Naked Sex in the Warm Rain

Although the television had dire warnings about Hurricane Isabel, the sky was still clear. Julia threw open the windows of her luxury condo and breathed in the air. Ah, the scent of lavender. As she breathed, her pale silk blouse hugged her firm, proud breasts. In the distance, courtesy lights gleamed along the walkway beside the golf course.

Julia Morgan, that was her name. No relation to the architect. She was young and she was restless. As she sat on her sofa, her firm, supple legs kept crossing and uncrossing in "Basic Instinct"-like fashion. Julia did resemble the star of that movie. They had the same direct, taunting gaze.

What did Julia need? Indeed, what did she want that evening? Freud had no idea. She reclined in formless indecision. Not that she was formless herself. No, she was very well formed, lean yet lush, firm yet full. Did "form follow function," as Louis Sullivan once declared? She had no idea, but her former boyfriend had stated that her body was designed for sin. Not that Julia saw sex as sin. But a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a metaphor?

A walk? Yes, perhaps, the exercise would do her good. The heat of the day was beginning to recede and the threat of a thunderstorm did not seem so immediate as to prevent her evening constitutional. A stroll, yes, that would be the cure for her free-floating anxiety. Walking was good for Harry Truman, and it would prove salubrious for Julia as well. Julia had heard that, after a Brazilian Wax, a gal did not merely walk, but glide. Julia knew it was so.

But how to dress for the impending walk? That was the question. Whether twas nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of slingbacks. But other issues intruded. Julia had no intention of looking like Bess Truman. Julia walked to her bedroom, turned toward the full-length mirror, and began to remove her t-shirt and jeans. For this walk along the secluded footpath along the golf course, Julia felt that a casual blouse and sarong combination would be most appropriate. Standing before the mirror in only a deep red stretchy cotton demi-bra and matching thong, Julia could not help but admire her own firm, tan form. She noted, with no small sense of shopping satisfaction, the white piping on the cotton bra.

Julia decided. Yes, the thong would be perfect under the sarong. Julia recalled her former boyfriend, Raoul Rivera, who had been killed so tragically in that plane crash in Indonesia one year ago. Raoul had enjoyed knowing that beneath her sarong, with its conceal-reveal design, she wore a thong. He enjoyed knowing that beneath her thong lurked smooth, shaven flesh. Something about such knowledge teased the mind and inclined it toward the prospect of delicious orgasms.

Oh, it had been a year like that with Raoul, one of strong passions and thong theories. A year of living dangerously, as it were. She trembled at the memory of him holding her hair aside and kissing the back of her neck. The memories, pressed between the pages. Filled with a sudden passion, Julia's eyes turned involuntarily toward her toy chest and she began to buzz with anticipation. So to speak.

Julia had toys for this purpose, toys for that purpose. Often, in moments of tension, she would use several of the toys together, allowing them to transport her to ecstasy. Just last evening, Julia had combined her bright red G-spot jelly vibrator with a very slender, oiled anal plug, and then used a clitoral stimulator to transport herself to several fabulous orgasms. Wasn't it Einstein who said good orgasms were unavoidable if you teased enough erogenous zones? Perhaps not. In any event, Julia didn't want toys just then. Instead, she needed to exercise her sleek, subtly muscular legs with a walk.

As the mirror reflected her firm legs, Julia turned to her pump bottle of Cutter insect repellant. She knew that the threat of West Nile was minimal, but she also knew that the pump spray contained aloe and vitamin E. As she slowly rubbed the pleasant protection on her legs, the song "Night Moves" played on the radio. The process of slowly applying the spray to her legs did nothing whatever to calm Julia's mounting restlessness, and she began to hum "The Wayward Wind." As she lifted the sarong slightly to apply protection to her thighs, Julia wondered if she was doomed to wander.

The night was warm as Julia walked across the thick Bermuda grass. It was wet with dew and felt cool on her bare feet and she wondered why she was thinking like Hemingway wrote. She noted the scudding clouds, but concluded again that the rain would be deferred for several hours. As she strolled in the humid twilight, her mind turned, for unknown reasons, to the golf pro named "Nick" she had met briefly so many times. She could picture him with a wood on the links. No, she thought, a driver. Would Nick be rough on the fairway? No, no, she could not wonder. Julia's tan forehead wrinkled in exasperation at her own inability to focus on the sheer relaxation of her walk.

Sheer? Yes, her sarong did become sheer every time the winding path took her by the courtesy lights. When that happened, the gentle lights seemed to caress her tan, supple thighs, almost as Raoul's strong hands had done. Ah, but those days were gone, glimmering through the dreams of days that were. Julia remained, and so did her vigorous passions.

