8 comments/ 53705 views/ 1 favorites Thunder Follows Lightning By: gauchecritic AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story has been submitted as part of the RAINY DAY STORY CHALLENGE set on the Author Hangout Discussion Forum. All criteria and build up can be viewed through this link: RAINY DAY STORY CHALLENGE THREAD * * * * * I once new a girl whose parents called all 5 of their kids pretty weird names. Well, weird to me anyway. Well put it this way, you've seen "Cat on a hot tin roof" right? Or read the Tennessee Williams book? Well the Paul Newman character. Damn. What was it? Brick. Big Daddy and his wife actually called their son Brick. Now that's weird yeah? That is a weird name to give your kid. Sort of like a hippy kid name, like Sky or Autumn or a rock star's kid like Zowie or Moon Unit. Well this girl's Mam and Dad didn't even have that excuse, they weren't hippies, they certainly weren't rock stars they were just deaf. Does being deaf mean you have to give your kids weird names? Maybe they did that Indian thing, sorry not Indian, Native American. That Native American thing where they called their kids after the first thing they saw when they came out of the tepee. Like Swift Horse or Running Dear or Big Cactus. I'll bet that's not true anyway. Whatever. She had two sisters and two brothers and their names were Soda, Grey, Manly and Court. I'm just glad my parents weren't deaf. All the brothers and sisters could all do the sign language even though they could hear and talk. Small tip, don't call deaf people "deaf and dumb", most of the time they can talk, well not talk but they do have voices, only they can't hear themselves or others so they can't learn how to make words properly, besides which, dumb also means stupid and that's just not nice. Deaf-mute doesn't apply in these cases either for the same reason. Where was I? Storm. That was her name. She had a stormy temper. And she was the only one of the kids who was deaf too. Deaf people are quite well known for being aggressive, especially if in groups, that's usually frustration, not being able to sign as fast as they think and learning fingerspelling isn't a big help even if it does show willing. That's just as frustrating for them. They have to concentrate really hard while you work out which finger is which vowel and they've already guessed the word from the context. Let them lip-read if you can't sign, almost all the deaf people I've met are really good lip-readers and seem to use sign just as back up. Watch two 'lately deaf' people signing and they watch each other's lips as well as noticing the signs. Be that as it may, this isn't about how to communicate with the deaf culture, it's about me and Storm. Storm wasn't beautiful, but she wasn't plain either. Her face and figure seemed to hold a beauty that, close-up, couldn't possibly be there from the bits you could see. She had nearly a mono-brow for starters, which she refused to pluck or shave or anything. Her hair was generally straggly, with wisps dancing where they may to the tune of the slightest breeze. She had a mild squint in her left eye. Can you remember Karen Black the actress? Airport 79 or whichever it was. That sort of squint. Just Google her name, you'll see who I mean. The way Storm dressed, and the clothing she bought, was like an afterthought. As though she were going to stride naked from her front door and would then suddenly remember that she was nude. But I've never seen Storm in a hurry. Never. She was a slow and deliberate Storm. The kind of Storm, which catches you in the countryside and no shelter for miles around. The kind of Storm with all the time in the world because she just knows she is going to make you wet and cold just as soon as she pleases and not a moment before. For the few years that I was intimate with her I welcomed, even anticipated with dread, my inevitable soaking and the cold she would leave me shivering with. But her body. Like I said, there wasn't anything specific about her body that you could pin down or photograph and say "this is what makes her body great." You a leg man? Sorry. Maybe you're a leg woman. I'll take a moment to apologise for my sexism. But when I say man I include women there as well. OK? So anyway. If you're a leg man, you'd love her pale, ordinary legs. You'd whistle when she went past in her mid-length skirt. Maybe you're a breast man? Believe me, you'd spend conversations with Storm talking to her breasts. Those unremarkable, average size, needing support breasts. Are you an ass-man? A booty-boy? You would push strangers to the side in order to watch that derriere as it disappeared down the road. That quite flabby, (but deeply muscled) wide-load derriere. Have you got the picture? Plain and ordinary. Here's another actual picture that I've seen for myself many times. A crowded room, maybe a pub or bar, a thronged shopping mall or even once a milling queue of football supporters going into a match. All the people