Story 3: Screaming in the Rain
By: Larissa Lyons
Radio personality “Stormy Allen” had made a fortuitous discovery this summer, one facilitated by her negligent landlord and Mother Nature.
Mid-September
3:22 p.m.
The coffee table, packed with gauze, scissors and medical tape, was shoved to the side. Leather couch moved just a hair.
She was in position.
On the floor.
Naked.
Reclining on her favorite beach towel, the plush velour one. Colorful tropical fish undulated across the turquoise waves hidden beneath her back. A few feet to her left, the ceiling fan whirled overhead.
Just the thought of what was coming had desire building between her legs.
3:23 p.m.
According to Helicopter Hal that morning—the new pilot hired in early July—who’d informed his audience to the backdrop of the blades’ tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk, “Today’s forecast includes a twenty percent chance of afternoon thundershowers. Expect highs near ninety-five. Lows tonight in the mid-seventies. In traffic, the West Loop is backed up as usual…”
Right. As if everyone in Houston doesn’t know that late-summer afternoons equal a one-hundred percent chance of rain. Humid and muggy are a given too.
It had also been raining on the 4th. Ironic, how on Independence Day, one could lose theirs.
Ah, but she was gaining hers back...a little more each day. She’d just left a voicemail for the new maintenance guy. The one who came on duty at half past three.
3:24 p.m.
Artistic pieces of colored glass lined every windowsill of the top floor downtown loft apartment. Glass dildos.
Her latest obsession.
Fireworks hadn’t proved very healthy. Maybe the dildos would.
3:25 p.m.
She used to be known as the hotshot who flew through the air, single-handedly handling the heli and her traffic reports.
Now she was known as the midnight DJ with a single hand. The hotshot who didn’t know how to handle a lit firework.
Two and a half months since the accident and she was back at work, back to her old self (hardly) and flat on her back evaluating glass dongs because she hadn’t yet screwed up the courage to be intimate with a flesh and blood one.
Her flesh, her blood—both blown sky-high.
Not a pretty picture. Nor were her screams.
But the plastic surgeon was right. The scar was barely noticeable.
The missing fingers, part of her hand?
Now that was noticeable.
3:26 p.m.
Swirling blue clashed with zigzagged red. Purple lines intersected with lime-colored dots.
Vibrant hues streaked across the ivory Berber creating jagged rainbows. Where ever one dildo was perched in front of another, kaleidoscopes shimmied in the sunlight.
A single burst of wind whistled through the cracked window over the sink, blowing in the metallic scent of the approaching storm.
Right on time.
Stormy smiled and wiggled her nude butt against the soft towel.
3:27 p.m.
Low rumbles of thunder growled beyond the warehouse-type roof.
The light of the sun shone brighter through the curtainless windows, as if compressed by the wicked grey clouds marching in from the south.
The dildos sparkled. Winked at her. Beckoning. But she dismissed them all. Still too heavy to wield without dropping. She knew. She’d tried yesterday.
Her healing right hand winced at the memory.
And she hadn’t yet learned to masturbate worth a shit with her left.
Which one would she choose, though, if things were different? If she could ply one of the enticing sex toys against her flesh as easily as the thought occurred? The raised pink spiral? The one with the angled tip—intended for anal play, she suspected… Or perhaps the slim yet bulbous one?
Stormy imagined the sensation of closing her fully intact right hand around the sun-warmed glass. Imagined grasping a different dong from the corner, one resting in shade. Instead of heat, the chill of hard, smooth crystal met her palm. Greeted her furred mons. Slid lower and glided between the engorged lips of her pussy…
3:28 p.m.
The electric tang of ozone reached her nose. Mixed with the scent of sex. Hers.
Another crack of thunder blasted, this one closer and rattling the windows.
Her entire vagina contracted in response, protesting the delay and its lack of dick. Weeping at its loss. Weeping for what was to come.
She was.
Stormy grinned, fisted both hands in the towel, flinched, intentionally tightened her grip then spread her legs. And waited.
3:29 p.m.
