The Storm

I’m happy to say that my first post of the year is for Marie Rebel’s Wicked Wednesday meme. This was the first meme I started writing for, many years ago. Since then, I’ve contributed to the meme dozens of times, and it is always one of my favorite places to go for a good prompt. Lately, I’ve been struggling with ideas, and finding that erotic place within myself. But I feel a stirring…a pleasant warmth growing from deep within. I’d like to think that’s where this story (in a series of 11 vignettes) came from.

Also, it’s raining here tonight. I can hear it on the skylight in my office. The lights are low, and I’m alone, drinking hot chocolate and whiskey. Mr. D is at work late. And I’ve sat here, crafting this story, closing my eyes, imagining my characters’ bodies moving…the energy that they share, even though layers of sheetrock and insulation separate them. They share a storm. They share sound. And they share passion. I’d like to think that is how we humans find one another…being drawn together by nature and art and performance.



The young woman looked out the window, her eyes tracking the brown and orange leaves as they tumbled upward with the autumn wind. They swirled and cascaded like a flock of swallows dancing low above the asphalt.

Music echoed from the apartment above. It imposed a rhythm on the leaves’ frenetic movement, forcing them into submission…a lullaby…

She thought it might be a violin.


The young man watched the wind blow, taking his musical cues from the weather. He played from his soul, the pace of his notes slowing and increasing as the clouds moved with eerie quickness across the sky, creating a charcoal background for the trees to sway against.

He imagined them as beautiful women in a smoky jazz bar, dancing, shedding their last bits of clothing…silk and satin and lace in neutral tones, blending into the ground at their feet.

He played for them.


She closed her eyes and listened, letting go of the cars and buildings outside. She could hear the wind picking up and the branches tapping against the side of the apartment building. A faint whistling grew to a howl as the gusts built in intensity.


The rain came quickly, like buckets of water dumped from heaven, and the sky darkened to black. Flashes of lightning preceded the low rumbling of thunder. The young man followed the voice of the wind, his bow moving more quickly, his body undulating with the hills and valleys of the notes.

He played by ear and instinctively knew how to accompany other musicians. It was a gift.

Tonight he was playing a duet with the storm.


The lightning strobed, illuminating the room in flashes. The young woman reclined against the couch, her head back, neck exposed, eyes closed.

She was listening hard…imagining his fingers pressing against the strings, his hands holding the instrument, his body moving up and down as the notes fell softer or grew louder.

She imagined herself as the violin, his fingers on her skin, pressing, his hands hold her, his body moving against her.

She spread her legs, pulled her skirt up her thighs, peeled the crotch of her panties aside, and touched herself.


The rain pelted the roof above him, mimicking the sound of raucous applause. It bolstered him and drew from him a furious crescendo, the strings of his bow beginning to break free, rivulets of sweat sliding down the sides of his face.

He closed his eyes and lost himself in the sounds…the wind…the scratching of the limbs against the siding, the tapping of the leaves against the window…the rain…the groaning, growling bass of the thunder.

And somewhere, underneath all of it, he thought he could hear a young woman moaning.


A floor beneath him, she pleasured herself to the rhythm of his soul and the music of the storm. She reached beneath her shirt and squeezed her breasts, pinched the nipples. She slid her fingers deep inside of herself and rubbed her palm against her swollen clit.

Her back arched and she bit her lip.

She was close…so close.


He played softer, listening for her voice, and the song took on a seductive quality.


She lay on the bare floor, the wood planks cold against her naked skin. Shirt pulled up, breasts bouyant and bobbing, nipples erect and searching, she rolled from side to side, legs opening and closing as her hand moved expertly between her own thighs.

She bucked her hips upward, holding herself in a bridge position, her sex high above heart, reaching toward the ceiling.

The young woman closed her eyes tightly, sweat collecting on her brow and upper lip.


The musician, overcome by the quieting applause of the rain above and the distant sound of a woman climaxing below him, found the end of his song.

In the silence after the storm, he stood, looking out at the lights of the city at night. The colors bled together as the rain dripped down the glass. Smears of red and yellow and blue blended together to created a Pollack-like impression on the window. In the black of his living room, he stood, violin and bow hanging at his sides, chest heaving from exertion.


Arms at her sides, legs splayed wide, the young woman sinks in to the floor, every muscle spent and shaking.

She hears the rain against the window, the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, and…just maybe…the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.


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