Laying in my bed, with my air conditioner turned down to a rate that would have my husband bitching a storm when he got the next bill, I snuggled under my covers. The sky outside was dark even though it was close to eleven am. What was I doing in bed still at that time? Well, being a writer, I write when inspiration hits. Which means if I dream something up at one am, I'm up until it's out of me.

But last night had not been about inspiration. No, it was frustration that had me up to all hours, writing and deleting, rewriting and deleting more. Finally, after staring at my computer and picturing what it would look like outside the front window, shattered glass all around it, the delicate wires and boards strewn on the sidewalk, I decided to go to bed, tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning. So when I got up to take my sister to school, I had only been asleep about an hour.

As I lay there, my head tilted up on my favorite feather pillow, watching the storm clouds dance across the sky through the window that was right above the head of my bed, that same frustration still filled me. Why couldn't things come out the way I wanted? I sometimes thought that the characters in my books and stories were alive and that they mocked me at times by doing exactly what I didn't want them to do. Or saying things that were out of character and changed the whole line of the story. Why couldn't they just behave?

The first slice of lightning that cut through the sky seemed to land almost right outside my house. The thunder behind it was a low rumble to start then built to a bass drum beat that had my dogs barking and my heart thumping. The sky grew even darker and the wind picked up, leaves and branches blowing and slashing. Rain pelted down, huge drops that hit the ground with tiny explosions as I watched. As I rolled over, I could feel one kind of frustration changing to another in an instant and watched as the sky open up furiously and nature raged.

Storms do things to me, whether it's the electrical aspect, the wind, or the noise. It makes my heart beat faster and my blood pump harder. I get a tingling in my nipples and then an answering throbbing in my pussy that had me scooting towards the head of my bed. I'm no raving beauty, but I know I'm pretty. I'm 5'7" and weigh right around 125 pounds. I have a good body and I work hard to keep it. And I enjoy showing it off, whether in my car, flashing truckers or walking around my house with as little on as I can and the drapes wide open. Something about being exposed to others, of them seeing me naked or close to it and vulnerable really turned me on.

I used to have a beautiful oak headboard, but when I moved my bed under the window, I took it off the frame. Why? For just this. I opened the window as wide as it would go, scooted up until my body was laying partially on the sill and partially on my mattress which was the same height as the sill. My body, naked and very warm from snuggling under the covers was flushed, my breasts rosy and my nipples hard. With the window open, I could feel the wind blowing against my skin and the rain coming through the screen soaked me. I had a fine layer of goose flesh that just made me more aroused.

The storm was working up a frenzy and I could feel the bed under me getting soaked. But that didn't worry me. I'd clean it up later. Right now I was more concerned about the fire that was starting in my blood, the deep itch of lust that seemed to form as a ball in my stomach. I leaned my head back against the window frame and closed my eyes, breathing deeply the smell of the storm. The fine hint of ozone, the smell of the rain and the plants around my window was tantalizing and wild. The thunder, rumbling and roaring, vibrated through me, sending off shock waves that had my system going haywire. I could feel the storm on my skin, taste it when I opened my mouth at a gasp of air. I could smell it, hear it deep into the core of me. I was outside the storm and it was in me.

My hands seemed to have minds of their own, running up and down my arms, over my neck, pushing my hair that was just starting to get wet back from my face. I stared at the sky with half closed eyes as I stroked my thighs, caressed my stomach in waves of touch that grew harder and more desperate the wilder I felt. My nipples were taut and sensitive, pushing against the palms of my hands as I rotated them. It felt so good, every twist, stroke, tweak pulled on my womb. It felt like a string was connected, nipples to clitoris, every touch urging me on more, every move bringing me closer to joy.

My legs parted and then closed urgently almost desperate to feel something between them. The soft skin of my inner thighs, growing moister with more than rain water, longed to feel hard thighs, a face, a hand, something between them. I thought of a lover, a stranger standing outside in the rain, watching me touch myself, pleasure myself. I could almost see him, his cock hard as a rock in his jeans as he watched me. I wanted him to tear off the screen, pull me around and thrust into me until I was so full of him I'd scream.

Just that thought made me even more desperate. I could feel the need tightening deep inside of me, clenching hard, racing towards me but backing away just as I reached for it. My breath was coming in steamy pants, my skin so hot I thought the rain would dissolve and hiss as it touched my skin.

I touched my pussy lips, hairless and soft, dripping in need. I raised the finger to my lips, tasting my own erotic juices with a quiet hmmm of pleasure. I loved the taste, whether male or female, pleasure in it's most complete and scintillating form. The taste commanding, distinctive, the same but different for every person. Another large bolt of lightning and I hear a creak then a crash. It startles me for a second but I am too far gone into my haze of need to really pay much attention. My fingers reach down once more, touch, push aside and delve into flesh hot and moist, aching with the need to feel that pleasure, that burst of prickly pleasure that pulls at me so. Pushing a single finger inside of myself, I start to stroke my clit, gasping at the hardness and sensitivity of that tiny piece of flesh. It's so good, so right, but still something is missing.

My eyes open in a gasp as a hand wraps around my thigh and turns me, the screen on the ground, a dark form, cloaked in rain gear standing before me. His hand tangles in the damp strands of my hair as he clamps his mouth to mine, his tongue pushing past my lips and into my mouth. For a moment, I am too startled to resist. Too confused to know whether this is part of my fantasy or if this man is real.

Either way, his mouth is clever, rubbing mine, twisting my lips in ways that send heat cascading through me in waves as harsh as the rain around us. His tongue is wild in my mouth, finding mine, dancing and tangling with it until I am gasping and straining toward him, not against him. I can feel his body flush against mine, the rain gear he's wearing cold and rubbery against my skin. But then his hand is on my breast, large, tough and calloused. He squeezed the firm flesh, not so gently, causing me to gasp into his mouth. Then he started pulling on my nipple, twisting and tweaking as I had. But it wasn't the same. Where my hands caused need, his started a fire that quickly turned to inferno. His jean clad thighs were between my thighs and I pushed at them with my hips, trying to find a way to get closer, to be able to rub myself against him.