone, before pushing me back firmly in the chair. With a lingering look over my should once again, she pulls her tank top off and drops it to the floor from her extended arm. I move to return my mouth to her body, eager to pull the slight lace cups aside and lock my lips around her protruding nipples, but her hand on my shoulder holds me back still. She rises to her feet, lifting one to the chair, placing it between my thighs and briefly caressing me with her toes, then pushes her body up to sit on the edge of the table in front of me. Feet pushing under my thighs to rest there. We share a short but smouldering gaze, my hands already on her knees as she parts them with a questioning cocked eyebrow. Her expression melts in to a grin as she chases another ice cube around one of the glasses on the table, eventually capturing it and lifting it out. Her right foot rises to rest on my shoulder and she leans forward, running the ice from her ankle to her knee in an agonizingly slow movement. As per the rules, I tail the cold trail, my eyes on hers the whole way, her calf slipping past my head as I go, until my kisses alight on the inside of her knee. Another ice cube, dripping scotch as she lifts it. She reaches forward towards her knee but draws the ice back at the last moment, leaving me bowed and looking up. She places the cube on her tongue, sucking it slowly before removing it back in to her fingers. My heart is thumping as I await her move to continue the trail. I discovered in my youth that when I have imbibed the right amount I find my senses honed, as if I have reached a higher plane where external stimuli fall to the wayside. I feel that I am there now, exquisitely aware of the smooth warmth of her skin taut on her knee under my fingers, the difference in the rhythm of our bodies: mine seemingly erratic, the paroxysm in my animal mind, hers calm and calculating, her animal focused, stalking and ready to pounce. Despite this difference in our rhythms, our pulses find a common beat, aligning on their courses, my seconds to her minutes. I wait, agonised as she withdraws the ice from her lips, leaving them wet with cool water, a trickle from the corner of her mouth, wiped clear with her thumb. Her hand turns, touching the ice back to her skin and running it glacial slow down her throat, over one of those perfect collar bones and following the strap of her bra down, edging along the lace trim until she finds the centre, that warm squeeze. There she leaves the remnants of the ice cube, a drop of water breaking away and beginning the descent over her skin. Impatient I kiss her knee, then an inch above it, my eyes dragging away from hers to map meticulously the firm skin under my lips. By the time I cast my eyes back towards hers she has tipped her head back, those eyes closed, grounding vision that touch may soar. The ice at her breasts has all but vanished, leaving a thick wet sheen over her stomach, which my fingers now glide up, one digit hooking the join between those cups. Enough is enough and she looks down, slow-eyed and sloe-eyed, deciding how to respond, lips turning up as both her hands hold mine to her breast and let her weight hang on my arm as she reclines to lay on the table. There's a scrape and clatter of cutlery on crockery, the rattle of ice tumbling from glass muted by the slosh of scotch accompanying it across the table. She releases my hand and I drag it reluctantly back down her body as I close in, head between her thighs, still kissing, still licking, both hands on the hem of her skirt and flipping it up. My mouth high on her thigh, that supple skin so close to succulent sin, the press of the opposite thigh to my cheek until she spreads it wider, lifting her foot to kick a resting place on the corner of the table, unknown objects falling and breaking upon the floor. Her underwear matches her bra, skimpy, black, tight and leaving just enough to my frantic imagination. My nose bumps against the concealed swell of her labia as I turn my head to tease the tip of my tongue under the taut edge. Feeling the wet heat I withdraw my probing oral digit and apply it instead to the yielding centre of that temptress veil. I push back, aware of legs parting wider to my left and right while the grind of metal and porcelain signals her body easing forward to meet me. I lick long and slow across that sodden cloth, tasting everything she's given so far, rising a fraction from my seat to drag my tongue up on to her mons pubis, fingertips teasing the hem of her underwear, promising to lower it, folding it down a turn, then I smile wicked to myself as I abandon the grip. Thumbs slip, under the lower hem, where it curves over the tops of her thighs, running down beside my mouth, pulling that veil away from her lips and in to a tight bundle that fits awkward back, leaving exterior exposed and