The downpour came without warning. That was what I told myself when I decided to cut through Central Park after coming out of the train station. It would be quick, I thought. I’d get there before the rain.
But on a cloudy summer day in New York City, you can’t trust the weather. All the signs of a storm clung to the air: the desperate breeze tugging my hair, the thick humidity filling my lungs, and the bloated darkness of the clouds, ready to burst.
I barely make it halfway down the path before the first drops of cold water hit me. Two heartbeats later, I’m drenched from head to toe, shivering and running underneath the trees trying to get to the other side of the park.
All I have on is a white sundress and slippers. Today was supposed to be casual. Meet a friend in the city for some coffee and cake. Post a few pictures to Instagram. Go shopping.
Yet, here I am, running as best as I can in slippers, trying to find cover. My hair sticks to my back. My dress is now see-through; my brown nipples already hard from the cold rain. And there’s a man in the distance, heading straight for me.
He’s wearing a sharp suit. Every single one of his steps exudes power and confidence. His red umbrella is enormous, and it has to be, to cover someone as large as him.
Something about the way he’s eyeing me makes me hesitate. There’s a disturbance in the storm, a mysterious untangling in my thoughts as sheets of water crash onto me. I wonder how I must seem. A pale girl drenched to the bone. All the styling in my hair washed away, strands clinging to my forehead and cheeks. My makeup ruined, my dress wrinkled and stuck to me in lewd ways. I cover my breasts with my hands, holding my purse against my belly, breathing hard.
Without a word, he stops in front of me so that his umbrella covers the two of us. Within this small reprieve from the torrential summer storm, we have a bubble of private peace. The rain forms a wall of water around us, and I’m so close to him that I can smell his cedarwood cologne. I can count the freckles on his face. I can see the details of his beard, perfectly trimmed and so smooth I wondered how it would feel between my thighs. The thought makes me blush.
“What are you doing?” he asks. His voice is like gravel, low and rumbly, and it makes my tummy feel funny. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Biting my lip to stop the trembling, I shrug. “I thought I could get through before the rain.”
“Clearly,” he says. There’s a sternness to him. A solidness that defines our encounter: he is the one in charge. Yanking a purple handkerchief from his suit pocket, he starts to wipe my face.
Heat rises to my cheeks, hotter than my naughty blush before. He pats my face dry as I let my hands fall to my sides and straighten my shoulders, realizing too late that I’ve just bared my body to him. I don’t have the courage to check how much of me is visible through my soaked dress.
It doesn’t phase him. He glances at my breasts, at my navel, but he continues to wipe down my bare neck and shoulders. Carefully, to not mess with the straps of my sundress. Each touch sends shivers down my spine. His hands are so large, they make me feel tiny and vulnerable, and wicked thoughts of his fingers squeezing my flesh make me shudder involuntarily.
“Are you cold?” he asks, patting my back with the handkerchief.
I step closer, letting the purse fall to the ground with a splat. I have to crane my neck to look up at him. “A little,” I whisper. My heart beats like the unrelenting rain against his umbrella. “But maybe you can warm me up?”
His hand slides down my back to the hem of my dress and grips my ass. Something about the roughness of his touch against my wet skin feels amazing. The world feels hot and steamy now, the rain still thundering around us. I press my face against his shirt and slide into his suit.
His breathing changes, but he doesn’t stop. He slides the handkerchief under my panties, pressing it against my wetness, his sizeable fingers tucking the cloth inside me. A moan slips from my lips, and I wrap my arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly. I kiss his rib cage as I rub my belly against the bulge in his pants.
A flash of lightning illuminates everything, but before the thunder can rumble, I feel the heat of his face against my forehead. I tiptoe and offer my face. The way his lips, greedy and powerful, hold onto mine and threaten to consume me erase everything from my thoughts. He slides his tongue into my mouth, searching for secrets I’m more than willing to let him have.
He’s still squeezing my ass, holding me up on my tiptoes. The handkerchief is stuck to my pussy. His fingers dig into my ass as his kisses grow more and more ferocious. And I can’t help but hold him tightly and kiss him back as thunder crashes over us.
I feel like a pale flower, completely at the mercy of this downpour. In the midst of the city, of traffic and rushing cars, the pouring rain, I want this man to trample me. To stomp me into the paved path, into the cracks from which I’ve grown. Love me. Pluck me. Pull up my sundress and sniff my petals and lick my nectar and finish inside me. Pollinate me. Water my roots. Bury me deep into the soil, filled with his hot cum.
Before I can stop myself, I’m undoing his belt, tugging out his shirt, and reaching into his pants to find his raging cock. It’s so big and hard, that I stop kissing him to smile. I can barely wrap my hands around his cock.
“We have to hurry,” I tell him, licking his saliva off my lips, eager to taste his precum. “Before someone comes. Before the rain stops.”
x
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Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/c0rs0n/a_sundress_a_sudden_summer_storm_and_a_stranger