busily engaged, shopping, drinking, talking, walking, and going about their ordinary business. Then heads turn. Conversation stutters to a halt. Drinks stop halfway to lips. Strides are broken and people stare. Only for the barest fraction of a second. But it's there. It's noticeable. Something moving through the crowd. Something that demands attention and almost instantly dismisses it. That something is Storm. When she first happened to me I couldn't, wouldn't be dismissed. Nothing about her became ordinary, like with the others. For me, she retained that glimpsed beauty and never let it go. Have you ever been walking along the street and those Bad Boys drive by with their speakers up full and bass to the max? And all you can hear of the track is: Thumpa-Thumpa-Thumpa-Thumpa. If you're standing close enough to their open window you can actually feel that bass as it disturbs the air and hits your shirt. You can feel the sound. So why do you need to know this? Well it's the reason that deaf people can go to a disco and at least enjoy dancing if not listen to the music. They can feel the beat. (Man) * * * So there I am, watching people, imagining their conversations, imagining what they look like without clothes (well the girls anyway and only one or two of the boys and one person who I can't tell which) and then I clap eyes on a whirlwind. Everyone on the floor was dancing to the music and after a short while I realised that they were all dancing out of time, only one person was dancing with the beat. When she faced a particular part of the audience she would signal to someone there, with a weird sign (different each time) and exaggerated expressions on her face. She stayed on the floor for a full hour, dancing her own dance. To her own music. Five different guys shuffled up to her in that hour and tried talking to her, leaning in to her space, resting their hands lightly on her shoulders. The one thing I noticed was that she never leaned in to hear what they said, she moved back when they tried to pull her near, keeping her eyes on their faces. She went through the exact same routine with every guy. She smiled as they approached and opened her arms in welcome to the floor. After a couple of minutes shuffling their feet, torn between the music they heard and the girls gyrations, they would eventually try talking to her. She would point to her ear and then wave her open hand at the air. "I can't hear you. The music's too loud." Then each guy would lean in and start shouting, as soon as they leaned in she would rear back, put her hands on their chest and mouth "What?" Only one of the guys stayed long enough to dance through two records. I was fascinated. With the dancing, with the signalling and with her. It took me five visits to that nightclub, to watch her dance and push men away before I plucked up enough courage to not care if I was rejected. I even attempted the route of talking to her friend who she made those signals to but she just wasn't interested at all, she looked me up and down like a piece of meat and then made it obvious that I didn't meet her standards. (Girls, have you any idea how much that hurts?) Well that was the fourth visit and, as it happened, it didn't matter one little bit, because the girl on the floor signalled her friend and made a face like "I can't believe you didn't talk to him." And then she smiled at me. Me! Well after that, my courage couldn't have been any more plucked; it was naked courage. Is that a metaphor or a simile? Never mind. So I decided that I would talk to her, even if it meant getting on the dance floor and doing my 'dad dance': feet glued to the spot and gyrating my arse and flailing my arms. Everybody says I dance like a dad, that's why I don't. So as the record finished I put down my drink and then smiled as the "smoochy" music swelled around the room. When I turned back she was gone and I was half way to the floor with no prospective partner. Don't you find it strange what bare faced panic can make you do? Rather than turn around and leave I carried on to the dance floor and made a beeline for someone I'd seen across the other side. (Remember girls, it doesn't matter how fantastically great looking you are, in such situations you are almost always second choice.) Karen was my second choice that night. I knew Karen quite well, she'd been a supply teacher at my old high school and I like to think that, that night I was God's gift to her (as we boys do). Karen was probably about 10 or 12 years older than me and was skinny as a rake. In the few months that we 'went out' Karen taught me everything. But this is about that first night. As I strolled casually across the floor I kept my gaze on her face, waiting for her to look up. She didn't actually look up until I'd come to a stop in front of her. Casual, oozing confidence. Shaking inside. She gave me the shoes to hair once over, and then looked directly into my eyes. I mean Directly. With a capital D. 