La Pluie

The pitter-patter of raindrops against the window sets a light rhythm, soft yet steady, as if to allude to a possible increase of pressure. She watches the tiny drops collect on the cool glass, dancing and slipping to accumulate in puddles on the pane. Her mind pieces drops together to create pictures, phrases. First a cat, and then a frown—she blinks and they are gone, new patterns being created as the tempo never ceases.

She averts her eyes and blinks the fatigue away. She's exhausted: her body screams with each unnecessary movement. She is lying on the bed on her stomach, her arms crossed and pillowing her head. She has no intention of moving, although the heat provokes her, making her want to shift and open the window. She endures the discomfort and continues staring at the wall.

She can feel the perspiration collecting on her skin; her body's attempt to cool her down. It does nothing to mollify the fact that she's sizzling. She longs for a cold shower to cool her down, yet the thoughts of a steaming bath to sooth her aching muscles is an exotic fantasy.

The faint sound of a door opening breaks the silence of the room. The interruption seems to spur on the rain and it falls slightly faster. The clicking against the window grows louder, and though she is intoxicated with weariness and the inability to sleep, she can still make out the sound of footprints against the carpet. She doesn't need to bear the agony of turning to look to know it's him. The scent of him (Ivory soap and sandalwood) mingles with the sweat and heat that previously existed, and it's a welcome, pleasant addition.

He says nothing as he settles atop the bed beside her, the springs giving slightly and creaking in protest. The shift in weight changes her coordinates and she sighs, blinking her eyes shut as the soreness bears a little harder between her shoulder blades. The increase of his steady breathing is the only apology he offers for now as his warm palms make contact with the bare skin of her back. He gently runs the pads of his fingers over the flesh, tracing a square outlined by the confines of her minimal nightgown. He toys with the spaghetti straps, his fingers delving beneath them to explore this uncharted area. His interest quickly turns to the curvatures of her spine as he runs his index finger up and down the bumps.

She lightens the pressure of her eyelids, allowing them to rest peacefully closed. She concentrates on his touch, his breathing, the rain beating just outside the small hotel room. His explorations desist and he rests his strong hands on her shoulders. He leaves them there for a heartbeat or two, allowing her to adjust and become comfortable with his close proximity. She sighs in approval, and he begins.

His thumbs stoke upwards, followed by the heel of his palm. He works the tension from her muscles persistently, careful not to exude too much pressure. He considers her comfort at all times and listens to every sound she emits for direction. The tiny groans bear only appreciation and he moves higher rather than lower, concentrating on her upper left arm. He rubs the soft flesh gently up and down, increasing the pressure with each downward stroke. As he retreats to repeat this on the right arm, he brushes against her underarms, creating goosebumps over the plane of exposed flesh.

She can feel the tension pooling out of her, dripping away like the rain. He returns to her lower back, firmly massaging away the aches and pains of a hard week's work. The mass of appreciative feelings crosses into new borders. As the pain melts away and the throb of the rain increases a notch, she becomes more acutely aware of his touch. His index fingers trace patterns along her lower back through the silk of her gown. She wonders, absently, what he's drawn. A cat? A frown? A heart?

He shifts again, this time moving towards the foot of her bed. The yielding springs do not disagree with her this time, and for that knowledge she smiles into her elbow. He kneels in between her legs, pushing them farther apart to procure a bit more space. A vaguely familiar heat courses through her veins, simmering within.

He takes her left foot within his large hands, carefully rubbing the sensitive skin so as to not cause her to squirm. He works each toe with precision and attention and then rotates her foot on her ankle. He repeats the ministrations on her other foot.

A new dampness blooms between her legs, and as he moves to her calves she has the vague notion of stopping him before he discovers his affect on her. Why? she asks herself. Why stop this sweet display of affection? She surrenders herself completely to him and the rain, sinking slowly into a sensual abyss.

He circles the backs of her knees and she tenses slightly; they've always been a highly sensitive erogenous zone. He leans down, his breath sticky against her skin, and places gentle kisses on the massaged skin. His tongue sneaks out and unexpectedly worries the skin. A high pitched whimper escapes her throat and she bites her lip as a parallel rumble erupts: within her body, a new, sweeter ache blossoming, and in the skies, the heavens crashing.

He blows now on the wet skin, making her shiver. The flash of coolness is an appreciated change from the suffocating heat. As he moves up her thighs she is overcome with the desire to look back at him as he closes in on her secret. She longs to see his face, illuminated by the crisp brightness of the storm, as he discovers her enjoyment. She doesn't though. She remains still.

He soothes her inner thighs, rubbing in tiny circles. He doesn't make any attempt to move towards the very place she wants him, but remains outside the barriers of her gown. A gentleman, she thinks, as he retreats down her legs once more. Before giving her what she covets, he makes sure she is at a state of complete relaxation. His thoughtfulness as his hands bathe her in attention is wildly sensual to her. She falls farther and farther within herself, enveloped completely in every particle of his being. She is now completely unaware of the storm raging outside and is now focused on the one roaring internally.

She sighs in complete contentment. If such bliss could be achieved through religion, she would pray at his temple daily. It pains her to think that she has never felt this way before, that she has wasted this much time. All the more reason to enjoy it now, she realizes.

