Waiting for the Rain

She dressed herself the way she knew he liked. High heeled boots of black leather. Gloves that came down to the wrist. Her collar— she could not be without that. She washed her hair, and dabbed at herself with Angel, and made her face up the way he enjoyed. Dark red lips, slightly-gothic eyeliner. It created the theatrical look her master demanded.

The only problem was the heat. Five minutes out of the bath and already she felt sticky. Opening the windows of her cottage barely made a difference. The air had a thin quality, as if someone else had already breathed it. Hopefully a storm was coming. That might clear things.

He arrived just before sunset and found her sitting on the bed, waiting for him. Without speaking, he attached a lead to her collar. Then he pulled it taught, lifting her.

“Stand up. We’re going outside.”

It was worse in the garden. The walls were high, which killed the breeze. The last fierce heat of the day gathered there and she felt it on her naked body. The trees that surrounded the walls sagged under the weight of untended foliage. Everything smelled over-ripe. Herbs and apples combined to make an incense so rich everything felt coated with it. Sweat began to prickle under her armpits and in her groin. She felt her cheeks flush red.

Without looking round once, he led her to the centre of the patio. She was a beautiful, intelligent woman, but she could have been a dog on the end of a leash. A bitch expected to walk at heel. That detachment was both humiliating and really exciting.

“Kneel.”

She did. Gracefully.

“Move a little forward. Just there.”

It involved shuffling. She grimaced as her knees found the hard line at the edge of the stones. That seemed to be what he wanted. Granite under bone.

“Now, bring your toes up under you. Part your thighs, exactly two fists distance from each other. Then put your hands behind your back, with the palms flat together. Yes, like the reversed prayer position. I’m not going to tie you. I shouldn’t have to.”

No, he shouldn’t. It was her privilege to obey, and she did. The only correction required was to lift her chin and straighten her shoulders a little, pulling them back so that her breasts stood proud. He did that with very swift and business like touches. The way you arranged a mannequin, not a person.

“Very nice. You have done well so far. But tonight is not going to be easy.”

He stood between her and the blazing sun. His face was so close she thought he might kiss her, but he didn’t seem very interested. Sometimes he did that.

Restrained himself. Treated her like a thing.

“You are looking very pretty tonight.”

“Thank you sir.”

“And you’ve shaved. Why did you do that?”

“To please you, sir.”

“In what way?”

“I know you like me to keep trim down there.”

“I’m sorry, to keep what trim?”

That was right. He enjoyed it when she described herself in quite vulgar terms.

“My cunt, sir.”

“Better. You know I prefer it when you use that word. Who does that cunt belong to?”

“This cunt belongs to you sir.”

He nodded.

“And - who do you belong to?”

“You sir.”

“I see. What will you do to prove that?”

“Anything.”

“Will you suffer for me?”

She swallowed, then nodded quickly. Actually, she thought, I’m already doing it. The sun’s right in my eyes and the flagstone is cutting into my knees. That response was not enough. He jerked the lead hard. The controlled anger in his voice surprised her and she winced.

“Answer me when I speak to you,” he whispered threateningly.

“Yes, sir. It is my honour to take whatever pain you wish to give me. I am yours to beat, strangle or fuck as you chose.”

“You have learned that lesson well. All right. You are going to show me how obedient you can be. And you had better be pretty damned obedient. Stay as you are.”

She did.

He found a chair and sat himself in the shade of the wall. She did not move. Insects buzzed languidly and time passed.

He went into the cottage and poured himself a tumbler of water. Ice chinked in it as he sat back down. She did not move, though the position was starting to make her feel the onset of a cramp.

Even in the shade he fanned himself. He felt the need to undo his collar and pull the tie to half mast.

“This heat is damnable. I hope to Christ it rains soon.”

A trickle of sweat ran down her face and into her eyes. She did not move. Blinking it away rather than wiping it. He drank the water and watched her suffer.

Her knees screamed at her to stand up. Her toes felt like they were breaking. Her shoulders ached from being pulled back to make everything stand pert. The desire to lower her head grew. Her master just watched her without speaking. She knew he got hard watching her in pain. It was a comfort to know that she was pleasing him.

The sky was growing darker. It helped with the temperature, but not with her feet. Toes, soles, ankles - everything was starting to hurt like hell. But he enjoyed seeing her in these boots, which was compensation. When she moved slightly, their leather squeaked.