'If I step down to dance, this isn't just for tonight.' She seemed to say with her penetrating look. I acquiesced with a slight upturn of my lips. She nodded and stepped forward into my arms. I was expecting some sort of... a kind of... I don't know what the hell I was expecting, but it wasn't anything like the reality. She melted into my arms, her body melded with mine. (Who writes this stuff?) Electricity sparked between us. I mean literally, painfully. Actual electricity. A couple of weeks later she showed me how she did it. One of her 'surprises'. I should have seen it coming, she made me keep my socks on, like some 80's porn actor whilst she writhed and wriggled on the carpet performing a recumbent striptease as I stood there feeling like some kind of schoolboy being made to look a fool for not remembering to bring his P.E kit. Naturally enough, as the embarrassment ebbed, the sight of a former teacher putting on a damn sexy show for her 'pupil' had the desired effect. Her labia were distended and nipples likewise as she placed the palms of her hands on the inside of her thighs and brought her knees up and outward to 'show me the pink'. "Now." She ordered, "Do not touch me. Do NOT touch me. Kneel down as close as you can." She really enjoyed the power thing. The teacher - pupil thing. As I knelt down I leaned forward in anticipation of her next command, being careful not to touch as I took the weight of my body on my hands and arms. "NO." She yelled. "Don't you dare spoil this. Very carefully sit back on your haunches and do NOT touch me." Spying the crestfallen look on my face she poured smoke into her voice as she husked " Oh you're going to fuck me alright, you're going to poke your cock into your teacher. And later, perhaps not tonight but later, you're going to fuck my arse. Bury it into me balls deep, and you'll be able to brag to the whole class" As she said this, she'd planted her feet on the floor and raised her hips, gyrating her glistening hole a foot from my waist and at least the same height from the rug. Enunciating very carefully she instructed me to lean forward. "Off your backside and please be careful not to touch." This was beginning to become very difficult as she edged her shoulders back ever so slightly to keep her naked cunt from the tip of my cock, and I took the strain in my thigh muscles alone trying not to fall forwards. "You'll have to lean a little more than that" she explained "he's not going to slide in here when he's pointing up there is he?" She smiled, eyes flickering between my sex and hers. With her eyes fastened to the now sweating muscles of my thighs she purred; "Hold there, it won't be long now... stay." Then she placed her hands under her hips and slowly undulated her shoulders across the short distance, raising her neat backside higher. Her feet stayed precisely in the spot that she had planted them so that as she flowed across the space between us her knees parted ever wider until she reached her nicely gauged position, cunt and cock mere inches apart. Her smile widened as she torturously closed that gap. This was her trick, mesmerised by her snaky slithering approach, open mouthed with saliva drooling from my open lips and clear cum from my engorged prick, my gaze transfixed in anticipation, I actually saw that blue spark of volts cross the gap, her lightning igniting my overstretched muscles into spastic flexion and plunging me, uncontrolled, in a fit of delicious pain into her waiting maw, she forced me deep, collapsing into her hot wet snare. I have no idea if it was planned this way, but the instant that grinding connexion completed I was in the throes of orgasm, muscles wracked and wrecked, with wicked nails tearing into my thighs, pulling me deeper still she vibrated to my bow-taught release, screaming her ecstasy into the long, still, room. She called it "Blitzenfuck" * * The fifth time I went to that nightclub to seek her out (remember? The girl who danced to her own tune? Made those faces? The one who smiled at me? Yes?) Well she was still on my mind, even after Karen had used me and abused me and then dumped me for a faster model, after teaching me how to fuck properly, the Whirlwind as I thought of her, was still on my mind. And there she was. Still dancing, still blowing off the men and boys (blowing off in England means dismissing) and still I thought I might be in with a chance. So this time, I didn't wait until I was plastered, I didn't wait for the slow dance at the end of the evening and I didn't spend all night shyly looking and turning away. She was still making the weird signals to her friend (a different friend this time although she looked as though she might be related, same height, but a bit more up top and a little less below, immaculately plucked eyebrows and equally immaculate hair and make-up, surrounded by boys and men and never an empty glass, well out of my league) So when the Whirlwind smiled this time (at me!) I crinkled back and bit my bottom lip. She