interior hidden. Each labium is perfectly smooth, glistening with the smeared nectar wrung from her underwear. Each is licked in turn, then pulled away by my tender sucking mouth. Two fingers press that tight twist of soaked cloth firm between her lips as I toy, teasing, tormenting, tasting her joy. Finally I hook a fingertip behind the intruding scrap and pull it free, dragging it aside to reveal her to me. That vibrant core, its folds engorged, flooded by her throbbing heart, wetted by her racing mind. I let my breath make the first touch linger longer than she wants, stroking with each exhalation, her heel suddenly on the nape of my neck, urging me on. I grin, my hand coasting up her thigh, extending one finger and easing it in, feeling her open before me until my folded knuckles meet the hot press of her lips, at which I twist my wrist, turning inside her, curling my finger to beckon within. Lana wriggles and Lana writhes, hips loose as her hand reaches beneath her body to sweep the table clear without concern as near everything breaks upon the floor. As I caress that rough hub of her pleasure I lower my mouth and tongue the other, that burgeoning bud, as it emerges to bloom. My lips close to encompass wide around that locale, sucking firm to elicit whimpered groan, feeling the focus of my desire angled down as her body rises on arched back, grinding that bud, that nub fit to burst, her plump clitoris, grinding it down so hard on my tongue as I drag back across her to tease tongue tip around it. I am pawn capturing queen. Castling tongue and finger I delve deep within, mouth and nose pressed to her succulent skin, feasting on her with juice-smeared grin. Ravenous I make a meal of her, encouraged by her ragged breath and her urgent cries, her head rise, arms outstretched, fingers in my hair, pulling me in tight there, taking my breath as sacrifice, low oxygen as she reaches her peak. Her heels scrabble for purchase on my back, to kick me in, one hand reaching down to mine, a finger nudging mine aside to please herself as only she knows how. Bucking against our joined efforts, pushing me back until my tongue lashes against her lips as I watch her delicate digit dance, her pitch rising, blunt, pulsing pants and grunts until with a wail she shudders and drags me back down, to grind on my mouth as she convulses, spasms, twists and comes. Her body collapses back on the table, limbs limp, sweat-soaked. And I lick. Long, slow licks. Drunk dog laps. Coaxing aftershocks that tremble through her until she giggles and pushes me away, covering herself with her hands. Eventually, having composed herself as much as possible, Lana rises from the table, fixing me with a smirk as if the whole thing were somehow my fault. I grab her hips and pull her back down on to my lap, her arms instinctively around my neck as our mouths meet. "So, am I a good dancer?" she repeats, humming happily over my shoulder. "The best I've had," I laugh. "Something tells me that's because it's the only dance you've had," she replies. She's got me, I have never had a lap dance before, I wouldn't even know where to go to get one. I shrug, then realise a little more is expected. "Still, I'm pretty sure it'd still be the best even if I were a lap dance connoisseur," I grin, hopeful that such flattery won't be deemed too much. She reaches back and collects the bottle of scotch from the table, the only object that didn't get swept to the floor. "You'll have to come to the club, try out a few of my colleagues, give me an honest opinion," she says before tipping the bottle back against her lips. My still-throbbing length feels fit to burst at the suggestion, no, the insistence, that I let a procession of women straddle me and grind themselves on my body. She offers the bottle and watches me take a drink. "I doubt many of them would let me do what I just did to you though, yeah?" I point out, ever the realist, handing the bottle back. "True," she nods pragmatically. "At least not at the club," she adds, breaking in to a wicked grin. My hands shoot up her ribs, tickling her, unmerciful to her shrieks. Her body wriggles, her head flung back, as she once more convulses and grinds herself over my impatient need. "OK, OK, please stop," she manages to cry, and I relent. Climbing backwards off me she steadies herself against the table, breathing out long and slow as she pushes her hair back from her face and takes stock of the state of her kitchen floor. The air is sweet-sticky and heavy with our combined scent, both our bodies coated with drying sweat amongst various other fluids. She adjusts her underwear with as much grace as possible and smooths her skirt back down. "It's hot in here," she says, fanning her face. "You've got to be at least ninety percent to blame for that," I laugh, looking her up and down. She tuts at the cheap compliment and