Hurricane

by Wolf

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, .

Desc: Sex Story: Weather girl Pam David finds herself in a deadly hurricane with her cameraman Doug Saunders. Not only does the weather flair into a violent storm, but so does an unexpected romance. (Edited version of story published elsewhere about five years ago. Dusted off for this intense weather season.)

“Damn, damn, damn,” I muttered. The track of Hurricane “Grace” – the seventh named storm of the year in the Atlantic, had turned ninety-degrees and the track now took the eye of the Category Two storm directly into the east coast of Florida.

“JIM,” I screamed at my production assistant. He turned with a serious look on his face. “Get me set up again. We’ve got to do another weather bulletin; Grace just turned west again – towards Jacksonville – right towards us.”

Together we trotted down the hallway to the studio and then Jim slipped behind the large console with more dials and gages on it than a Boeing jet. He slipped on his headset and started talking to the network producer arranging our interruption of regularly scheduled programming – currently a soap opera.

I stood over the large “X” on the floor in front of a green screen – a large green panel that through the wonders of electronics was magically replaced by computer-generated weather maps as I stood in front of them. Through two large monitors I could see what was actually going out of the studio and right now it showed a large rotating mass of weather out in the Atlantic with me standing in front of it. I checked my clothing in the monitor and decided I was quite presentable.

Jim looked up and said to me, “Ninety seconds, Pam.”

I am Pam David, thirty years old, single, good looking, ‘hot,’ and a member of the American Meteorological Society. I majored in meteorology as an undergrad and in business for my MBA. I picked weather as my major even when I was a teenager after an un-forecast Oklahoma tornado wiped out my grandparent’s home and killed my grandmother. My psychologist told me that I had to confront my demons and making it my life profession seemed to fill that bill.

I added ‘hot’ to that brief description of myself because that’s what my various boyfriends have told me. I have a trim girly figure and nice boobs – a “C” cup that shows up nicely on TV when I turn to gesture at the weather map. Also, when the chemistry is right between me and a guy I can really go crazy. That said, I currently have no one special in my life and I haven’t gone crazy for over two years. I’m in a rut – a dry spell; no guys, no dates, and no sex.

After I graduated from college I lucked into a job as the weekend weather girl and ‘gofer’ for a TV station in western Idaho. They thought I was ‘cute.’ A year later I catapulted into a weekday morning and lunch job in for a TV station in central Arkansas. Three years later, I was a lot more suave, smooth and exciting in my delivery. So WJAX-TV – the up and coming Jacksonville network station - recruited me two years ago, and here I am doing everything from noon to midnight that has to do with the weather. They take me seriously.

“Fifteen seconds,” Jim said from his seat at the console we called ‘weather central’.

We both counted down silently then a fifteen second automated announcement broke into the network program. We could hear the sound of the excited male voice, well modulated but compelling attention from the viewers: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we interrupt your regular broadcast with this very important weather bulletin. Please stay tuned for this critical information.” An alarm buzzed to ensure listener attention to what I’d say next.

The announcement screen faded to show me in front of the weather map.

“Good afternoon. I’m Pam David with a live update about Hurricane Grace, now three-hundred miles southeast of Jacksonville.” I stared into the camera with a serious look on my face.

“This Category Three storm, packing winds of over a hundred-fifteen miles an hour is now headed straight for Jacksonville. We had hopped that the northerly turn the storm took at dawn this morning would result in Grace heading out to die in the mid-Atlantic, but those hopes are gone after plotting another eight hours worth of storm track data. This storm is aimed right at us.”

I had turned and was making my usual gestures at the green board, showing viewers how the track would sweep the storm right into the Florida-Georgia border, and then deep into the vulnerable middle of the country.

“The hurricane is currently traveling at twenty miles an hour. If this speed is sustained, the eye of the storm should arrive here tomorrow morning. We are already feeling the fringes of this storm and rip currents along the beach have been evident since last night and are now dangerous to swimmers. If you’ve been outside, you already know we have breezy showers throughout the viewing area.”

The screen changed to show winds blowing debris around in some earlier storm.

