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Motion sensing security lights flicker on as we pass a graffitti-slathered wall. Bright colours, fine art in an alleyway, urban culture expressed through bold strokes. The tagging detracts from the art and I find myself angry at the defacement of a painting. Incensed that this gallery of unauthorized art is considered no better than adolescent ink excretions, primate territorial markings akin to chimpanzee shit-slinging or a canine who lifts its leg every half block to sprinkle another surface with urine.
The quickening dusk makes my companion’s features virtually indistinguishable. I stare into facelessness as a strong hand reaches around the small of my back and guides me towards one of the walls. Soon, my shoulders are pressed against it. The texture of the brick is translated through a thin summer shirt. A deep rumble in the distance echoes a building libido as a hand works its way down my torso.
My breath catches, just a bit, as a single fingertip lightly brushes the outside of my thigh. Scarcely making contact with skin, the finger slowly lifts the hem of my skirt. Denim rises to meet the thin fabric of my underpants, rapidly dampening without the help of the scattered raindrops which are beginning to fall onto us; around us. A flash of lightening illuminates my partner’s face, reflecting most strongly off spots where the rain has caught in his hair, or runs down the sides of his cheeks. I watch, transfixed as lips approach mine, a single drop clinging to the upper one.
I meet them with mine, sucking the water off, chasing my lips with my tongue, thirstily drinking the rain which now begins to stream down our faces. A crack of thunder prompts a gasp of breath and a thrust of my hips. Breathing becomes labored as I struggle with wet denim and leather. My underwear is gone, my skirt lifted and pressed between barely exposed abdomens. I wonder only briefly about its state, torn and crumpled in a gathering puddle at my feet.
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