Naked in the rain

She fled.

Her heels clattered down the courthouse steps like bullets, robes flaring, eyes scared though she would have torn her own tongue out before admitting it. Her immaculate mask had cracked. She felt it in the heat of her cheeks, the sting of humiliation still burning on her skin.

The echo of whispers still followed her. The looks. The judge’s narrowed eyes, the jury’s shifting legs, the clerk’s red, embarrassed face. She had been exposed. Displayed. Reduced to flesh in front of them all.

And she hated and loathed that part of her body had thrilled at it.

Pauline yanked her coat tighter around herself as though to contain the betrayal of her own skin. The silk blouse still clung to her, the skirt still tight across her hips. Everything was in place now, perfect, pristine but she could not forget the moment when it hadn’t been. When invisible fingers had teased her clothes loose and shown the court what should have remained her private cruelty.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t look. Not here.

She stalked across the square, eyes forward, lips pressed in a scarlet slash. The drizzle had thickened into proper London rain, soaking into her stockings, her blouse turning translucent in patches where the coat failed to shield her.

And then—

The tearing.

At first it was just a seam, a tiny whisper of fabric surrendering. Then another. Then another.

Pauline stopped dead, heart slamming against her ribs. She looked down.

Her blouse split at the side, a jagged tear snaking toward her ribs. Her skirt gave a protesting groan as the stitching snapped. She clutched the fabric to herself, eyes wide.

“No.”

Another rip. Louder this time.

Her coat slipped from her shoulders, sliding into the wet pavement, useless. The silk of her blouse tore wide open, her bra almost melting from her baring one pale breast in the rain. Her scarlet nipple jutted against the chill air.

Pedestrians turned. A woman gasped. A man’s mouth dropped open. Someone laughed, sharp and ugly.

Pauline gathered the remains of her blouse, pressing it against her chest, but the skirt followed—splitting at the back, the seam unravelling until the curve of her arse shone through the stockings. The lace of her thong glistened black beneath, soaked and obscene.

She ran.

Her heels stabbed the pavement, water splashing her calves, her body jolting with every **** stride. Threads snapped, fabric gave way, until she was nothing but stockings, heels, and the tatters of lace clinging between her thighs. Her pale skin gleamed under streetlamps, naked to the night.

By the time she stumbled into the alley that cut behind her building, her body was bare. The rain plastered her golden hair to her skull, painted her nipples stung with excitement and cold, water ran down the length of her belly to drip down soaking her thin patch of pubic hair and joining the excited feeling of her wet slit.

And he was there.

The beggar.

The one she had sneered at the day before, telling him she’d spend her spare change on shoes worth more than his life.

He sat slumped against the wall, coat ragged, beard dripping with rain. His eyes lifted, washed-out blue locking onto her. And for the first time, Pauline felt herself seen. Not as the barrister, the goddess, but naked and pathetic.

His mouth fell open. His hand twitched.

Pauline’s teeth clenched. Rage surged hotter than the humiliation, hotter even than the wet pulse between her thighs that betrayed her again.

“Don’t gape, you filthy animal,” she spat. “If you want to be useful, give me your coat.”

He blinked, slow. “My coat?”

Pauline strode forward, naked, rain-slicked, looming over him with all the hauteur of a queen stripped bare but unbowed. “Yes, your coat. You think I’ll walk into my own building like this? Do it. Now.”

The beggar’s cracked lips twitched. “It’s… it’s all I’ve got.”

She bent low, her bare breasts swaying inches from his face, her voice a razor whisper. “And I am all you’ll ever have. Do you understand? You give me the coat… and in return—” Her smile was cruel, sharp. “You get to touch me.”

His breath caught. Rain dripped from his beard. His hands trembled.

Slowly, painfully, he peeled the coat from his shoulders. The stench hit her immediately, urine, mildew, cum. She nearly gagged.

But she took it.

And she allowed his hand.

His fingers pawed clumsily at her breast, calloused and damp, nails dragging across her pale skin. Pauline stared past him, lips curled in disdain, every inch of her body crawling. The coat hung heavy around her shoulders, still warm from his body, reeking.

“You’re slow,” she hissed. “Pathetic. Haven’t you ever touched a woman before? Or is the only thing you’ve held a bottle?”

The beggar whimpered, but his hand kept moving. He squeezed, too hard, his thumb rubbing her nipple, it was hard and she felt a sensation that she didn't want, pleasure.

Pauline’s jaw clenched. She could feel her own excitement growing. That hated treachery again, her body responding even as her mind recoiled.

“Look at you,” she sneered, shoving her breast harder into his grip. “A worthless wreck pawing at a goddess. Do you know what that makes you? A dog licking the boot that kicks it.”

He groaned, his other hand sliding to her thigh, stroking the length of what was left of her stocking. The rain made her skin slick, every touch magnified, intolerable.

His other hand left her breast and for a second she missed it, he reached under himself and pulled out his cock and began to tug on it. Pauline felt her skin crawl and despite herself looked down at it, it was clear that the rain was the only water that had cleaned it in month, a thought flashed across her mind, and it took all her willpower not to bend over and take him in her mouth.

Pauline’s thighs trembled. Her breath hitched.

Her clit throbbed with shameful insistence.

The beggar leaned forward, nose pressed to her skin, inhaling as though her flesh were perfume. She slapped him across the face. The crack echoed in the alley.

“Don’t presume,” she snapped. “You’re allowed only what I grant you.”

He nodded frantically, lips wet, beard dripping against her stomach as his hand crept between her thighs.

His own hand pumping furiously.

Pauline gripped his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You disgust me. And worse—you make me wet.”

She expected the remained of her thong to be there but it was gone, beggars fingers touched her and two pushed in deep to her wet hole.

She gasped. Hated herself for it. Hated him more.

Rain streaked down her face, mingling with the sweat of her arousal. Her body betrayed her utterly, grinding against his fingers, **** and furious.

“Enough,” she growled, ripping his hand away. She shoved him back against the wall, pulling the stinking coat around her naked body.

The beggar panted, staring at her with **** hunger, his hand a blur as he pumped his cock, the streak of white cum hitting the remainder of Pauline's stockings.

Pauline sneered down at him, scarlet lips curling. “Remember this, old man. You touched divinity tonight. But only because I chose it. Without me, you are nothing. With me, still nothing, only wetter fingers.”

She turned, heels clicking even on the wet pavement, and strode toward the entrance of her building, the filthy coat clutched and the cum dripped down her leg.

She didn't turn around but for a second she though she heard him laughing.