Imagine you’re tied up in the late autumn evening air. Just chilly enough your flesh is pebbled, your nipples hardening, and you’re naked except your bindings. Out in the open, no ceiling, no walls, certainly no privacy. But there’s no one around to see you (or release you). You’re exposed to the world—to the elements.
It’s dark above you, clouds blotting out the sky, and in this chill, the water condenses into thick droplets before starting to fall. One lands on your chest, then slowly slides down as if savoring your curves.
But it’s not savoring. There’s no foreplay or rhythm. A droplet falls next into your hair, then another against your breast, then the next hits the insensitive bony flesh of your ankle. One misses, felt only as a splash against your lower ass.
As the rain begins to pick up, you hear the drizzle fall on the buildings and trees around you, impacting against metal and asphalt. Water hits your eye directly, and you squeeze your lids shut. That new darkness only amplifies the tactile sensation.
In these first moments, you can feel where each droplet fell, cool and wet against the dry warmth of your body. Rain falls on your cheek, soon sliding down as if in a gentle caress.
By now the arrival of more and more beads leave them unable to resist themselves: they kiss and merge into rivulets upon your body, and flow, as if exploring the lines and crevasses of your body. Behind your ears, along your jaw, beneath your breasts, down the lines of your loins.
Rain intermittently teases the sensitive nub between your legs; you stiffen, but remain bound. Even the new slickness of your wrist leave you unable to escape, wriggling, helpless to finish what the slow ministrations of the clouds above started. The sky has only a feather-light touch, it cannot rub or stroke. Nothing to fill or grind against.
You’re left to stew there unsatisfied, as puddles form around you, rippling with steady increase. The sound of the rain has changed, dripping and splashing added to the score. And you let the sound entrance you.
Wind gusts high above, you can hear it rustle and whip the leaves; a breeze grazes you and chills you deep. You shiver and draw breath colored with sound—a groan, a whine, a whimper? Inhale now, and as the air fill you, you’re treated to the smell. The earthy musk of petrichor, and the pungent sweet scent of ozone descending.
A drop graces your lips and leaks into your open mouth. You taste mineral, and can’t resist a tongue lolling out, collecting more of this abundant offering.
You’re thirsty, you realize. Maybe it’s from the anticipation wet between your legs, for all that it’s mixed inseparably with the excess that coats you.
So you drink, receiving what pours down on your puckered lips—and the rainfall (as if pleased) only intensifies. Wind and rain now roars dimly around you, and strikes continually, hard like so many teeth pressing dully.
All you can manage is rocking your hips up and down, letting your core feel this falling heaven. Now the teasing is anything but gentle, an unrelenting torment you cannot escape but endure. The faint rumbles of static disequilibrium sound like growls of vicious pleasure.
Your thoughts grow hazy, no different from the misty air around you and just as pervaded with rain. The storm surrounds you, engulfs you, so vast and yet close you feel it on every inch of your skin—like a god that gave your flesh direct attention, a revelation-groping.
And yet this rain fills the whole world, you’re nothing but a tiny outlet for its presence. Are you any different from the trees slaking themselves, the cars and storefronts washed clean—the ponds filled to their brims, the creeks overflowing as water pushes against their walls—a fragile world coming undone in a flood?
Do you need to be? The rain falls on you and it feels good.
You cry out, breaths panting now, and the way your legs are bound only letting you raise your hips, tilted so that the rains strikes against your loins just right. You have holes to fill, and hot pulsing flesh to know the downpour. You need it. It may look absurd, these hips swinging back and forth to ride something that isn’t there—but this is more a dance, a celebration, an urge teased so long it’s grown unstoppably desperate.
Now wind blows against you, hard. Faster as the storm crested, wuthering strong now, and whipping the water into sheets. One crashes down on you, like a smack against the face, and leaves your skin almost stinging.
What was rumbles before grows louder, and bright impression of light shine even to closed eyes. It’s like the sky itself is purring. That sound, more than anything else, is felt. The crackle and clap of thunder shakes everything. Your skin was wet and glistening all over—but now, you feel the storm even in your bones.
There, finally! Surging forth, a different kind of lightning, an electric feeling builds in your core. It spreads as your bondage-dancing reaches a fever pitch. Your back arches, your hips are held up at their apex to feel the that torrent-fingering pressure.
You come with the rain. Water floods your mouth, choking your cries, and you swallow.
This precipitated state of climax persists, almost as slow-going as the trickle of sensation that brought you here. You pant, you tremble, and you drip so wetly with intermingled fluids.
Maybe, if this had been a living partner, you’d be spent—but the storm doesn’t care. It’s raining over so much more than you, and won’t stop because you’re done.
You hips fall back down, your breaths deepen and slow. Calmer now, the steady tapping against your naked form stops being the foremost thing on your mind. Relaxing, the din of a city bathed in a cloudburst. You could drift off to this, and your mind wanders.
But despite yourself, you’ll be drawn back to what you just felt. You imagine the face of a lake, once calm, now ruined and tempestuous with the constant barrage of the storm. You’re roiling.
It felt so intense. You felt like more than yourself. Could you come again?
Rain still falls. You’re still tied up. You’ll be here awhile—nothing for you to do but feel all of it.