Message-ID: <40087asstr$1040883020@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: usenet From: Passing4human X-Original-Message-ID: <3E0A6A53.39A8C224@airmail.net> Abuse-Reports-To: abuse at airmail.net to report improper postings X-Accept-Language: en X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Wed, 25 Dec 2002 20:32:51 -0600 Subject: {ASSM} A Tryst with the Storm Queen (MF "1st" Rom Drug Magic?) Date: Thu, 26 Dec 2002 01:10:20 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, gill-bates -- To reply, get the lead out. <1st attachment, "Tryst_with_the_storm_queen.doc" begin> CAVEATS & DISCLAIMERS About the following work: The characters were taken from supermarkets and shopping malls, movies & TV, family gatherings, religious gatherings, random encounters, intimate encounters, and the works of better writers than me. All are fictitious. None is wholly the author. It may contain any or all of: graphic depictions of sexual activity and/or violence, coarse and/or suggestive language, emotionally charged situations, views and occurrences at odds with your ideology and/or beliefs. If this offends you, please consider reading something else. If you are underage, wait until you can legally read it. You'll be shocked at how fast the years will pass. If your government forbids you to read such material, why are you wasting time with this crap? Foment a revolution! Avoid driving or operating heavy machinery while reading it. Refrain from making important life decisions while under its influence. That was the foreplay. Now here's the story. Brace yourself. A Tryst with the Storm Queen By Passing4human After two years in college I'd decided to take a break and see the world. President Nixon's minions decided that the part of the world I needed to see was Vietnam. Oh, it's not like I came back with a headfull of combat trauma; as a supply clerk in Saigon the only shot I ever heard fired in anger was from a drunk Marine arguing with a madame. The Army trained, clothed, fed, and housed me, bestowed the rank of corporal upon me, then a year later restored my civilanhood with an honorable discharge and a taste for exotic pharmaceuticals. Once I was safely back in Dallas I struck up a business acquaintance with a purveyor of brain toys who called himself Savage Henry. Henry was pleased to be of service to a discerning connoisseur like myself, and had recently introduced me to his Special Blend. "A mix of eleven secret herbs and spices", he beamed, "including the abhorred twelfth spice, the one that scared Col. Sanders". I considered the Colonel's fear foolishly timid. Lately I had found that I could maximize my enjoyment of the Blend by ingesting a respectable dose, waiting until it was just about to kick in, then stepping into a hot shower. Each steaming droplet of water burst against my skin in ecstatic color. The sound of the water was like transcendent music: masculine when it rumbled against the tub, feminine when it rattled against the shower curtain, a divine visitation when it pounded on my head. I would stay in the shower until the water cooled (itself a delicious sensation), then pull open the curtain and step out into foggy bathroom, with the feeling that somewhere an audience watched my entrance, avid to see and savor my every move. Today, however, for some reason, I turned off the shower sooner than usual. Because the water had still been hot the bathroom was like a sauna. I opened the bathroom door and the cool, dry, air-conditioned air from the hall poured in and slid under the warm, moist, atmosphere inside. I sat down on the toilet seat and watched dreamily as a string of foot-high cumulus clouds boiled up along the boundary between the air masses, their tops the color, texture, and size of cauliflower. Soon they had all disintegrated except for one standing dead center on the dry-line. It drifted away, growing as it absorbed the tattered remnants of its cohorts, and I followed it on hands and knees as it floated into the hall. By now it was over four feet tall and had turned an ominous dark gray. It hovered two feet in the air and a milky white pseudo-cirrus top stretched away towards the kitchen. Lightning flickered, strobe-like, striking sparks from the wooden floor; how would I explain it to my Mom? The hall was filled with the snap of thunder, the whisper of microburst, and, finally, the almost inaudible susurrus of rain. Now, thin streaks of pearliness began falling from the cloud's base: hail, rattling faintly on the floor. A pizza-sized wall cloud popped down and began boiling and spinning violently. And finally, a funnel cloud, extending hesitantly from the cloud base, then thickening and lengthening until it met the floor. I