pointed and beckoned, inviting me to dance. Having learned the lesson after all this time, I didn't even try to talk to her, I just listened to the music and tried to work out what she was dancing to that I couldn't hear. It took me four records, shuffling and waving along with the rest but out of sync with her. Then towards the end of the fourth record, I forget what it was, I caught it, I remember I'd closed my eyes because of the sweat dripping from my hair and forehead and that's when the rhythm changed, the rhythm of my feet on the hardwood floor. When I opened my eyes, she was silently laughing, encouraging, and beckoning me into her tune. Opening my eyes though made me lose it. I was out of step with everyone except the Whirlwind and I couldn't capture it with my eyes open and so I faltered and fell into the music I could hear. But I did notice a change in her as she took my hand and pulled me from the dance floor towards her friend, pushing through the admirers and giving a couple of them a dig with her elbow so they'd let her pass, with me in her wake. When we were in front of her friend, causing most of the boys to dissipate into the crowd, the whirlwind began a different kind of dance. I caught snatches of sound and stood agape at her hands flying in design, weaving pictures aimed at her face. The sounds I heard were like words, but there were no lip sounds, no tongue sounds, no labials, (m, f) no plosives, (p, b) no sibilants, (s, c) just a weird crooning trying to convey sentences. But her friend (sister? Cousin?) seemed to understand it all, nodding, smiling and glancing at me. Deaf. She's deaf. I saw it now. She was doing deaf signing. Her hands making words and letters, her mouth and voice shaping words but unable to distinguish the sounds her own mouth was making. The Whirlwind took my hand once more and then took hold of her sister's hand and led us both away from the edge of the dance floor to one of the vacant tables near the wall, where we sat and for about half an hour while her sister translated what it was that the Whirlwind wanted to tell me. Her name was Storm. Hold your right index finger across the top of your nose touching your eyebrows. This was her personal name. It wasn't the name of hard rain or thunder and lightning it was one of Storm's distinguishing features, her mono-brow. The sign for Soda (her sister's name) was making a dimple in your chin, with your pointing finger. She fancied me (she was quite forthright) and was glad that I had learned how to dance. She wanted to know where I'd been all these weeks, as she'd been looking for me for ages. I began to tell Soda some tale or other and just as Storm prodded my shoulder Soda said "Tell Storm, not me. She's not stupid, just deaf. She can read your lips." "Sorry." I said to Soda, then did a double take and faced Storm to say the same. Then Soda put her hand on her chest and made a circling motion and mouthed the word "Sorry" I did the same and said it again to Storm, who immediately began the finger dance to her sister again which she duly translated. Storm wanted to dance again. I downed what was left of my drink and allowed myself to be dragged back to the floor and try to find Storm's tune. And I did. I didn't follow Storm, I didn't follow the other figures swaying and jerking to music, I didn't follow the music. I waited for perhaps half a minute and tried to hear what Storm heard. But Storm could hear nothing. So instead I tried to feel what Storm felt and there it was. Not just the base line, not just rhythmic pressure of the dance crowd, but something in between and it made me dance. I didn't have to dance to it, it made me dance. So I danced with the whirlwind. We even held a stuttering conversation, she reading every single thing I said and I searching hard for every word she repeated at least 3 times. Deaf. Touch the pad of your index and middle finger to your ear. Deaf. This time when the smoochies started, Storm didn't leave. She moved closer to me and placed her head on my chest, capturing me in her arms and gentleness. Sideways on Soda caught my eye and pointed at Storm. I lifted Storm's chin and indicated with my eyes. Soda signed "Are you OK?" Storm just smiled then closed her eyes and nodded her head against my chest, snuggling in. Soda waved at me, and, with her sternest expression mouthed "Look after her." I nodded assurance and she left. The music stopped and the lights came up some time later and Storm looked up at me and signed: dimple in chin, pointing with thumb, with quizzical expression. I confirmed "Soda has gone". With very obvious signs Storm indicated that I should walk her home. Delighted that I'd read it I agreed. When we reached the door there was a cluster of home goers scrunched into the passageway, out of rain that had just begun. Splotchy pavement and sail-rigged sky lit by a gibbous moon. Thunder Follows Lightning Storm battled her way through the throng, which parted quite willingly, pulling