Julia slipped out the back entrance to the condo and onto the cart path bordering the third hole. It was a 265-yard dogleg, providing a nice entrance onto the front nine and ending at the clubhouse, where it might still be possible to take a swim in the Olympic-sized pool. Something about swimming after dark was more alluring than in the heat of the afternoon, with the underwater lights illuminating the aquamarine water.

Thoughts of swimming after dark turned her mind, as it often did, to that night at the beach. Years ago, while in college, Julia had known a guy named Lance. He was young, and Lance was boiling with desire. They used to walk by the ocean at night. They were fit, and tan, and they had seen "From Here to Eternity." Inevitably, they spoke of trying to imitate the Burt Lancaster-Deborah Kerr kissing scene. And so it was, one humid summer night, that Julia and Lance reclined at the edge of the water and began to kiss as the surf licked at their firm, young bodies.

Julia kissed Lance, slowly, sensually. Then Lance kissed Julia, and his kisses trailed to her neck, her shoulders. Soon -- perhaps it was inevitable -- they forgot about old movies. The wet sand felt cool and welcoming as their bodies writhed in ecstasy on the shore. Their lust was liquid and literally littoral. And then the unthinkable happened. With an alarming crunch of gears, their lithe, nude bodies were almost consumed by a gigantic sand-cleaning machine as it rampaged down the beach on its appointed rounds. They escaped in a nick of time.

Cold sweat? It wasn't just a James Brown lyric to Julia after that fateful encounter. She yearned for another watery encounter to exorcise those demons. Yet, as fate would have it, all her subsequent boyfriends sought sex on dry land. Of course, Julia was able to entice them into having sex with her in the shower. But not a swimming pool at night. Not to an ocean shore. Thus it was that Julia found herself frustrated, yearning for the passionate embrace of a lover in the warm rain.

As she pondered, the pulsing cadence of the sprinklers lulled Julia into almost complete relaxation. The thought of a late night swim made her feel warm, so she undid the buttons of her blouse and tied it around her waist to let the night breezes tease her with their coolness. It still felt warm, so she looked around, made certain that she was alone, and removed the bra as well. She felt her nipples begin to swell as the cool air washed over them.

A gibbous moon floated overhead with soft edges, as cool and remote as if it illuminated a Florentine villa instead of a suburban golf course. Spying a wooden bench next to the green, Julia sank down on it to listen to the sprinklers and the wind in the trees. In the distance she noticed the sporadic illumination of sheet lightning and wondered if a thunderstorm would cancel her swimming plans. She hoped not, but she was adaptable, as long as she didn't suffer the same fate as Lee Trevino.

Idly, she thought about removing her sarong as well and running through the sprinklers. Impulsively, she undid the knot and let it fall to the grass. The trees overhead made a kaleidoscope of shadow and moonlight on her skin. She ran through one sprinkler, clad only in her red thong. The water soaked her skin, soaked her hair, but she felt energized. She ran through another sprinkler, and another, and then hit something solid which stopped her.

Gasping, she stepped back. It was Nick Charles, the golf pro, out for a walk to deal with his ongoing insomnia. Julia had heard of it from pro shop gossip. It wasn't a depression-related insomnia as in "Sleepless in Seattle," but more a vague uneasiness. But Julia was more concerned with herself at that moment. She was soaked, wearing only a thong. But she did not rush to cover her breasts. Nor did she seek her sarong. Instead, she looked into Nick's eyes.

What happened next reminded Julia of the chess scene in "The Thomas Crown Affair," the version with Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway. The one in which glance turns to stare. Julia watched her arm as it moved, almost on its own to Nick's arm. Saw him flinch in pleasure as her hand caressed his arm. She could not believe her own boldness as her hand moved to his chest and began to tease his nipples through his thin golf shirt. She saw his eyes turn to her own swollen nipples, to her breasts covered with tiny droplets of water. She saw his tongue lick his lips as if his mouth had gotten dry.

With slow, deliberate movements, Nick let the golf bag he'd been carrying down onto the green. Just as deliberately removing his golf glove, he grasped Julia's shoulders and pulled her toward him, his piercing gray eyes never leaving hers. She shuddered when her breasts were crushed against his polo, but she met his kiss eagerly, and when he released her, her fingers dropped to his waistline. As her hands fumbled for his belt buckle, she prayed that she would not discover Sansabelt slacks, and indeed, she was not disappointed. Regulation chinos, a leather belt, thank God -- one could never talk golfwear for granted.

Just then the sprinkler made its arc back around and they were both caught in its warm spray. With the resulting effect of only drenched clothes separating their heated bodies, Julia thought they might as well have been totally naked. She felt his hardness through the thin cotton of her deep red thong, and realized he was not impervious to her considerable charms. Overcome with desire, she drew the golf pro down onto the green. As the soft grass met her back, she shivered slightly, but whether to attribute the sudden chill to her rising passion or the dew-and-sprinkler-wet grass, she couldn't tell. Nick kissed her, his tongue probing into her eager mouth, and pressed her hard against the turf. She was unable to restrain a slight moan that blended with the cicadas and tree frogs in a symphony of nighttime passion.

