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Thunder Follows Lightning

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Big Tits

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 canlı bahis 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. bahis siteleri 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 bahis şirketleri 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.

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