imagined the mosquito-like whine of emergency sirens, terrified dust mites running for tiny storm shelters. If hallucinations were art this was a masterpiece. Without warning my masterpiece doubled over and began thrashing in place, an impossible convulsion for a real thunderstorm. A second funnel cloud slid down beside the first and they waltzed around each other, growing longer as the cloud's base began to rise. The wall cloud continued its violent whirling and expanded outward and downward, hiding the tornadoes' upper reaches. The main body of the cloud twisted violently and two broad bands of cloud peeled off and flung themselves out, becoming...arms. The tornadoes' feet became feet in fact, with ankles and toes, the pseudo cirrus became a cascade of hair outstretched by centrifugal force, and the rest of the cloud constricted and congealed into a rapidly pirouetting woman. She stopped spinning with the sound of tires squealing on pavement and shook her head violently with a loud gargling noise. "WoooOO!" she exclaimed. She was about two inches shorter than my 6' 1", with the solid muscular build of a weightlifter or swimmer. Her eyes were large, dark brown, and widely spaced, topped by thick brows. Her butt, broad hips, and large, rounded breasts all seemed designed to draw cupped hands like a magnet. A dark gray sundress revealed a great deal of skin. It was the blue color of that Hare Krishna guy. "Oops", she said, and gave a violent twitch. She was now the dark brown of a New Delhi native, a skin tone then rare and exotic in Dallas. It clashed weirdly with the great cascade of platinum blonde hair. "Picky, picky." She snapped her head forward with inhuman speed and I scuttled back as that great mass of hair whipped at me, throwing off whiteness as if it were water and becoming a beautiful glossy black. "Better?" From the air she plucked a barrette in the form of a stylized thunderstorm, crossed by a zig-zag of lightning that gleamed and flashed with more than reflected light. "Sorry for the wog outfit, I just got here from the Bay of Bengal." I thought I saw bluish light flicker around her arms and shoulders as she bound up her hair. When she'd finished she studied me. "You must be the mortal. Why hast thou summoned me?" The closest I could come to speech was a dry click in my throat. She cocked her head. "What a lovely glottal stop, you should take up Arabic." She enjoyed my discomfiture for a moment or two, then grinned. "Sorry, trick question. Fact is, I invited myself. After I finish a big job like the one I just did in East Pakistan I feel the need for a little...rest and relaxation, if you know what I mean and I think you do." She looked me in the eye and smiled. By now I was capable of limited speech. "Who are you?" I stammered. "I've gone by so many names." she mused. "Kali. Chalchihuitlicue. Oya. Kamikaze." She began ticking off on her fingers. "1588. 1900. 1926. 1938. 1953." She smiled dreamily. "But for now you may call me the Storm Queen. You may address me as 'your majesty', 'my lady', or", she paused, "my beloved. Any lese-majesty like 'Hey you' or 'Yo, babe!' and I erase your trailer park and tree your pickup." She looked into my eyes, and I was sipped entire, tasted, judged, and returned to my vessel. "And you are Corporal Dennis William Carney, U.S. Army (Retired), Vietnam vet, bon vivant a la chemie. And..." Her eyes lit up with surprise and delight. "And you're still virgin! At your age? After a year in Saigon?" I remembered the bed partners available to a lowly corporal in Saigon. As if on cue, a street whore appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, famine-thin, wearing an electric blue halter and hot pants, thick makeup almost hiding a halo of cold sores around her mouth. She lifted her skirt to show her stock in trade and grinned. "Hey, soldier, you like? Five dollar 'merican." Her teeth were stained red and her dark eyes held less warmth than a crow's. She might have been fifteen years old. "Yeesh, no wonder you're still virgin." The Storm Queen flicked her hand and the apparition sneered and vanished. "But that is going to change. Now. Excuse me while I get comfortable." She gestured and her sundress became a nimbus of dissipating scud. "Ah, much better." She walked up to me, draped her arms around my shoulders, and pressed my body against her. I was suddenly so hot for her that I was afraid I'd take her by force. My excitement grew as she rubbed my back, my sides; it was like being caressed by heavy machinery, frighteningly arousing. I ran my hands down her flanks, over her hips, reached around to squeeze her buttocks, crushing her against me, feeling gentle electric shocks where my skin touched