Louisiana Summer
The umbrella is gone. There must be millions of them at the mouth of the Mississippi River. New Orleans rain drops are five gallon buckets of water being poured in sequence by the angels. You can dodge the drops. And we did, or at least tried.
His kisses consume me.
We lie back against the cement on the river side of the levee. The river rises as each drop of rain splashes into its surface. My desire rises like the river with each of his tender kisses. I feel myself become wet, a warm thick moisture that is vastly different than what is flowing from the sky. His need is pressing against my warmth.
He smoothes my dark wet curls from my face; he is shielding me from the sky. His clothing sticks to his body, accentuating it. I glide my fingers across his frame and he shivers, wet and cold. He slides his hands between my legs as thunder claps in the distance. He kisses me again, beginning at my forehead and ending at my left nipple, hard from the damp, dreary cold. He laps at it then sucks; I feel my body contract as he gobbles a mouthful.
He stands and I nibble at the crotch of his jeans, the denim soaked and saturated with precipitation. I unzip them and finger the head of his dick. I open my mouth to take him in as thunder crashes nearer and we decide we must move forward.
We strip as we watch the passing ships. I wonder if through the torrent the passengers can see us. I hear the traffic from the opposite side of the levee, most cars going slowly because of the inclement weather.
My lover and I are hiding from that side. The side that is busy with life and work, husbands and wives. This side offers a calming and pleasurable anonymity. Nothing, not the rain, the ships nor the river knows our names. This side doesn’t care that we are married to other people.
We huddle together, cold and shivering. We lie back against the cement and he pulls me on top. I straddle his middle and glide myself over his thickness. The sound of his pleasure echoes towards the ships. He thumbs through my dark bush and at my clit as I ride.
I watch as my lover turns his face away from the rain, his auburn hair drenched, his eyes blinded by the downpour. I ride harder and faster, sweat and rain combine with the rich consuming warmth of orgasm. He bucks, I grind. I am disappointed that I cannot stare into his azure eyes as I come.
I slide from him and turn around, riding him again, facing the mighty Mississippi. I open my mouth and suck in a deep breath; I’m almost drowning in the downpour.
I marvel at the level of the river, rising steadily as I buck forward and back. My lover grips at my hips and waist as I ride him. His hands slip, unable to grab hold. He grabs my shoulders instead and I am ground down into him. With only a few deep strokes, I come again and he bellows, thrusts and lets go. His moans echo beyond this anonymous place.
We dress and watch the umbrella float by.
Copyright © 2008 by Susan Snow. All rights reserved.
Susan Snow began as a stand up comedienne with the opening line, “I’m biracial bisexual, and bipolar.” Though through the night all three aspects were terribly obvious, Susan bombed and spent the evening writing tear-soaked smut in a dark corner. The smut was well received and has been published in Hustler Fantasies, Kasidie Magazine and at http://www.hipsandcurves.com. She is from outside of New Orleans, living outside of Ann Arbor with her life-partner, Sam.
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