The angry clouds advanced. Moved in front of the sun, shut off the beaming spotlight that had sent reflections of her dildos dancing across the floor and over her skin.
With every minute that ticked by, the storm grew closer and Stormy grew wetter.
3:30 p.m.
She unclenched her left hand from the towel and brought it to her naked breast. Tweaked a nipple. Raised her hand to her mouth, licked her fingers and tweaked again. Pinched.
Moaned.
Her hips bucked, humping the air.
3:31 p.m.
3:32 p.m.
3:33 p.m.
Just when she began to wonder if her afternoon plans were a bust, she heard it. A light patter at first. Followed by a few solid pings. A couple of loud plops. And then it hit—a giant deluge that rang against the loft, battered her windows, pounded the roof.
Stormy propped one leg on the coffee table and shifted her pelvis. Mentally started the countdown.
Five, four…three…two… Lift off!
3:34 p.m.
Because just like clockwork, that twenty percent chance of rain became a one-hundred percent chance of orgasm as water began its reliable drip, drip, drip from the ceiling.
She abandoned her breasts. Too eager for any extended foreplay (as if the entire day hadn’t already been such), she balanced herself on her left elbow and with the two remaining fingers on her right hand, spread her cunt lips wide then flexed her hips until her clit was centered directly under the steady stream drizzling straight in.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plopplopplopplop.
Water cascaded over her sex-swollen flesh, flowing faster with every second the generous clouds remained overhead. Pummeling her clit. Watering her pussy. The downpour stoking the fire within more satisfyingly than any glass cock wielded by her own clumsy hand ever could.
Close. She was so close. Yet her pussy screamed for more. Her mind grappled, searched for something—someone?—to land upon.
The half-anticipated, hoped-for knock sounded on her door. “Ms. Allen? Got your message!”
And there he was—a flesh and blood man to imagine. To think of his cock pressing against her folds, thrusting inside her hollow. Filling her to—
A heavier knock. “Ms. Allen?”
—overflowing! Her hips lifted, riding the barrage rushing over her clit.
Pound, pound, pound went the fist of the new maintenance man, the one now fucking her in her mind.
Pound, pound, pound went the torrent of rain over her already drenched pussy.
This guy was reliable; third day in a row he’d been up the moment the rain came down. How fortuitous it happened to coincide with his arrival at work. She’d heard he was single. Knew he was built. Three stories up, one has a great view of the parking lot.
Her fingers joined the fray. Fresh rainwater mixed with viscous bodily fluids.
Slick. Thick. Better than any bath faucet or showerhead had a hope of. Better than any glass dong. Today, at least.
“Ms. Allen? Uh…Stormy?” his deep voice called again and every syllable flowed down her spine and promised to detonate in her pussy. “Can’t get on the roof until it dries up. Wanted to see just where it’s coming in. Ms. Allen!”
She bit her lips against the scream that threatened.
“Stormy?” She heard him try his key and felt his fingers pinching her breasts, his hand caressing between her legs…
The inside slide lock held.
Felt him plying that angled glass cock at her ass while his cock surged inside her passage. His cock...
Lightning exploded in her pussy, lit up her clit like a handful of homemade firecrackers. Only this time the result was spectacular. Her entire abdomen strained with the release that sparked through each cell, bringing light and ecstasy to every dark corner. God, yes! she barely avoided yelling.
She wrenched her pelvis to the side, pressed her knees together and tensed her whole body, screaming in her mind,Yes! Yesssss!
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Screaming in the rain.
Plop. Plop.
His heavy footsteps retreated, the diminishing sound echoing the quivering aftershocks shaking her thighs. Pure repletion filled every limb, flooded her mind, as she floated back to her fish-covered towel, to the slowing drip…drip…drip landing against her ankle.
Ms. Allen, he’d called, pounding on her door, pounding between her legs.
Uh…Stormy? She liked the way he’d said it, as if he was curious about her too.
Maybe when he came back tomorrow, she’d let him in—greet him from her twenty-percent-rain/one-hundred-percent-orgasm position on the floor.
Then again, maybe she’d wait until October.
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