Her Stranger's Hands in the Rain

I was a 28-year-old woman stuck at the train station after missing the last train home on a stormy night. Rain hammered the platform like it wanted to punish me for my tardiness, soaking through my thin summer dress until the fabric clung obscenely to my breasts and hips. I hugged myself against the chill, cursing under my breath, when a tall stranger in a long black coat stepped beside me.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply opened his umbrella and angled it over both our heads. The gesture was so smooth, so presumptuous, that I looked up sharply. His eyes were dark, almost black in the flickering station lights, and they dragged slowly down the front of my drenched dress before rising again to meet mine. A low, rough voice cut through the rain. “You’ll catch pneumonia standing here like that.”

The sound of it—deep, confident, edged with something hungry—sent a jolt straight between my legs. I should have said no. Instead I stepped closer, letting his umbrella shelter me. His coat brushed my arm, and even through the layers I felt the heat of him. My nipples tightened painfully against the wet cloth.

We started walking without discussion, as if it had already been decided. The downpour worsened, turning the streets into rivers. He guided me with a hand at the small of my back, steering me toward the darkened park two blocks away. Every time our bodies touched, electricity crackled. His fingers flexed against my spine when I slipped on the wet pavement, steadying me with a strength that made my thighs clench.

Halfway there, the words tumbled out of me before I could stop them.

“It’s been over a year since anyone touched me.”

The confession hung between us, filthy and raw in the rain. He stopped walking. So did I. For a long moment the only sound was water drumming on his umbrella. Then his voice came again, lower this time, almost a growl.

“I want to feel every inch of your wet skin. Right now.”

My breath hitched. I nodded.

We reached the deserted pavilion at the center of the park. The roof offered shelter but the sides were open to the storm. Rain sheeted down in silver curtains around us as he closed the umbrella and tossed it aside. In the dim glow of a distant security light I finally saw him clearly—broad shoulders, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, and those eyes that looked like they wanted to devour me whole.

He didn’t ask permission. He simply backed me against one of the thick wooden pillars and pinned my wrists above my head with one massive hand. His other hand shoved my soaked dress up around my waist. The rain had made my panties practically transparent. He hooked two fingers under the crotch and tore the fragile lace aside like it offended him.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The first stroke of his tongue dragged from my entrance all the way up to my swollen clit, long, greedy, and shameless. I cried out, the sound swallowed by thunder. He groaned like a starving man tasting his first meal in weeks, burying his face deeper. His tongue fucked into me, then lashed my clit with hard, relentless strokes. Two thick fingers pushed inside my pussy without warning, curling, stroking that spot that made my knees buckle. The rain poured off the roof in a roar while he ate me like he owned me, sucking my clit between his lips and humming until the vibration wrecked me.

I came on his face with a broken scream, thighs shaking, flooding his mouth while he kept licking and finger-fucking me through every pulse.

Before I could catch my breath he rose, towering over me again. The sound of his belt and zipper was obscenely loud. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, and brutally hard. He gripped my thigh, hiked it high around his hip, and drove into me in one savage thrust.

“Fuck,” I gasped.

He was huge. The stretch burned so perfectly I saw stars. He didn’t give me time to adjust. He fucked me standing up against that pillar with deep, punishing strokes that slammed me into the wood. One big hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my pussy flutter wildly around his cock. His hips snapped forward relentlessly, balls slapping my ass, the wet obscene sounds of our fucking competing with the storm.

“Look at you,” he snarled, voice ragged. “Taking a stranger’s cock like a desperate little slut.”

The words sent me spiraling. My second orgasm crashed over me harder than the first. I screamed, nails digging into his shoulders through his soaked coat as my cunt clamped down on him in rhythmic spasms.

He didn’t stop.

He pulled out, spun me around, and bent me over the pavilion railing. My tits hung out over the edge, rain lashing my sensitive nipples while he kicked my legs wider. He slammed back into me from behind, even deeper now, pounding me so hard the railing creaked. One hand fisted in my wet hair, yanking my head back so he could growl filthy things against my ear.

“That’s it. Squeeze my cock. Milk it, you filthy rain-soaked whore.”

I came again, shrieking into the night as my pussy gushed around his pistoning shaft. He fucked me through it like an animal, hips slapping wetly against my ass, until finally he wrenched himself free with a guttural groan.

Hot, thick ropes of cum splattered across my ass and lower back in heavy spurts. He painted me with it, marking me, groaning deep as the last pulse landed on my ruined pussy lips.

For a moment the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the endless rain.

He gently pulled my dress back down over my cum-covered ass. His lips brushed the nape of my neck, soft as a secret. “I’ll never forget the taste of you in the rain,” he whispered.

Then he walked away into the storm without another word, black coat flapping, broad shoulders disappearing into the silver sheets of water.

I stayed bent over that railing for a long time, trembling, satisfied, and deliciously ruined, his warm cum slowly dripping down between my cheeks as I whispered to the dark, “God, I needed that stranger’s hands in the rain.”