looks away, she almost says something but stops herself, puckering her lips around the words as they form behind her teeth, but keeping them in. Her eyes creep back to look at me and for a moment she's obviously weighing up some options in her mind. "Fresh air," she says at last and takes my hand to pull me to my feet. Before I'm really sure what she's doing she's pulled her robe from my arms and draped it over herself. Even without my usual modesty I'd have to concede that it looks a lot better on her than on me. I'm left standing in my underwear, sporting an erection that's not going anywhere any time soon. Also, now more than before, I'm very aware of the huge windows and numerous lights that are making a spectacle of everything we do, should any of our neighbours in the opposite building choose to glance in this general direction. Lana turns, pulling her loose hair out from the collar of her robe, and I can't help but laugh. "What is it?" she asks, turning back to face me and looking down as she follows my eyes. "You've er," I begin, pointing, "you've got some food, on you," I say. Now her arms have dropped the robe has fallen to cover her behind once more and I reach forward to lift the silk, realising that she still won't be able to see it. If It Rains Casting me a look of doubt she shuffles her skirt off her hips and steps out of it. Holding it up she sees the mess for herself: a perfect imprint of her cheeks picked out in flecks of noodle, scraps of vegetable and a healthy sheen of sauce. I can't help but laugh and, obviously suppressing a grin of her own, she tosses the skirt at me and grabs my hand. "Too hot and too dirty," she announces and pulls me in to the living room area and straight across to the balcony door. "What? Wait!" I blurt, very, very aware that I'm only in a pair of shorts. But she's pushed the door open and dragged me outside. The storm is still battering the building, thunder rumbling in the distance suggesting that it'll be with us all night. Thankfully the air and rain are warm now, the wind hurling the huge wet drops along the length of the balcony. At least the balcony is unlit and all we're really offering now in terms of a show, is silhouettes. "This is better," Lana says, raising her voice to be heard. "Nothing like a good storm." I smile and put my arm around her waist, I couldn't agree more, I love a really intense storm. "Makes you feel alive," I reply. She takes another sip of scotch and hands me the bottle before stepping away. The wind is whipping her robe, first wrapping it tight around her, then tearing at it to expose all but her arms. "That, and this," she says, her mischievous smile toying on her lips, a hand on my shoulder pushes me against the side railing as she sinks to her knees and pulls my shorts down. Briefly I'm conscious of the silhouette my member will present against the lights inside, but that concern dissipates with pretty near every other rational thought as her tongue slithers over my swollen head and circles down to my sensitive underside. I look up, out from the balcony, feeling the rain soak my face and hair, water running in endless rivulets down my chest. Then her fingers take me in her grip, soft and tender as she puckers her lips to kiss along one side. I look down and find her eyes staring back up, happy and hungry. "I take it you've have had someone suck your cock before," she says, the movement of her jaw beside me driving me wild. I nod. "Well let's see if I can be best at that then," she suggests, eyes aflame. Moving back she kisses slowly along to my head, fingers wrapped partially but tight around me, dragging along behind her mouth. Reaching my tip she licks over my urethra. I've been wet since she spread her legs on the kitchen table but now I'm leaking pre-cum like there's no tomorrow. She laps at it, drawing it on to her tongue and moving her head back to show me the myriad threads in the dim light. "Fuck," I mutter, the sound lost to the wind. Lana sinks her lips around me, pushing my head over her tongue and grazing it along the inside of her cheek. Her tongue leaps up and slips around me, its dexterous tip never breaking contact as I'm ejected. That tongue is unbelievable, lapping and licking around me like a thing possessed. It finds the ridge behind my head, shooting around the circumference, once, twice, three times before she engulfs me again, taking me deeper, her eyes back up on mine as she holds me there, both hands now around me, squeezing, massaging the inches not in her mouth. Several years ago I got in to the habit of shaving down there and as Lana pulls free from my length and tips her head to suck softly on each ball in turn, I'm reminded of just why I began in the first place. As she sucks she pumps slow and steady, milking a constant stream of pre-cum from me, not caring as it descends unbroken