Under Slick Skies

[Countryman107]

The National Ploughing Championships had barely opened when the first hard shower rolled in over the Laois fields. Emily—accountant by week, gear-collector by weekend—tightened the drawcord on her navy nylon anorak and watched the crowd scatter for cover. She liked the chaos of Irish weather; it made the bright tarpaulin stalls and polished tractors look even sharper against the grey.

Near the machinery ring she spotted something rarer than a new-model Massey: a tradestand , stacked floor-to-rafters with glistening PVC capes, rubberised over-trousers and enough knee-high wellies to re-boot a battalion. Emily wandered in, the slap of her green Dunlops muffled by wet grass.

Inside, the air smelled of fresh vinyl and rain. A tall man in a black slicker—hood down, stubble speckled with water—sorted a rack of thigh-waders. He looked up, caught her studying the reflective stripe on his coat, and smiled like they already shared a secret.

“Looking for something practical,” she said, voice steady but low.

“Practical can still feel good,” he replied. His name tag read “Mark—Product Demo.” Everything after that was tone and pressure: the way his gloved fingertips brushed a cobalt cape, the way her gaze slipped to the faint creases in his rain-soaked trousers.

Mark lifted a heavyweight yellow smock from a hook. “Classic fisherman cut,” he said. “Sealed seams, storm flap, built to hold up under any downpour.” He had her step forward while he draped it over her shoulders, fastening the toggles with deliberate patience. The PVC hugged her arms, cool at first, then warming with her body heat. She inhaled the plasticky scent, crisp as new currency. Lightning flashed behind the canvas wall; thunder rumbled through the poles.

A burst of applause outside—someone had won a tractor-pull heat—but inside the stand was its own small universe. Rain hammered the roof, masking every softer sound. Emily pressed her palm to the vinyl front of the smock, traced the welded seam. Mark’s eyes darkened; he closed the distance until their wellies bumped. Drops slid off his hood and pattered onto her collar.

“Bit loud in here,” he said, voice rough. “Storage barn out back is quieter.”

No one questioned them as they ducked behind the stand. The barn was half-lit, smelling of hay, diesel and ozone. Rain streaked the tin walls like silver cords. They stood among stacked feed sacks and a retired plough, both suddenly aware how the drumming roof amplified every breath.

Emily pushed the barn door shut, then turned the key obligation-free: “All adults, all consenting.” He answered with a nod and tugged his zipper down, not skin, just layers—slicker, inner jacket, latex-lined bib. The swish of fabric was more thrilling than any engine roar.

She guided him to an upturned pallet, water still shimmering on his sleeves. When she slid a hand inside his open slicker, heat pooled between the two impermeable layers and fogged her wrist. He eased the yellow smock off her shoulders so it fell backward onto straw—bright, heavy, ready for later. Beneath, her own anorak gleamed, every raindrop alive in the half-light.

Kisses tasted of rainwater. Rubber palms found nylon pockets, thumbs brushing seams that trapped warmth and anticipation. Breath condensed on plastic hoods as they leaned in again. Outside, rain hit a fresh crescendo; inside, she matched its rhythm, hips against hips, the squeak of coated fabric a private metronome.

Mark traced the outline of her hood, pulled the drawstrings until only her lips remained free. Every movement was buffered by waterproof layers, turning pressure into a slow, controlled burn. She answered by undoing the snap at his chin, pulling his hood forward until their faces hid together in a joint cocoon. Her laughter echoed, swallowed by rubber walls.

Hands wandered—up through mesh lining, down along reinforced knees—never crude, always attentive to texture. When the moment finally rose past talking, she pressed him against a stack of seed bags, their shapes shifting under weight, and ground her hips until their coats squealed. No explicit need for bare skin; the heat inside the gear was more intimate than nudity.

He reached behind to snag the yellow smock from the straw and draped it over both of them like a tent. Under that bright cape, storm sealed out, they moved in steady, murmured sync. The world was reduced to shallow breaths, squeaking seams and the throb of rain on metal overhead. Each soft exhale fogged the inside of the cape, turning everything hazy, urgent, real.

When release came—quiet, shared, hidden under layered vinyl—they stayed wrapped together, hearts settling as the rain eased outside. In the hush that followed, the barn smelled of warm PVC and the faint sweetness of crushed hay.

Mark re-fastened her smock, smoothing the shoulders with a shrug. “Demo complete,” he said.

Emily adjusted her green wellies, mud already drying in cracks. “Five-star review,” she answered, straightening her hood. They stepped back into daylight where the championships carried on: ploughs carving straight lines, commentators cheering, crowds none the wiser.

The sun broke through at last, steam rising off the fields. But Emily kept her hood up. Some things were best savoured under cover—rain, yellow vinyl, and the memory of a sealed-seam rendezvous that would stay watertight for a long time.

[rubbermackintosh]

This should probably been labelled explicit. No matter, how many of us, like me, have fond memories of yellow PVC capes etc.from years ago and what we got up to wearing them?

It was sex activity on a grand scale in my teens in my yellow PVC cape and sou'wester that turned me into a lifelong lover and regular wearer of PVC and SBR rainwear both indoors and out. Wearing it renders no virile men safe from me and I have to say that I've not yet failed to have my way with any of them since my husband died.

Unlike the lady in this story I prefer sou'westers to hoods, and black thighboots or waders to green wellies, and if the man wears waders too and is locked in by my own ones wrapped him the hole experience and the noise has to be the next thing to heaven. However, with my promiscuity my ultimate destination will probably be the other place.