hers. She moved herself against me, swaying her hips and rubbing against my hardness. "Lightning rod", she whispered, and giggled. She smelled of fresh rain, of ozone. She ran her hands down my back, crushing me to her and I held her tighter, unable to get enough contact with that magnificent body. "Now then, Corporal Carney", she breathed. "We are gonna go, you and I, into yonder boo-dwar. And make. Some serious. Whoo-pee." She led me to the bedroom, our arms around each other; I was glad for the support, since lust and nervous anticipation had left my legs less able than otherwise to keep me standing. We walked to the bed and I'd turned to face her, trying to seat her on the bed, when she stopped me. "Weather on top", she whispered, and smiled. She looked into my eyes and kissed me, first on one corner of my mouth, then on the other, finally long and hot fully on my lips. Her breathing quickened. My breathing labored as she pressed me to her in a bone-crushing embrace. Finally, with no exertion whatsoever, she picked me up, laid me out on my back, then climbed on top, straddling my hips. "You're aggressive. I like that in a man." she said, and grinned. She ran her hands over my belly, my chest, teasing my nipples. I did the same to her and she moaned in a surprisingly low-pitched voice. She bent over, wrapped her arms around me, and lifted the upper half of my body, crushing me against her breasts. I wrapped my arms around her and hung on for dear life, partly because I very much wanted to, partly because I was so excited I was afraid I might fly off if I didn't. My erection was so hard and urgent it was almost painful. She bent her head and kissed me, running the tip of her tongue across my lips. Then she became perfectly still and she looked into my eyes. Ready? she seemed to ask. I answered by kissing her and holding her, hard, and writhing between her legs. She gave a quiet chuckle and lowered herself onto me. Lowered onto? It was more like she seized and devoured me in one gulp, and I gasped at the moist heat and pressure around my manhood. She began an exquisitely slow pumping against my groin. I cried out, softly, the sensations too intense for me to do so loudly, and crushed her against me, hard. She made a rumbling noise somewhere deep in her throat, a noise almost like thunder, which was strange because I'd heard that the thunder always came *after* the lightning. And lightning there was, striking me squarely in the crotch and passing throughout my body; only electricity could account for the convulsion that shook and tautened my toes feet legs belly arms neck face, forcing a single yelp from my throat. It must have struck her too, because she gave a long shuddering sigh and held me so tight I started seeing flashes of light in the darkness that had crept into the edges of my field of vision. And after the thunder and lightning, of course, comes the rain; I could feel the moisture, mine and hers, collecting where the lightning had struck. She lay on top of me for what seemed like an endless time, thankfully resting most of her weight on her elbows. I looked into her eyes, shivering at the timeless superhuman wisdom I saw there. Afterwards I lay there, my ribs and other parts pleasantly sore as she straddled me, stroking my chest and sides, crooning and chuckling softly to herself. As I basked in post-coital bliss (my first!) I became aware of something cold and wet on my stomach and chest. Looking down, I could see my semen drying undisturbed where it had splattered. But how could that be? Not only had I been inside her the entire time, it would have smeared when she'd snuggled against me. I couldn't see anything on her belly, but reached up anyway to see what I could feel, only to yank my hand back in shock as it sank into her body. "Hey, that tickles!" she giggled. Hesitantly I touched her again and found firm female flesh, impossibly clean and dry. "One of the little fringe benefits of being a goddess." She gave me a playful squeeze with her thighs that almost broke my hips, then lay down next to me, snuggling and running her fingers along my belly. "Dennis", she said softly, "I'm going say something that sends most men running in terror for the door." She put her mouth against my ear and whispered a single word: "Marriage." She smiled. "Think about it. You could have a goddess for a lover. Could do what we just did and more, any time, any place." She ran her hand down my chest, my belly. "I'd never grow old, and I'd be at your side for the rest of your life. I could even make myself over into somebody else, if you'd like." She touched my manhood, playfully, teasingly ran her fingers over and around it. "Sure, there'd be drawbacks. Nobody but you could see me. You wouldn't be able to introduce me to others, and they might have trouble understanding what we have between us. On the other hand, nobody could take me away from you. There are men who would cheerfully kill for a lover like that." She smiled. "And all you need to do to make me yours is keep taking that Special Blend you get from your friend. 