Two Incidents of Wetness

Zero pulls aside a panel of Heras fencing, and we let ourselves in. We’re both barefoot. We pad through ankle-high grass, past a shuttered hut. The stands are empty. Falling apart. The white lines on what was once the pitch have long since grown out. This used to be a cricket club, but has been derelict for decades, and is closer to wasteground now.

We poke around. Examine the various sheds and outbuildings. Play with a discarded cricket bat. Zero tells me she’s seen foxes here before. A family of foxes.

When it starts to rain – one, two, three light droplets on the backs of our necks – we lie down flat, limbs splayed, facing the sky. Cold damp grass. We are imagining a light, refreshing shower of rain, like the spray from a waterfall.

Instead, Zero squeals and splutters as the first fat droplets hit. The rain comes quickly, heavily. It peppers our bodies and wets our faces, makes it momentarily difficult to breathe. We scramble to our bare feet and sprint from the pitch.

*

Later, we are fucking. Her hair is still wet from the rain – wet and blue and straggly, pulled back behind her head. Her eyes are extra bright. She looks shivery and alien beneath me in the semi-dark. The rain, now a storm, thrums against the window.

Her hair is cold. Her cunt is warm. As I push into her I am thinking about the way she squealed when the first heavy drops of rain came: a yelp, almost choking.

We are bucking together slowly. Deep. I tell her to open her mouth and she does. Mouth open, eyes open, she looks pornographically hungry. I consider her for a moment, and then spit directly into her mouth.

She doesn’t squeal, like with the rain. She groans. A deep, pleading sound. She doesn’t swallow. We have agreed, Zero and I, that she will always wait for my permission to swallow. After a minute of slow deliberation, my cock still in her, I give it.

She closes her mouth. Her throat moves. Then, eyes wide, she opens her mouth for more.