on to her robed shoulder and back. Her mouth comes back up, tongue out, hand tapping my head up and down to make me groan and gush so much more of that clear fluid. Closing her lips around me she uses it to lubricate another long insertion, one hand holding my wetted balls, the other disappearing down her own body. Her lips stay locked around me as her mouth moves back and forth, withdrawing until her tight grip bumps over that ridge, a brief lash with her tongue, then slowly pushing all the way forward again. I know I'm so close to coming, a flicker of decency somewhere in the tangled mess of my mind makes the suggestion that I might want to mention this to her, maybe ascertain her opinion about it before I just pour the whole lot down her throat. But she pulls back, jerking her hand in ragged movements up and down me as she stares up, mouth hanging open. There's a massive, violent flash of lightning, accompanied by an apocalyptic crack of thunder, and in the bright light I see her hand inside her underwear, frantically jolting her fingers up and down. "Fuck," she manages to moan in the relative silence following the thunder. There's a desperation on her face, her hips moving without control as she begins to buck on her hand. Her free hand reaches for mine, places it on her head and she nods up at me. I pull her back, feeling her mouth take me once more, her uncontrolled moans vibrating around me, her fingers locked tight around my base as her head rockets back and forth. Another flash and unbelievable crash, illuminating my swollen girth, red and soaked with pre-cum, saliva and rain. Lana raises her hand, I can feel it slick with her own juices as it touches my stomach before slipping down to complete her grip around me. Fuck I need to come so badly. I'm not sure if she came on her fingers or not but now her attention is focused solely on me again. My hand on the back of her head is loose, resting more than guiding and as I feel that pressure rise I stretch my arms up. More lightning and I turn my head. There are people standing in the lit windows of their apartments directly opposite. On the floor above there's a lone figure also out on her balcony, the light catching the glass she's holding. I don't care, and I'm not sure I could do anything about it if I did. My body tenses and Lana looks back up, dragging her lips off me with a questioning look. Her hand grabs my wrist as I reach back down for her head and she manages to flash a devious smile before her own hunger takes dominance once more. She pulls at my arm, bringing me down to my knees between her legs as she sits, she pulls me forward immediately locking me in a ferocious kiss. Her hand is around me and angling me down, I understand her intention at once and can't move quickly enough. A prolonged lightning strike lights up the balcony, the rain covered ground, and our impatient movements as I pull my shorts the rest of the way off and Lana pushes her underwear down her sodden thighs. I yank them the rest of the way down, pulling her calf up to tear the twisted and soaked scrap of cloth off over her ankle and leaving it redundant around the opposite knee. Finally unimpeded, after a seemingly torturous stripping of obstacles, we collapse together on to the wet surface of the balcony, Lana's thighs automatically parting and rising around my hips as I feel that delicious soft pop of my head penetrating her tight entrance. Her nails dig deep in to my shoulder blades, her head tipped back and offering her throat to me. I tear my tongue up that stretch of taut skin, biting below her ear at the summit of the lick, feeling her squirm under me. She is tight around me, offering a perfect sheath but not a passive one. She rocks her pelvis up in time with mine, clenching at the zenith of each thrust. Unsurprisingly it's not long before I feel that familiar pressure rise and this time I'm sure there's nothing that's going to suppress it. I take her hands, pin them above her head and accelerate. Her mouth is open, her eyes roll back momentarily at the sudden increase, but she regains her composure. "Harder," she mouths up at me, biting her lip as I oblige. There's another flash of lightning and to my disbelief she lifts her legs, sliding them up under my arms and out to place her calves on to my shoulders, her feet crossed behind my neck. The change of angle sends me diving deeper, her body thrashing against the wet ground under me, her head tipping back and her insides suddenly locking tight, holding, and releasing. There's no intention now, no skilled manipulation, lock and release, lock and release, the tension around me comes in waves, irregular, each accompanied by a cry yelled over the storm. The convulsing massage twists and pulls at me, sucking my head deep within her and finally I come, a torrent of built-up lust and need pulling along