'With this shit I thee wed'." Shegrinned. My rapid breathing and pounding heartbeat had nothing whatsoever to do with arousal or nervousness at her proposal. She had taken to idly grasping my manhood, pulling it up, erect, to over twice its size, then blasting it with a lightning bolt from her fingertip, causing it split asunder and collapse in flaming ruin. Three times in row she did this. Soundlessly. Painlessly. She saw my look of horror and giggled with embarrassment. "Oops! Sorry, I get kinda playful, you know, after." I found myself desperately wishing I could evade her attentions and nearly fainted when my genitals were sucked into a puckered hole on my crotch. "Hey, hide-n-seek!" She reached in and pulled, restoring my privates to their normal appearance. "Your majesty", I gasped, "I am not worthy of you!" I was trying with terrible desperation to be diplomatic, placating. She snorted. "Men! Mortal or otherwise, they never commit!" but to my intense relief she didn't seem greatly offended. Instead, she looked chagrined at her recent forwardness. "Somehow I suspected your answer was going to be 'no'", she said with sad resignation. She sniffed and dabbed at her eye. There was the sudden rattle of rain on the roof, startled yelps outside from the neighbors' back yard. "But at least we shared this special moment", she breathed, and took me in one of her bone-crushing embraces. Then, to my unease, she thoughtfully studied me. "You know, Dennis, you're alone all the time and I just don't think it's good for you. I mean, look how quickly you succumbed to my charms. Promiscuity is such a bad trip!" She was silent for a while, then brightened. "I know! There's a mortal who lives in this area, a devotee of mine. You and she must become acquainted. You should find her...interesting." She grinned. "It'll take about a year to arrange." I stared at her. "A year?" "Oh yes. These things take time to do right." "Uh, okay. What do I do in the meantime?" "In the meantime you make yourself into a man worthy of my devotee." She looked around my room. I did the same, seeing it with halfway sober eyes for the first time in...how long had it been? Dirty clothes covered nearly every surface, hung from every projection; what on earth had I been wearing? Mingled with the laundry were take-out containers from a nearby Chinese restaurant, all too many of them sporting fur coats. I counted three roaches, four, staring incuriously at the scene on the bed, then left off counting with a shudder. As for the bed itself...had these sheets really been white once? No wonder she'd wanted to be on top. "You see my point", she said dryly. "Also, my devotee is of modest means and couldn't afford a 'kept man', if you get my drift." In other words get a job. Sure thing Mom, I thought. Thankfully she didn't take that as a cue to transform. As I watched, however, I noticed that her outline was becoming indistinct, and I could see the closet door through her, faintly. "Oh Dennis", she cried, "I haven't had this much fun since I flooded the Netherlands." She kissed me, slowly, her lips like a touch of mist on mine. "Remember me always, love!" she said, as her voice faded. "And don't you dare disappoint my devotee!" were her final words, coming as if from a great distance. And then I was alone. The worst thing about it was that I had to take another shower. This one was lukewarm and business-like, and after it was done I opened and closed the bathroom door several times, equalizing the air inside and outside the bathroom. As I stepped out into the hall I paused. There was a puddle of water in front of the door, no mystery there, I had stood there dripping wet from the earlier shower doing God knows what. The little scorch marks, however, were a bit harder to explain away. Cleaning myself off had taken maybe twenty minutes. Cleaning out my room flushing it might be a better description took the entire weekend. Monday morning was taken up with job hunting. Monday evening I called Savage Henry and cancelled my order of Special Blend, describing what had happened. "I know a warning when I've been taken by one", I said. He was disappointed but sympathetic. "Yeah, I hear ya, man. Sounds pretty heavy," He paused, then: "Hey, this Storm Queen chick. She got a sister?" I said I didn't know, and to this day I don't know if Henry ever tried