me along as her painter. I pointed at the row of taxis loading transients and Storm tossed her hair in the negative then held her face up to the downpour. Point at chest, cross hands over heart (sternum, not the left side) then wave fingers as your hands float downwards, "I love the rain" (See, easy isn't it?) I shrugged and rolled my eyes as Storm led us into the dark wet. With slip shod shoes I trailed after Storm who seemed to delight in being wet. She kicked through puddles, deliberately walked underneath broken down pipes, laughed at people huddled in doorways staring miserably at the skies. Now that's odd. I've just remembered. She did laugh. Out loud. Not hahaha but a kind of rising shuddering screech, as though it was the oddness that struck her rather than the humour. I'm glad I remembered that. The rain showed no sign of relenting and neither did Storm in her crazy dance through the night slick rain. I haven't told you what she was wearing have I? A peasant skirt. A peasant blouse, those early seventies hippy blouses, what were they called? Cheesecloth. You know the kind. Only now it was wet cheesecloth. I don't think cheesecloth is supposed to be wet. Or at least not worn when wet. This was quite amazing, to me at least. So there I was in the middle of the local park cum gardens, in faint dawning light, soaked through to the skin watching this madwoman standing in the rain staring up at the drops as they fell mercilessly onto her welcoming face. The first bolt of lightning was about 15 miles away. Storm shrieked her delight and I counted. I always counted because I liked that power. Knowing how far it was and as it progressed trying to guess if it was moving towards me or away. When the thunder sounded Storm gave no signal that she had felt its broadcast, she simply turned this way and that looking for the next strike. Hands crossed over heart then point up. "I love it." Draw a zig-zag line with your index finger in the air. "Lightning" I scanned the skies and suddenly an urgent hand patted me on the shoulder. I didn't get what she mouthed and couldn't understand the sign. Open palms at chest height facing upwards, making circular motions. She pointed at the sky and did the sign again. I still didn't get it. She took my hand and pencilled letters on the palm with her fingers. "Where?" I made a quizzical face and shrugged. "What?" She signed "Lightning. Where?" I nodded and turned slightly pointing. And magically I pointed at exactly the place that the second bolt split the sky. Storm screamed. I counted to eleven. Storm pushed my shoulder. She pointed at me and signed "Lightning". "You. Lightning." Then she did something with her fingers. Sliding palms over tips in a blur of motion. She lifted my chin to look at her as she mouthed something, which I couldn't read. Her silken, sopping fingers took my hand again as she traced letters for me to read. T. H. O. R. then stood back and pointed and did the finger sign again. "Thor. Lightning. You." I grinned wildly and pointed again at the sky. And sure enough, lightning lit the clouds. We stood under the pouring heavens; mouths agape, staring at each other and then both began laughing madly and, taking each other's hands, started dancing in a whirling circle. Thor and his peasant screaming at the sky. As we twirled faster, so the lightning forged nearer, 10 seconds (still counting) 7 seconds and this time I could tell that Storm felt the thunder as it rent the air, shuddering our bones and quaking our hearts. But still we spun as dervishly as we could, defying the night and the rain and the heavens. Then, sooner than I expected there was no counting. There was no night. There was rain and arc-light and ear-clapping noise. And that's when Storm hit. Soft wet limbs encircled me in frantic haste, knocking me down to pin me with her womanly strength to the sodden earth, screaming like a banshee as counterpoint to the dull, aching roar that assailed our wits and our selves. She lifted her head as the sound ebbed, leaving me as feeling as though I were deaf, until she articulated a questioning mew. I smiled with relief at that small sound. I essayed a sentence. Point at self. Point at temple. Press pads of index and middle finger to ear. "I thought I was deaf," She laughed. I smiled with pleasure as I realised our position. Storm was astride me, her belly pressed to mine, her breasts hanging loosely, nipples caressing my chest as her laughter shook her body. In the middle of the pouring rain and soaked to the bone I felt the stirring of an erection. After a short while, Storm felt it too. Once more the night was banished by electrical light and I stared into the eyes of Storm. Her nostrils flared and I responded by flashing my eyes in question. She answered by locking her lips to mine and pressing her body into me. Her tongue rifled my mouth as her fingers gripped locks of hair at the back of my up tilted head and I found myself in the middle of two storms, one