Julia saw, even through a fog of desire, his hand on her breast, cupping it, teasing the swollen nipple. She saw his hand and began to kiss his golf glove tan lines. And then, with a sudden fury, it happened. The rain began. Julia rose, pulling Nick's arm, and they fled in the direction of the swimming pool. The rain cooled the air, but Julia knew the water in the pool would be warm from the sun that day.

As they approached the pool, Julia sighed in disappointment. The gate was locked, and the high fence seemed forbidding. But then Nick reached into his chinos, produced his resort employee key, and unlocked the gate. The pool was almost dark, with just a few small safety lights. She smiled as Nick locked the gate behind them. Julia walked to the edge of the pool, sensing that Nick was appreciating her hips in the red thong. She got a huge dry towel from the shelf and went to sit on the edge of the pool. She watched as Nick walked to the edge of the pool, disrobed, and then walked down the steps into the pool and swam over to her.

He halted next to where she sat, his hair plastered down with water. His head was next to her right knee and she gasped as he began to kiss it. The rain began to fall harder, and Nick's kisses began to move up the outside of her thigh, until he was kissing the side of her right hip, exposed by her thong. He moved and began kissing the inside of her right knee, the inside of her right thigh. Julia writhed as his kisses rose. He was kissing the inside of her upper thigh, teasing the soft area right next to the front of her deep red thong. And then nothing.

Julia's eyes opened and she saw he had moved to her left knee. Surely he wouldn't tease that leg in such an extensive, prolonged fashion? But he did, and Julia grew impatient for an initial orgasm. Sure, she appreciated foreplay (not to mention a guy who shouted "Fore"), but she didn't appreciate being teased so long. She reached down, grasped his hair, and pulled his head toward her breasts. He smiled, but only kissed around her breasts, avoiding her nipples. Then his head dropped, but only to trail kisses over the inside of her left thigh. She grasped his head again, but the only result was that his kisses blazed over her tummy.

Julia stood up on the little ledge, half in the water, half out, as the teasing continued. He turned her around, and she felt his kisses -- those teasing kisses -- fall on her firm, bronzed hips, her upper thighs, the small of her back. Increasingly needy, Julia's hands reached up involuntarily and began to tease her own nipples as he placed tiny love-bites on her firm hips. As he turned her around, he gently pulled her hands away and began to kiss her nipples very lightly, teasing them mercilessly.

Julia realized, at last, that he was deliberately delaying her pleasure to provoke stronger orgasms later. But it was not an appropriate moment to ponder methods. The CIA did not need to disclose its sources and methods. Nor did Nick.

As she stood, almost naked in the rain, Julia simply needed to feel orgasmic pleasure wash over her. She gasped as his kisses fell on her tan tummy. Dimly, she realized that he was kissing the front of her deep red thong. As she felt his hands reach around and hold her hips, Julia twisted and moved in order to gain more contact. And then, as the rain fell harder on her tan body, as the rain fell on her erect nipples, Julia felt Nick's kisses begin on the thin fabric of the thong, transmitting shocks to the smooth lips beneath. And then, with surprising and sudden force, her first orgasm hit with more fury than Isabel was visiting upon the Commonwealth of Virginia. Julia could feel Nick's hands caressing her hips as she writhed in waves and waves of pleasure.

Tender is the night. And so it was. When she stopped shuddering, Nick hooked his thumbs under the narrow straps of her thong and began to draw it down, centimeter by centimeter, realizing gradually that Julia was smooth all over, just as he'd wildly surmised, silent upon a peak in Darien. As thoughts of Chapman's Homer ran wildly through his mind, he dipped his head down to nuzzle her silky skin. Her thong drifted on the surface of the pool, like William Holden in "Sunset Boulevard."

As he tasted her warm flesh, the cool rain drummed on the flagstones, and the pool water lapped against their bodies in a hypnotic rhythm. Nick knew he'd have to insist on his own pleasure soon, very soon. But Julia gasped again and her body tightened, then relaxed. He could sense that she was satiated for now.

She let her body slide into the rain-warmed water, ducking under to slick the hair back out of her face. Swimming to the ladder, she climbed out with a provocative glance backward at Nick, who was watching with rapt attention. She disappeared into the pool house and Nick clambered out to follow. When he stepped into the dark room, he couldn't locate her at first, and thought perhaps she had departed.

When his eyes adjusted, he saw her stretched out luxuriously on the pile of fluffy towels. "Partir c'est mourir un peu," he said. She nodded in agreement, and removed her top as well. He saw that her lean, sensual body still glistened with rain, her limbs sprawled in complete relaxation. Outside, the rain pounded down as Isabel raged.