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THE RAIN DELAY
A Short Story
by
Yungie Boi
2026
Copyright
The Rain Delay
Copyright © 2026 by Yungie Boi
All rights reserved.
Disclaimer
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for mature readers aged 18 and older only. By purchasing and reading this story, you acknowledge that you are a consenting adult of legal age, fully aware of the graphic depictions of consensual power exchange, dominance and submission, older/younger dynamics, and intense erotic acts contained herein. All characters are fictional and above 18 years old. This is adult erotic fiction.
THE RAIN DELAY
The sky splits open at 11:47 PM. No warning, no buildup—one second the air is thick and still, the next it's a wall of water coming down so hard it bounces off the asphalt in white bursts. The alley floods in seconds, the concrete sloping toward the center drain that hasn't worked in years, and the water pools, rises, spreads.
I'm under the fire escape before the first drop hits the ground. Instinct—years of sleeping rough, years of reading weather in the air pressure, years of knowing exactly how many seconds between the first gust and the first drop. I make it to the fire escape's shadow, press my back against the brick, and the rain comes down in sheets so thick I can't see the streetlights twenty feet away.
The fire escape leaks. Water runs down the rusted iron in rivulets, dripping from every joint and bolt, and the overhang of the ladder creates a pocket of dry space—maybe four feet wide, three feet deep—just enough to stand in if you press flat against the wall. My shoulders touch the brick. My boots are in the runoff, two inches of brown water rushing past my ankles.
I'm not alone.
He was already here when I arrived. Standing in the dry pocket, his back against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He looked at me when I stepped under, and I looked at him, and neither of us spoke. That was ten minutes ago. The rain hasn't let up. If anything, it's gotten worse—the thunder rolling in from the west, low and shaking, and the lightning turning the sky white for half-second intervals.