The rain hammered the city bridge in relentless sheets, turning the night into a glistening black mirror. Beneath the single green umbrella, Elena walked naked, her skin prickling with cold and something far more dangerous.
His gloved hand clasped hers—firm, possessive, the only point of warmth in the downpour. The man in the black suit and pale, grotesque mask never spoke. He didn’t need to. The porcelain features leered forward, hollow eyes fixed on her as though she were the only real thing left in the world.
Water streamed over her bare breasts, tracing rivulets between them, down the flat plane of her stomach, pooling briefly at the apex of her thighs before spilling onto the metal grate. Each step made her acutely aware of her exposure: the way her nipples tightened to aching points, the slick heat building low in her belly despite the chill, the obscene contrast of her nudity against his immaculate tailoring.
He guided her to the center span, where the city lights fractured into a thousand wet diamonds. There, beneath the drumming rain, he stopped.
The umbrella tilted, shielding only their faces now. Cold drops kissed her shoulders, her collarbone, her parted lips. His free hand rose—slow, deliberate—and cupped her breast. The leather glove was cool at first, then warmed quickly against her fevered skin. Thumb circling her nipple, he pinched just hard enough to pull a gasp from her throat.
She arched into the touch, thighs pressing together instinctively. The mask watched, impassive, while his fingers trailed lower—over the quivering plane of her abdomen, dipping between her legs without preamble. Two gloved fingers parted her folds, finding her already swollen and drenched, not just from rain.
A low sound escaped him—almost a growl muffled by latex and porcelain. He pressed deeper, curling inside her while the heel of his palm ground against her clit. Elena’s knees buckled; she gripped his lapel with both hands, smearing wet fingerprints across expensive wool.
The umbrella wavered. Rain lashed her face, her open mouth, mingling with the salt of her own ragged breaths. He fucked her slowly with those leather-clad fingers—unhurried, merciless—while the city blurred beyond the bridge railings. Cars hissed past below, oblivious.
When she came it was sudden and shattering: a silent cry swallowed by the storm, hips jerking against his hand, inner walls clenching hard around intrusion. He held her through it, mask inches from her face, watching every twitch, every flutter of her lashes.
Only when her trembling eased did he withdraw his fingers. He brought them to the slit mouth of the mask and—impossibly—licked them clean through the narrow opening, tasting rain and her arousal together.
Then he simply readjusted the umbrella, took her hand again, and continued walking into the night as though nothing had happened.
Behind them the bridge lights shimmered on wet pavement, on her glistening skin, on the single green umbrella that had witnessed everything and revealed nothing.
Rain-Soaked Surrender: Erotic Encounter on a Stormy Bridge with Masked Stranger naked woman in rain, masked man umbrella, dark romantic bridge scene, public exposure fantasy, leather glove touch, midnight erotic walk
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