She lifts her shoulders, the spaghetti straps raising slightly. The motion causes the material to slide a fraction up her skin, revealing more of her bronzed flesh to his hungry gaze. He takes this invitation, his fingers sliding beneath the silk. She smiles once more as he makes his way up to her backside; she recalls a time where he asked her not to bring these types of sleeping clothes on cases. She couldn't follow that advice on this trip: too warm for a cotton tank and shorts. The memory is brushed aside, though, as he discovers that she has shed her underwear. He palms the two mounds presented before him, massaging them as he did with every other part of her body. His actions again are not meant to be erotic. He means only to lavish every square inch of skin with the utmost thoroughness. However, she feels content enough. Her body is relaxed but is quickly becoming worked up again. She's not sure how much longer she can stand this before she jumps him.

He reads her tension through his fingers and rapidly moves them back to the extreme heat between her legs. He can feel the moisture although his hand is several inches away from her prize. He creeps in slowly, not wanting to surprise her, but he manages to do so as his middle finger brushes against her tresses.

Involuntarily she clenches her inner muscles together, savoring the precious feelings he's creating. Her body is humming with energy, matching the storm in intensity.

His fingers slowly make their way between her outer labia, spreading the sticky wetness. His digits are quickly coated in her musky juices, and he stalls to taste her essence. He lets out a sound vaguely resembling a purr, and the deep reverberation leads her to gasp. It's the first time she's heard his voice, and it intensifies the situation tenfold. She is waylaid by the simple fact that this isn't a dream: he's really here, between her legs, relaxing her into euphoric ecstasy.

He probes between the folds, discovering every nook and cranny that is encased daily by lace and silk. For now, however, he decides he would much rather have her encased with his lips.

She groans loudly at the feel of his mouth on her most intimate area. His tongue laps at her deep cavern, exploring as the rain continues to fall. Her toes curl and her nails dig into her arms as her breathing becomes ragged. This is too good, too wonderful. . .

And it gets better as he grasps her hips and angles them upwards to give him better access. His tongue delves within once more, making their way towards the throbbing, pulsating bundle of nerves that is silently beckoning to him. He answers its calls as it curiously brushes against the enlarged nub. Her sharp intake of breath urges him forward, and he laps harder.

She squirms now, sending her hips farther back against him. She attempts to control her gyrating hips for fear of suffocating him, but it does no good. She cannot stop herself from wanting more.

He is the one to break away. She can barely hear his gasping, but she doesn't care. All she can concentrate on is the cool air that has replaced his presence.

Thunder claps and he firmly grips her hips, pulling hard. She is on her back, her arms hitting the pillow on either side of her head. She attempts to open her eyes to look at him, but the act requires too much energy. She imagines his expression as his eyes devour the vision of her; her legs spread invitingly, silk pooled at her waist, breasts barely covered. His momentary inaction brings a smile to her lips as she envisions him deciding where to begin.

He starts with her feet, promptly tracing the swell of her calf muscles until he reaches her knees, where he regales them with light kisses. His hands move ahead during this activity, gripping her outer thighs. His hands slip beneath her nightgown, focusing on the protrusion of her pelvic bone and the slight indent of her lower abdomen. He slides farther up, his kisses now presented to her thighs, as he explores her upper abdomen. He finds himself preoccupied with her bellybutton only temporarily and continues higher, higher until he reaches the curves of her breasts.

She inhales sharply. She can feel herself drowning in this rapture and rain and she gasps for breath as his mouth once more finds her womanhood and his hands cup her breasts. The hard peaks scratch into his sweaty palms, burning like the rest of her body. She longs to direct his curious fingers to the pink nubs but she cannot release the tight grasp on the sheets for fear of slipping under the surface of control.

He hums into her skin, the reverberation creating a minor vibration. She gasps once more, no longer recognizing her own voice. It resonates in her head, echoing, yet barely heard over the rain. As his fingers circle her nipples and his tongue pushes harder against her, lights shimmer beneath her heavy lids. She's unsure whether or not it is the lightening or the affects of this pleasure, but she is sure she doesn't care. All she can comprehend at this moment is that his energy is pushing her higher, above the rain and the threat of drowning, to a place where the passion within her will erupt. She's getting closer and closer to this place as his fingers pinch and pull and his teeth scrape against her flesh.

She bites her lip and as the coppery, metallic tang reaches her tongue, she knows she has drawn blood. She doesn't care. Her entire body could be a battlefield of scars and wounds and it wouldn't matter because the only feelings she recognizes are those that he creates.

A loud crash of thunder bursts forth, her entire body quaking as he rides out the waves of her decreasing storm. He can nearly see in her clouded face the lights gleaming in her fluttering eyes. As his mouth draws out each sensation, he uses every burst of lightening to chart the pallet of colours in her body: the crimson of her lips, the white of her knuckles, the rosy hue of her flesh, the slick chocolate of her hair. As the tremors subside, he sits, licking his lips clean. He watches her face slump into the pillow, her claws releasing the sheets, her breathing becoming more stable. He smiles.

The rain outside fades away as he quietly creeps back into his own room. As he crawls into his own bed, sated by the fact that he brought her to this euphoric state, he closes his eyes and resigns himself to the slumber where she currently resides.

The pitter-patter of raindrops against the window sets a light rhythm, soft yet steady, as if to allude to a possible increase of pressure. It won't, however. The rain is over, as is the unnecessary pain and tension.