In Hand

 

Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.

Rain.

A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo taken from the internet. It has no details of source. If it is yours I will happily delete or credit.

I wrote this in the summer of 2014. A hot August day after a spell without rain. Today the rain came after a long hot spell. I post again and hope new readers enjoy.

 

In hand

 

Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.

Rain.

A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo taken from the internet. It as no details of source. If it is yours I will happily delete or credit.

I wrote this in the summer of 2014. A hot August day after a spell without rain. Today (25th July 2019) is the hottest July day ever recorded in the UK. So this time I am reposting it and thinking about rain on my skin.

 

In hand

 

Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.

Rain.

A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo taken from the internet. It as no details of source. If it is yours I will happily delete or credit.

I wrote this in the summer of 2014. A hot August day after a spell without rain. It rained in my village today, the first time for about six weeks. Rare for England. It seemed apt to repeat the post.

 

In Hand

 

Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.

Rain.

A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from brandinisays

I wrote this a year ago. A hot August day like today. I remember it well, I hope the reader can forgive the indulgence of repetition.

 

In hand

Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.

Rain.

A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from brandinisays