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I realized my orgasms were controlling the weather when, for the umpteenth time, rain came crashing down as I climaxed. The curtains billowed in the sudden chill, the windows rattled as rain hammered at the glass and a car alarm honked in the street. Coincidence, you might say, but this had happened too often to be dismissed as a fluke.
On the first occasion, Ray had lifted his head from between my thighs and joked, “How do you do that?” I’d laughed lazily, thinking little of it. Half-drugged with postorgasmic bliss, I’d watched water sluice down the window in rolling, silvery screens, and pour from the ledge above, shimmering and swaying like a row of dancing icicles. I’d felt as if my peak were being applauded, my wetness honored with a show of wetness from the skies.
But when it continued to happen, we realized we had a problem. Ray and I had been having phenomenal amounts of sex in the months we’d been dating. During that time, the United Kingdom had experienced one of the worst summers on record. The Met Office issued regular severe weather warnings and countless towns were flooded. You could barely turn on the TV without seeing images of streets transformed into cheap Venetian canals, half-submerged cars and traffic lights rising from murky waters. Root crops rotted in the fields, train services were canceled, landslips closed roads and hailstones the size of golf balls were said to have fallen in the Midlands. Everyone was blathering about that book, Fifty Shades, and the media made jokes about how wet the summer was, how gray. The sky was never blue; it was black and blue, storm clouds amassing in the distance whenever the sun tried to shine.
On days when the rain stopped, people glanced skyward with hopeful hearts, picturing barbecues at the weekend, a spot of gardening, maybe a walk across the Downs or a bike ride. But invariably, the world would darken and another deluge would descend.
Experts blamed the jet stream, but I could see it was actually my fault. I was creating chaos with my climaxes.
I’d started to suspect a connection, however, the notion seemed too crazy to divulge. But when my orgasm prompted a downpour fierce enough to activate a car alarm, Ray gave me a look suggesting he shared my concerns. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said. “We need to hold it right there.”
For an awful moment, I thought he was dumping me. Then he explained what he meant, and I wondered if I should dump him.
“No orgasms?” I said. “None at all?”
“None.”
“Not even a small one when no one’s watching?”
“God’s watching,” said Ray.
“God’s got better things to do than that,” I replied.
Ray grinned and sat astride me, his cock angling up from his patch of straw-gold hair even though he’d only recently shot his load. I have to say, he wasn’t my usual type. Tall and slender, he resembled Jesus, probably more so than Jesus did, although he had a neater beard and shorter hair. His eyes were deep brown, kind and dopey like a spaniel’s, but he wasn’t kind or dopey in bed. He liked to top, but his was a very geeky style of topping involving ropes, cuffs, vibes, new toys and tricks. He enjoyed the rigmarole, the complexities, and he liked to plot, making me feel I was a subject in a series of deeply unethical, scientific experiments. In his day-to-day life, he was a PhD student researching estuarine sedimentation and sea-level trends. Sometimes, I liked to pretend he was doing a PhD on me.
“Then quit for your country,” he said. He took my wrists and lightly pinned my arms to the pillows above my head.
I laughed. “I’m not that patriotic, Ray.”
“Okay then,” he said. “Do it for me. Give me that amazing, precious part of you. Give me...give me the power of your orgasms. Let me be the one who tells you when you can and can’t come.”
“Hmm. It’s a big ask.”
Ray shrugged. “Wouldn’t be worth doing otherwise.”
I mulled it over. “Supposing I come accidentally? Say, when we’re having sex and you’re not concentrating and whoops, there I go.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“Well, supposing I come accidentally when you’re not there? You know, say, I fall on my vibrator or something?”
“You won’t let that happen.” Ray’s puppy-dog eyes were twinkling with excitement. I could practically hear the cogs of his brain whirring as he began contemplating the implications of his suggestion.
“I could lie to you,” I said. “I could pretend I was obeying but in reality—”
“But I’d know,” said Ray. “It would start raining.”
“Gah!” I said. “There’s no escape for me, is there?”
“Not much.”
I sighed, defeated. “Still not convinced. Anyway, supposing it doesn’t work and it keeps raining?”
Ray shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
We fell silent for a while. Outside the torrential downpour continued although the car alarm had stopped. That I had the power to improve the nation’s weather was both a wonderful gift and an unwelcome responsibility. If only the gift were slightly different and involved, for example, not quitting orgasms but eating huge amounts of ice cream.
“Let’s give it a whirl,” said Ray. “Think how sexy it is. It’s not just about the weather. It’s about you making a sacrifice for me. And me having control over you and you wanting me to have control. Like this.” He gave an emphatic shove, pressing my arms hard into the pillows. “And this.” He placed one hand on top of the other, pinning my wrists with one grip, then reached behind himself to feel me between my thighs. He skimmed my clit. I was still sensitive from coming and I squealed, wriggling my hips beneath his weight. A burst of squally rain hurled itself at the window, as noisy as a handful of gravel being flung.