looking for her or found her if he did. Finally, on Tuesday I was informed that I'd gotten a job, at a large printing shop, and spent the rest of the week learning the ropes. The months passed, bringing with it a raise and promotion and, surprisingly, an outlet for some of my Army supply clerk training. The shop was located near the University and we got a lot of students looking to have their term papers and dissertations typed up professionally. Plenty of the co-eds were good-looking and showed interest in me, but something held me back; fear of lightning or some other manifestation of meteorological displeasure, perhaps? I found other ways to spend my free time, more wholesome than my earlier activities. One of my favorites was riding my bicycle on the drives and hiking paths around White Rock Lake. It was there, a little more than a year since my encounter with the Storm Queen, that I was caught by a sudden thunderstorm. I pedaled frantically as the first ragged volley of baseball-sized hailstones shattered on the ground around me. I had barely made it to the shelter of a covered picnic table when the clouds opened up and delivered a hailstorm of biblical proportions. The roar was deafening, and between catching my breath and gaping in awe at the weather it was several minutes before I noticed that there was someone else under the shelter. She was about two inches shorter than my 6' 1", with the solid muscular build of a weightlifter or swimmer; she'd been both in high school, as it turned out. Her eyes were large, dark brown, and widely spaced, topped by thick brows. She was wearing a dark gray sundress that exposed skin the dark brown of a New Delhi native, although she'd been born in Gujarat. The barrette that confined her long black hair was perfectly ordinary, but she had sewn an appliqu thunderstorm onto her blouse. She watched the retreating thunderstorm with dreamy fascination. I watched her with open admiration. Okay, your majesty. The devotee. Gotcha. There was a rumble of thunder that sounded suspiciously like laughter. She found me only slightly more interesting than the weather; avid attention from her under the circumstances, I would later learn. Her name, so at odds with her exotic appearance, was Laura Howard. She'd spent all of six months in India, just long enough to be born, orphaned, and adopted by an American couple. Now she was a grad student at the University of Texas at Dallas. In meteorology, of course. We dated, became lovers. I helped her do field research on violent weather for her PhD, by driving, monitoring emergency services' radio and the weather itself, and frantically evading as needed. When we ran into hail I replaced the windshield. Sometimes I prayed. Eventually we set a wedding date. Vows, rings, and a kiss had just been exchanged, when the ceremony was interrupted by the howl of emergency sirens and a great roar of wind outside the church. I had just ushered the guests to relative safety behind the altar when I saw my lovely bride standing in the doorway to the church, bouquet hanging forgotten in one hand, outlined by the almost strobe-like flashing of green lightning as she stared raptly into the weather. As I came up to her she turned to me and pointed at the monstrous tornado bearing down on the church. "Dennis, look! It's anticyclonic!" she said delightedly. I pointed out to her, with embellishments unseemly for the house of God, that perhaps she should seek shelter from this F5 twister? An exaggeration, as it turned out; it was only an F4, and all it did was dance a time or two around the church and rearrange most of the cars in the parking lot without damaging them. Everyone was relieved and not overly surprised; after all, tornadoes do strange things. So do deities at their devotees' weddings. That was over thirty years ago. We live in Oklahoma now, where Laura is a senior researcher at the NOAA National Severe Storms Laboratory. There she cranks out papers peppered with esoterica like Eady waves, operational mesoscale Eta models, and WSR-88D. Our three daughters, Audrey, Carla, and Camille, crank out the grandchildren. She's reached the age where, with a mix of regret and relief, she's started delegating field research to her grad students. Mortal my Storm Queen may be, but she's wonderfully real, and oh that woman can give a hug! And when the wind howls, the sirens wail, and the rain roars on the roof, as it so often seems to here in Oklahoma, I turn to her and, with looks, words, lips, and hands bring us to moaning desire. In all the years we've been married she's never asked me why extreme weather excites me so. But she's never complained, either. <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+