of the sky and one of the flesh. Neither less savage than the other. Storm's almost rabid insistence dispelled any doubts I might have had when she reared up and pulled open my shirt, tearing cloth and buttons alike to rub her cheek against the sparse hair of my chest, and then sending aching thrills across my shoulders as her small teeth bit gently at my throat and jaw and all the while grinding her hips into mine, sliding her groin against the stiff ridge in my trousers. As she released my head I made a motion as if to follow her rising but she pushed me down and settled back to sit across my hips, still grinding her wet-clad pussy across my fully hard cock. She sat there for a while, her face upturned to the deluge, while I strained to see through crystal dropped eyelashes, fighting a losing battle with the rain for a clear view of this astounding woman. Reaching forward I laid my hands on Storm's rippling thighs, enjoying the feel of muscles sliding beneath skin and cloth, careless of the rain and concentrating on the rhythmic action of her barely controlled frotting. As the urgency of Storm increased, so her body began to angle downwards, her back arched to make better contact in the right place. With her hands on either side of my shoulders, her hair shielding my face, I urged Storm onwards to her own electric plateau, pressing my fingers and palms into her backside, pulling her onwards. Her frantic tempo slowed as she built low and deep, at last finding the perfect purchase for her clit. Then, without breaking the stride of her hips she started grinding against me and tried desperately to pull loose her skin slick cheesecloth shirt. With rare insight I divined her desire and opened the few buttons, which restrained the material and, torn between insistence and need, Storm found her balance to insert fingers below each cup of her bra and pulled upwards to free her breasts. As she fell forward once again she moved her body slightly upwards and wiped the rain from my cheek with her breast, bringing her long taught nipple to my hungry mouth. I sucked in, biting gently down around, past the areola and swirled my tongue about the nipple. Storm moaned, partly from the feeling of my mouth but mostly, I think, because her haste had lost her place. She searched with her hips for a few frustrating seconds and then pulled free of my mouth, which made her whole body shudder, and sat back across my thighs, dejectedly Storm took my hand once more, to write on my palm: c.o.n.d.o.m. When I shook my head in reply her shoulders drooped and she snorted resignedly. Making very obvious signs with circled fingers and poking index she mouthed "No fuck." And then signs including shaking her head, which ended with "pregnant" which I took to mean that she didn't want to take the chance. Remembering Soda's sign to her sister from earlier I signed "O.K." Circle finger and thumb then make scissors. O.K. Grinning broadly, Storm pointed then made an open fingers, palms facing, opposite circling motion and then a thumb. "You sign. Good." And without further ado pulled down the waistband of my trousers, grabbed my cock in her fist and proceeded to wank me. I propped myself on one elbow and took her hand from my cock (not without some regret) and shook my head. She looked into my eyes then signed "O.K." and took hold once more; this time with both hands along the length, squeezing and pumping fast enough to make her naked tits jiggle. I stopped her again and pointed at her. She shrugged. So I pressed my hands to the floor and spread my knees dumping Storm on to the grass, with her calves across my thighs and feet either side of my hips, then pulled her close to feel her still hardened nipples poking into my chest. I hugged her closer, as the rain poured rivers between our bodies and once more Storm began her gyrations, lifting her arse from the floor and grinding the heat of her still clothed cunt across my bare prick. Then she reached between our bodies into her crotch and I felt wiry hair brushing my cock as she pulled her panties to the side. No. Not to the side. She pulled the sodden material into a string along the crack of her cunt, splaying her lips either side of my erection and drawing her clit down its length. Then I felt the heels of her feet pull hard into the small of my back as she suddenly began to drive herself towards that refound peak. I gripped her arse in clawed fingers, making her mew and cling more tightly and then she gasped as I pressed a finger into her puckered little hole. Her eyes flew open with surprise and delight and she nodded vigorously at me, wanting to push deeper. I gently eased the finger in to the second knuckle as she struggled to relax behind and at the same time keep that delicious silken contact in front. With a slight adjustment I made her hiss with desire as I probed a finger into her cunt, past her string taught defence. Storm pulled her head back and showed me two fingers then nodded encouragement. She