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Dark rains, here and then.

After a rough few days that ended with being thoroughly cheered up and having various emotional knots broken by my best friend, I had to cycle through twelve miles of horizontal rain and hail to get home and go to bed. With an injured wrist. We don't make these thing easier for ourselves, do we?
As long as I'm in a positive, affirming sort of a mood when I set out, stormy rides are actually incredible fun, just for the sport of it. Having to work hard to move every meter of the way, squinting into driving water and wind, actively pushing out extra body heat, with muscle movement and body-temperature yogas, to resist the cold and the damp. Muscles rolling over one another in the legs.
And, also, the unpleasant bits - every inch of clothing soaked as if it had been put in a bath, clinging to the body and making any change of rhythm in our movements difficult. Hair dangling around our face and back in drowned-rat strings. My stupid wrist jarring against the handlebars with every pothole or hard corner in the old broken-up roads that wind through the hills. The hills themselves are barely a view, just huge, looming shadows to either side, blurred by the rain.
And of course the saddle bumping and moving and wriggling up against my pussy and my butt with every irregularity in the road, which is to say all the time.

One of the best bits about a stormy journey on a good-brain night, of course, other than the utter wild stupid comedy of the ride and the weather itself, is daydreaming (2-AM-dreaming, at least) about how warm and dry we'll be able to get at the end, inside a sheltering house where every minute isn't a constant conscious fight to stay warm.
There's the very simple fantasy, of what I'm actually coming back to - everyone else in the house will be asleep, if I'm quiet I can get my bike into the courtyard, come in, and without turning any lights on find a towel, strip all my clothes off and go up to bed and rest.
Alternatively, there are some more day-dreamy imaginings about other possible rainstorms, and other possible safe warm rooms and the people I could be in both with.

- On foot, in an imaginary park in a real town I sort-of-know. The wind is blowing visible shapes and scarves of raindrops between the big beech and oak trees, back-lit by blurred orange streetlights and a blue-black city night sky.
The branches are moving around and against each other, with the rain making huge soughing and whistling sounds through the leaves. The raindrops on my face and shirt are just as hard as heavy as the ones I'm really cycling through.
Me and an indistinct interesting-someone are trying to walk briskly to a house and shelter, leaning hard into the wind with the rain spattering over our faces. Said someone changes from moment to moment, but is always based on how I imagine various people I've met on the sites I'm writing this for.
I'm hugging my thin, unsuitable jacket around me with one hand, and with the other holding one end of a towel from my bag, which we're holding over both our heads. We're laughing as we awkwardly run, squinting and shaking our hair and the raindrops out of our faces every minute.
Eventually we get to the far side of the park, hug the towel closer over our heads as we duck and sprint and turn through a maze of old streets and older houses, eventually reaching a grey old sixties block of flats. We stamp our feet outside the door as one or other of us fumbles for keys, then tumble in through the door and run up flights of stairs hugging ourselves.
There's another moment of hurried fiddling with a bunch of keys in the dark on a first-floor landing, and then the door to the flat is open and we slip in.

We close the door behind us, turn the lights on, and both lean our backs against it, panting, grinning to each other and generally feeling as if we've escaped a monster. The light is dim and warm, and the flat is tiny and bare, with a plank floor, a bed in the corner, and books everywhere - probably mine, then, unless this imagined amalgamated friend has really similar interests and habits to me.
"Okay, we're going to have to get this stuff off or we'll get sick -really- quickly," I say, feeling myself smile awkwardly, "would it make you uncomfortable if I just, um, strip down right here? I'd really like to".
"Oh, no, that's fine," you say, "as long as I can too." - cheeky grin.
"That's perfectly alright" I say, already bending to shrug out of my heavy waterlogged jacket, and lift my clinging t-shirt and three times it's weight in rainwater up over my head. Both fall to the floor with a "splat" noise.
I have to extract various important things out of my trouser pockets, but soon I can step out of them, too. I unclip my bra and shrug out of that, but in a random act of kink I leave my panties on, though the purple fabric has been soaked right through my trousers. Or maybe -because- they're so soaked and clingy. I walk to the bathroom hugging myself across my chest and shaking a bit, and by the time I've come back with fresh towels, you're stepping out of your trousers and underwear, shaking hair out of your face and accepting a towel gratefully.

While the feel of toweling off with the coarse, warm towels is a beautiful constant, the fantasy hits a branch-point here, flitting back and forth between possible shapes and bodies, where the imaginary stand-in for various friends has to take on detail.
In a male shape you're always standing shyly, just so, and with a slight erection just starting to lift up from between your legs. With females I imagine shiny damp breasts moving with your breath, maybe an un-mopped-up raindrop here and there. And of course with less dimorphic play partners I can imagine both of these at once, even toy for a moment with the idea of what a small erection of my own would feel like, rising up above my opening where my clit would be.
But there are too many interesting real people for me to imagine for myself what you're like beyond that. Height and build and age, heredity and the life history that's shaped your muscles, or all the imaginings and feelings and inclinations that are in your eyes and running down your spine to your body - these I can't generalize, so the fantasy can't continue as a one-person thing. There are lots of possibilities to explore.

Aside from that, I imagined dark rain in some of the imaginary places I've visited with friends and play partners around here. Big red muddy raindrops falling over the new forests of the Hellas basin. Rain falling into the rushing sea as it climbs up the huge tidal reaches of the Forest Moon. Rain twisting about in the wind through the canyons and tessera of Dragon Country, or drizzling over the damp moss and pine trees around the lake of the frogs. Dextrous, soft hands rubbing rainwater and mud out of the shaggy fur of my taur hind-body, or slipping off my seal-like fur as easily as seawater as I chased a shape-shifting playmate through the ocean.

When I did finally get home, it was more or less as I predicted. Quietly pulling my bike into the house, creeping upstairs and stripping my soaked dark heavy clothes off in the bathroom, careful not to wake anyone. Three days of tiredness and associated body-fatigue meant I wasn't nearly as sexy as I'd felt in the daydream, but it was as good as I anticipated to be in a house, and dry and safe and capable of warming up. To finally tidy everything away and then climb into my bed (appropriately lined with towels) to sleep.
As I sunk through layers of pre-sleep, I idly explored a few of the things me and my many possible kinky friends could do after we'd dried off, in that imaginary flat. I played with myself a little as I did so, but fell asleep long before I could come.

So, if we meet and we play anytime in the next little while and a torrential rainstorm features, you now know, in detail, where I'm coming from. No pun intended.

(the title, incidentally, is reference to my favourite poem, "Dark Rains, Here and There" by Bruce Boston)