my length and erupting longer and harder than I've ever felt before, a continuous barrage. Lana's body continues to milk mine, lock and release, as I collapse on top of her, our warm, dry, ragged breath against each other's ears. I am utterly exhausted, totally spent. The storm hasn't let up yet, it seems unconcerned that we're done. Occasionally it illuminates our still bodies, shaking the ground with its angry noise. Eventually Lana rouses, her hand on my shoulder to push me off and on to my back. I pull from her, half-mast and blessing the cooling rain as it all but sizzles where it falls on me. She follows my body over, kneeling between my knees, her hands on my thighs. I lift my head just long enough to look down my body at her. She's back, that stalking jungle cat. "That was-," I groan, stretching. "Not done yet," she finishes bluntly and lowers her head to take me back in her mouth. "Jesus," I groan, her tongue cleaning our juices from me. Against my expectations she's resurrecting my length, bringing it back up in her hand as her lips and tongue caress. She moves forward, straddling me and lowering her face to mine, our mouths meeting. I can taste her and myself on her tongue and the thought bounces off my libido and taps my head up against her raw lips. She smiles and dips her body down, sharing my silent gasp as we fit back together. Gone is the rampant urgency. Lana pulls the soaked robe off her arms and lets the wind tear it away and hurl it off the balcony. Next, as if perfectly timed, a flash of lightning lights her as she removes her bra, a perfect pair of breasts on display, impossibly erect nipples like beacons. I rise and take one in my mouth, sucking slow as she cradles my head and begins to move her hips against mine rising up and down on her knees to stroke her exquisite interior over every inch of my aching cock. She pushes me back down, permitting one more brief suck and lick of each nipple before she rises, her hands on my chest. Her dance begins anew, the slow elliptic roll of her snake hips, now with a heavy pair of breasts shown swaying with her movements. I turn to look, seeing our audience still out, perhaps as surprised as I am by our continued coupling. I notice that on one balcony some of our neighbours are getting pretty close to each other, him behind her, bent slightly over the railing as they watch us. Lana's grind upon me is lazy and deep, pressing herself up and down to massage me with no particularly evident intention. I idly reach up and cup her breasts kneading them together as my thumbs graze back and forth over those hard nubs. She responds by leaning backwards on her outstretched arms, offering her breasts skywards and adjusting her pace. Her slow grind gradually hardens until it's a firm, insistent thumping jolt against me, making me grunt as each slap of her thighs against mine elicits a whimper of effort from her. "You like it, huh?" she asks, her voice punctuated by her humping hips. I can only nod as she subjects my raw column to a renewed urgency. "Come," she pants, "suck my tits." Her hand on my shoulder pulls me back and I latch my mouth back on her breast, nuzzling and sucking her nipples in turn. She moves her legs, placing her feet flat on the wet ground behind me, her knees pressed against my flanks and her hands on my shoulders, swaying her body in short, little, enveloping thrusts that throw me deep inside her hot hole. Our bodies pressed firmly together, sharing our heat, our sweat and our breath, that lock and release returns, forcing her down hard on me, aching and sore. Lana holds me, nails in my wet skin, mouth to my ear as she gasps her last, trying to thrust on me, movements half-guided by the flicker of sentient thought, one of my hands low on her back and the other in her hair as I feel her relinquish herself and melt. We stay like that, through the final release, through the aftershocks that spasm at our union and send shivers of unlit pleasure up her chest and out along her arms while her folded legs twitch her ankles low against my back. Infrequently lightning illuminates us and eventually our bodies soften in inaction and the cooling rain. We disentangle ourselves, helping each other to stand, then, hand-in-hand we return indoors, to dry and wash and dry, sharing awkward looks until the glow makes one of us smile, lip bit and giggle, then hand-in-hand once more, to bed. When it rains, I have found, there is a fourth party of men. I am aware of only myself in this party, although I am sure there are others, I'm simply not in the habit of raising such topics of discussion and therefore unlikely to find such brethren. This is the party that stays indoors, or approximately so, and enjoys the company of women. And so this is what I now do, a standing invitation from my neighbour that during inclement weather I should knock.