The Storm

Some people feel scared in stormy weather, others feel an adrenaline rush at the excitement. Me? I just feel horny. Very horny and this time of year is ideal for spring/summer storms in the UK. The way the rain pounds, the wind billows, those crashes of thunder, the electricity in the air. Last year, I really couldn’t contain myself and sent lots of naked selfies to my girlfriend. We live apart so I had to let me libido subside or indulge in self-service for those few days. This is a poem about the sexiness of storms.

Billowing curtain, Fingers of cotton dancing, enticing, reaching out to me.
I wish they were your hands probing the inches of my body, sliding up my shins,
Along the contour of my inner thigh, my belly and my chest.
If I close my eyes, I can imagine that the breeze is your body
moving upwards to meet mine, brushing your smooth skin sensually with your delicate touch.
That the sweat on my neck is from the heat of our bodies
And your lips sucking and kissing it hungrily.
I would imagine that the tickling of the hairs on my chest and arms is you
brushing your long, silky hair along my body, teasingly.
Rainwater pounding the window
hammering like our hips as we thrust them in the urgency of our lust.
The thunder is the coming together of our bodies,
in the sheer intensity of unbridled fucking.
Lightning is the spark, the passion, the force that drives us.
It’s the power that makes me want you and to feel me inside you –
the electricity that is always there.
Groans of the wind between the buildings becomes the rising of our orgasms.
Until it subsides and as do I.
And I lie there all alone in my nakedness, exhausted, drained, spent
letting the dying wind wash over me and cool me down,
Pulse calming to a relaxed state.

You are my storm.


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