What would you do for love? Would you sacrifice that very God-given breath you cherish so much, yet are unaware of when you draw it? Would you kill for love? So many do. Would you die for love? So many have died in the name of love. Tender love, so hard to come by, so hard to keep, so fleeting. Even those in love for a lifetime know love's too short. Love can be gone in a heartbeat.
Like all loves, Della and Ron's was the extreme love. They loved each other unyieldingly. They had respect and trust and everything lovers must have to be lovers. Their lovemaking was tender and passionate. Then it was wild and hard.
Ron would make love to her for hours and hours. Licking, nibbling, sucking and, oh yes, fucking. Never had she known a man so hard, so wonderful a lover. He was in tune with her, knowing always where to touch, and how to kiss.
Della played his body like a fine instrument. First tuning it with soft fingertips, then strumming it with her nails until he shivered in ecstasy. Then she would lay upon him, capturing his cock with her sweet pussy. Slowly at first, then faster, she rose and fell on him. Their fucking was their sustenance, their reason for being. Their love was their reason for staying.
They fought like lovers too. They disagreed on minor points and sometimes teased each other about how uninformed they could be. Then they would spat about some major world issue and call each other names. She was a Redneck Loser, he was the Yankee Moron. Then they would laugh and tickle each other. They made up by being lovers all over again.
This is their story.
They lived in a small house in a small town off the coast of North Carolina. On this hot steamy day the town had been ordered evacuated by the authorities. This was Hurricane season; a storm was near, and it was predicted to be deadly. She was a Southerner. She had been through Hurricanes a few times in her life. She felt their fury and each time laughed in the face of the storm.
Della said, "They always make them out to be worse than they really are. We can stay baby, we'll be fine."
She was a daredevil, throwing caution to the killer winds and sometimes going driving in the storm, as if to say, "Here I am! And you can't get me!" The Hurricane always lost to her.
Ron was from the North. There are no Hurricanes there. He'd seen Hurricane films on television and was in awe of the storms each time. Now, because of his deep love for her, he was going to see, first hand, a Hurricane.
This Hurricane was born like all her great namesakes, Camille, Hugo, Andrew, on the Western coast of Africa, as a wisp of weather hardly noticeable on any modern radar screen. Then it pushed itself West, across the Atlantic, gathering strength as it went. At first, forecasters predicted the Hurricane to take a southern track, perhaps to make landfall along the East coast of Mexico. Then the track changed. The Hurricane meandered northwest, then west. By the time it was 8 days old it had changed direction three times. Then it picked its target. North Carolina.
On Friday evening the lovers walked hand in hand on the beach along the ocean, uncaring that four hundred miles out to sea the death storm was taking aim. As they walked he looked out over the ocean. The sky above them was bright orange as the sun set in the West. Then Ron noticed something on the horizon. He stopped and pointed, asking Della to look. She squeezed his hand tighter, but told him the ocean and sky sometimes looked black just after sunset. She felt him shudder and put her hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. She knew more than she let on.
By Saturday night their world, their very lives, would forever change. All TV coverage concerned itself with The Hurricane. Warnings went up quickly as the meteorologists worked tirelessly to figure which way the storm would turn next. People up and down the coast boarded their homes and loaded everything they could carry into their cars and trucks and fled inland.
But the lovers stayed on, even hiding from a patrol of National Guardsmen who had orders to force stragglers to evacuate. In every storm there are always a foolish few who want to see for themselves what all the fuss is about. The lovers turned off all the lights and hid in the house when the Guardsmen knocked. Finding no one, the rescuers moved on.
As the lovers broke a long soulful kiss Della stroked his hair and said not to worry. They were naked in bed. She reached for his cock. It hardened in her hand. As she stroked his length Ron's fingers reached between her legs. She was wetter than he'd ever felt. He softly stroked her clit. She rolled on top of him and his hands reached to hold her ass. She settled her pussy against his cock and rode its length. As she slid forward her hips thrust at him and his cock was sucked inside her pussy. He felt her walls throb on his cock as he fucked up into her core. She ground down on him till their hair matted against each other. And they fucked. And they fucked. Roughly he pulled her face down to his and kissed her hard. Their mouths opened and tongues dueled. His thrusts became harder and faster as if he was fucking his last. Her pussy clenched and relaxed on his cock then tightened again. Fucking, both fucking. His balls drew up tight, her clit ground into his pubic bone. As one they came. He flooded her pussy with hot semen. She sprayed her wetness on him. And they came and came. As their hearts pounded together a faint flash was not noticed behind the drawn shades of the East facing window. The rumble they each thought they heard was dismissed as that of... two lovers beating hearts.
Early Sunday morning they worked hard together to ready the sturdy little house for the rage that would come. Ron nailed heavy boards over the windows, blocking all but slivers of light, as well as the wind. Della filled the cupboards with food from overcrowded markets. There were so many who could not evacuate, for lack of transportation or a place to go. Others, too proud or ignorant, to leave, pushed and shoved to get the last of the staples from the store. Bread, milk, cereal, canned goods, soon all were sold. The store was boarded up, the employees sent to shelter. The National Guard had moved inland.
The Hurricane hit on Sunday night like no Hurricane in recorded history. It ripped through the little town tearing it apart like a Matchbox toy village. Winds blew from Hell and tore through the town like flying razor blades, shredding all in it's path. Nothing was left. The town truly had been killed. Cars were thrown upside down. Trees uprooted. Large buildings were torn apart. Small buildings were completely blown away. Nothing stood. Nothing except the little house where the lovers lived.