I went on, “Winds are expected to pick up from the current light breezes. By midnight we expect winds to be consistently over sixty miles an hour. Winds will increase hourly as the eye approaches. Just outside the eye, winds will exceed a hundred-fifteen miles an hour.”

I engaged the camera again as the clip of winds ended.

“Folks, I want to add my warning – my stern personal warning to all the others you’ve been hearing, including from the govenor. NOW, is the time to secure loose items and to get to high ground if you live in low-lying areas. Get away from the coast. Get to a shelter. Get to high ground.” I stared into the camera again, “FURTHER, I think conditions in the ocean favor a strengthening of this storm. I think we might have a Category Four or Five by the time Grace reaches us. This is a deadly storm, and you should take such precautions.”

I ended the bulletin as we usually did, “We’ll keep you updated throughout the rest of the day. We now return you to the regularly scheduled program.” I watched as the monitor showed me fading to the Bulletin frame and then that faded back into the soap opera. I wondered how people could watch that stuff when there was so much ‘real stuff’ happening out there to be involved in.

Jim rose from his panel and said, “We’re good for now. Let me know when you want to go on again. I’m not going home. It’ll flood out anyway, and I couldn’t get back here tomorrow.” I nodded and gave a sympathetic look.

Knowing I would be here all night I slipped into our “Nap Room” and lay down for what I thought would be a few minutes. When I awoke Jim was standing beside the cot shaking me gently.

“Pam? Hey Pam, wake up. Time to come back to work.” Jim had his enigmatic smile that I liked so much.

“How long was I out?” I said through my grogginess.

“It’s almost five o’clock. Time to start our ninety-minute drill. I figured you’d want to check the Hurricane Center again before you go on. You’ve got twenty minutes.”

I mumbled, “Thanks, Jim,” and stood. A quick stop in the ladies room and I was ready to go. Now I needed something to say.

The National Hurricane Center had a four o’clock update. Things were strengthening, and the storm’s relentless track towards us was unabated. I’d be the star of the news for the next few hours as we did the news.

Jim stuck his head in my cubicle, “Hey Pam, we just got the word you’re also going to do a two-minute cameo on the national network news at 6:42 p.m. You’ll segue over a clip showing the storm’s track from the coast of Africa to its present position, and then your ‘sweeping-into-the-U.S.’ routine.”

“OK,” I said crisply; here were my fifteen minutes of fame. I’d never done a national feed before. Wow!

Two hours later I was exhausted but exhilarated. It wasn’t the standing and dancing around in front of the green screen that made me tired, it was the feeling of responsibility that people were watching me and going to bet their lives on what I told them. I had to get it ‘right.’

I’d just sat at my desk when Jim appeared at my cubicle doorway. “Hey, Pam. NBS wants you to do oceanside bites and the weather channel even wants our feed – all their people are up north or on Hatteras waiting for the sweep north.”

“How am I getting around? You driving? Who’s the camera?”

“Not me. I’ll be talking to you from here on the satellite link. They’re bringing in a new guy. He was a big cheese in NBS, but is now retired. He’s taking our truck. Don’t let him prang it up under a tree or building. He should be here in thirty.”

I’d kept a couple of changes of clothing at the station, but most of the duds were more dressy and more suitable for looking “pretty” in front of the evening news camera in the studio and not outside on a rainy, windy day.

“Hey, Jim,” I shouted, “What about the eleven o’clock spot?”

He replied from partway down the hall, “You’ll do that from Amelia Island – on the beach. You should have just enough time to get out there, get set up and broadcast. I’ll update you by cell on anything on the wire about the storm.”

I shrugged and headed off to assemble some storm clothes. Thirty minutes later I’d found some slacks and scrounged a couple of men’s polo shirts with the station logo. I had some running shoes at the office, so that’d be what I wore under my weather gear. I looked great in foul weather gear – all you could see was my pert nose sticking out from under my WJAX baseball hat. No boobs to impress the male members of my audience. I pushed my hair through the back of the hat and headed back to my cubicle to pick up my laptop and purse.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Heterosexual / Fiction /