continued rocking as closely as she could whilst at the same time pushing from her anus to allow entry. I withdrew the now well-lubricated finger from her crack and insinuated it with its fellow into her other opening. Storm pressed two fingers into my back, indicated the movement she wanted me to mimic in the rear. Now she began to squirm, wriggling on my fingers. She leaned back once more and flashed her eyes then made the obvious signal with two hands. "Fuck." When I realised her intent I wriggled those fingers in her arse and raised quizzical eyebrows. "Fuck your arse?" She nodded excitedly and with her arms around my neck, pulled herself to her feet, my fingers jerking from her backside. Before she could step to the side I plunged my face into her crotch and took her cunt lips wholly into my mouth. Storm put her hands to the back of my head and pulled me inwards. I pulled her knickers from her hips as she lifted one foot from the floor and then drove my tongue deep into her frothing wetness, whilst she held her dripping skirt in one hand and a hank of my hair in the other. Licking up the crack of her cunt I found her clit, which made her yank my hair, forcing my face hard into her mons. I pushed two fingers into her, and felt stomach muscles contract at the slippery invasion. Then she bent her knees slightly, extending the invitation to slide the same fingers into her arse hole. Now she was on the edge, with muscles straining and shivering her whole body, as the wet cascaded down, sweat, and rain and cum, down my chin and throat to fall along the rivulets down my chest. Her convulsive orgasm made her cry out in tiny staccato sounds, quivering her belly and driving her onto my face in time with the rhythm of her cries. Eventually she collapsed onto the grass, entangled in my arms and legs, we fucked each other's mouths with our tongues and then she slid slowly backwards, her back flat to the earth, smiling, enticing. Lifting her knees in the air, she took hold of her arse cheeks and pulled the skin inviting entry. I knelt between her legs and she reached for my cock, pausing to watch its pulsating twitch, then she ran the length up and down her glistening twat her eyes twinkled as she held the glans at her pouting lower lips, almost daring me to push. I glowered, she laughed. In return I put first two and then three fingers into her as she made little "oh" sounds with every penetration. Then, as gently as I was able, I pushed one, then two and eventually three fingers into her widening arse hole, making her gasp with every entry. Reaching between her legs she took hold of my cock and pulled me forwards. Her hips fell to the floor and she pushed at the touch of the swollen head, both gently and eagerly I entered her, while she enveloped me. Her hands on my chest made me pause as she adjusted to the sensation and then her hands on my hips pulled me onwards. Impaled about half way down my shaft bade me fuck her slowly. I could do no other, I knew that if I moved with any sort of speed that I would spurt into her within seconds, it was beautifully agonising and the look on Storm's face told a similar story. The joint of Storm's knees were now resting on the joints of my elbows as I sawed into her, becoming more deliberate and fractionally deeper with each stroke, until I was balls deep in her arse. Her hands moved from my belly as things became less uncomfortable and slid through a skein of water over her breasts, down her belly, through the folds of her skirt to rest delicately on her pussy, as if she were afraid to disturb the sensations emanating from nearby. She poked the very tip of her left index finger through the hair and into the folds of her moist flesh, barely penetrating whilst the middle and index finger circled and flicked across her clitoris, bringing her waves of muscular contractions in counterpoint to my building rhythm. When, after a slow build, the fingers strumming her clit began to increase in pace I took the signal to pick up my own pace and pleasure and quicker than I knew there came that familiar staccato stutter from her lips as she orgasmed powerfully into the wet empty night. Feeling my own imminent pressure increasing I slowed to a long drawn shafting of her arse hole sliding easily and quickly now back into those depths. Without warning, on the out stroke, Storm slithered back and took hold of my cock in two fists, from root to head and I watched fascinated as the blood from her dripped through her closed fingers pinking in the rain. Amazed at my own reaction I stiffened when she released her hold and bent her head to take the whole of my cock into her throat as she firmly but ever so softly gripped my scrotum in her hand. I howled rolling thunder as the lightning of release coursed through me and Storm's fingers once again gripped tightly around my cock, pumping spunk into her hair, onto her face to wash away down her exposed throat and heaving breasts. We called it Thunderfuck.