What almost broke her was the insects. It was that day in summer when flying ants swarmed out of their nest, workers pushing the young queens and the drones into the air. Chin still up, she lowered her eyes and secretly watched it taking place. They manoeuvred the disgusting things like a ground crew assembling primitive aircraft. Fat black dots swarmed and batted into her. Some crawled over her thighs. For a second, she wondered if they might be somehow drawn to the smell of her moist folds. Did insects do that? It would be intolerable to have them crawl around down there, feasting on her juices. She winced with disgust, but kept her posture.

The sunset was marvellous. It came filtered through a grumbling billow of clouds. Even as the air cooled, it seemed to grow heavier. Closer. At least it stopped those fucking insects bothering her.

He went and lit two candles. One on the left of her, one on the right. As he did so, her master stood close enough to examine her properly. He sniffed her, enjoying the musk of perfume, combined with the earthy tang of polished leather. And her own smell. Sweat. Need. He brushed a fingertip over her throbbing, sticky body. He used a knuckle between her thighs and worked her clit. The sudden pleasure made her gasp. But when he moved her even a faction of an inch it made everything in her legs and arms worse.

“That must really hurt now.”

“ ...yes..." she whispered.

“Good. I want it to hurt. I’d like to see you cry. I’m never sure I’m really causing you pain without producing a few tears.”

If she could have cried for him, she would. But her body lacked the water. He tutted.

“You know you can get up any time you like, don’t you? I won’t stop you. But you will have failed.”

His hand stroked her breast. Then it grabbed the nipple hard enough to make her gasp. Worse, it made her move. She felt all the old pains new again and gasped with shock.

He just laughed.

“Silly girl. I don’t think you’re up to this. I think you’ll beg me to stop soon. Because— I don’t think you’re really capable of giving yourself to anyone this way. But— perhaps. We’ll see.”

And with that he returned to his chair. He sipped more water and stretched out his legs.

She bit her lip and tried to ignore the fact that her knees felt as if the bones were splintered. There was a funny whining noise in the garden and she realised it was coming from her throat. Move. Don’t move. Just endure. For him.

She knelt between the two candles and suffered for him.

When something wet landed on her thigh she thought that she was crying after all. It was fat and warm. But then another drop fell, then another. Through the haze of her pain she realised that the whole sky was rumbling. And then there was that flash of silver. A moment later, thunder rolled across the sky. And the rain came.

She looked up and he was in front of her. His hand stroked her face.

“Good girl. You made it.”

Made it? Her eyes blinked again as rain fell on her hot cheeks. And perhaps this time she was crying. It was the relief. She had done well. Her master told her she had done well.

He helped her straighten out her legs and sit down on her backside. She even needed some help to ease her arms out from behind her back. The change from ‘it hurts’ to ‘it doesn’t hurt any more’ was heavenly. She was thanking him over and over.

“Never mind that. Lie down. On your back.”

The flagstones were hot and wet. Blissful. Rain pelted on her and the thunder rolled again. She saw him in the flash of lightning. His expression was all cruel passion.

“Open your legs.”

She did. As wide as she could. For him.

He forced himself into her, pushing so deep that she felt impaled and filled. He fucked her with all the passion that watching her in pain had generated. A passion that matched the storm. Even then, she knew this was for him, not her. It had pleased him to make her suffer. Now it pleased him to fuck her. He did it entirely without restraint, grinding her backside on the sopping flagstones. But it didn’t matter. Her pussy gripped his shaft and her thighs closed around his body. She fucked him right back.

As he approached his climax, the strokes changed. He pulled himself half out before driving back into her body. To meet him, she raised her hips off the ground, taking him deeper inside. His uninhibited passion thrilled her and she grunted as he impaled her. With a cry, the orgasm hit him. His hot come spurted and she felt it. The thought of his pearly seed filling her womb drove her wild. It tipped her over the edge too. She squeezed him as tight as she could, in every way she could, and let the feelings take her.

Mine, she thought, waiting for the rainmaster.

Cold, wet air blew across the garden. He lifted himself off her, and forked the hair out of his face. Drips splashed off his hand but he was looking at her with contentment.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

She smirked and snuggled down under him, content in the storm.