sex,rains…

Play the song before reading this, for maximum enjoyment.

This article is a mature content and contains explicit sexual themes. It is written for adult readers only. If that isn’t what you’re looking for, feel free to stop here. For everyone else, I hope you enjoy it.

Yeah, I know you saw the title and wondered. Sex rains? Well, yeah. It does.

It’s that moment when we decide we’re going to fuck and no one’s going to run when the other is about to let go. I’m going to watch you, and you’re going to return the favor by deliberately pissing all over me. A slow, intentional act. Golden showers. Water sports, if you want the internet term.

It always starts with consent, the half-confession, half-provocation that usually comes after sex.

“I’ve thought about you squirting on me.”

Or the reverse. The sentence hangs there, ridiculous and electric. We laugh, because the alternative is to take it too seriously too soon.

The path to the actual release is never direct. The body opens more willingly when it’s already being touched. So we begin with what we know.

Fingers: I slide my hand between her legs while she’s still only half undressed and find her already slick. Two fingers rest on her clit and move in slow circles. She rocks against my hand. I can feel the extra tension in her lower belly, the full bladder making every stroke sharper. She wants to come.

“Don’t,” I tell her. “Hold it.”

I keep my fingers moving and take her breast in my mouth, sucking one nipple, then the other, until those low, out-of-breath sounds start. She’s close again. This time I let her tip over the edge just enough to spill her juices everywhere… some nights, on the bed, on my face, sometimes in my mouth. When she thinks we’re done, I settle between her thighs and lick her with long, flat strokes over her clit, then the point of my tongue circling, then gentle suction while two fingers stay buried deep. Her hips lift. Her hands find my hair.

We both feel it when the need to piss starts competing with the need to come.

Sometimes I add just enough pressure at her throat—not too much, just enough to bring her to an intense climax. She swears under her breath, moans my name, laughs at the same time. I keep her right there on the edge until she’s shaking.

Toys change the pace. A vibrator held just above her clit while my fingers move inside her pushes the sensation further than either of us can manage alone. Or a curved toy left deep inside her while the pressure builds around it. She rocks against it while my mouth and hands keep working. Sometimes I turn the toy off right when she’s about to tip over, leaving her aching and frustrated, grabbing at my fingers, begging.

When I finally let her go, the release is almost violent. The warmth hits my chest and my mouth and spreads leaving us hotter than expected. It smells faintly like the wine we drank and something purely her. I leave my mouth open for some of it. I let the rest run down my body. While she keeps her eyes fixed on me the entire time.

In bed it feels riskier, more charged. Most nights we remember the towel. Other nights we forget, or decide not to care.

There are nights we both go at the same time, sitting across from each other with toys, working ourselves until we squirt all over each other. By the end we’re both exhausted, laughing, both a little stunned.

“I can’t believe we did this.”

“You look so sexy.”

“Fuck, the bed is so wet.”

“You did this.”

The laughter is part of it. It keeps the whole thing from turning solemn.

Afterward comes the practical reckoning. Sheets stripped. Towels in the wash. The shower turned on warmer than usual. We stand under it together, washing each other with the same hands that were just involved in something far less respectable. Soap over skin that still carries a familiar scent. We don’t speak much. The silence is comfortable.

Back in bed, clean and tired, we find each other again—mouths, hands, the slow slide of one body against another. Sometimes it has the opposite effect and we end up fucking again, slower this time, the memory still present in the room. When we finally stop, one of us reaches for the phone and discovers hours have passed. We never plan for it to take that long. It simply does.

On the nights when the ordinary boundaries of the body feel too small, we use fingers, mouth, the steady press of a toy, or all three until the pressure becomes unbearable. And for a few long seconds the only thing in the room is heat, and trust, and the soft, unmistakable sound of one woman giving herself to another in the most literal way she can.

That feeling is golden.

Thank you for reading.

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