Counting Down the Storm

Big Tits

“So that’s it then?”

She just lay there and didn’t respond. He didn’t expect her to; she had said enough. He lay there quietly too, not wanting her to know he was crying. He hadn’t expected this. Well he had, actually. Fuck, he didn’t know what he expected. She was never an open book.

He reached down to the side of the bed and fished his cigarettes from his jeans, knocked one out and lit it, took a long drag and set the pack on the nightstand. She leaned over him, her soft breasts pressed against his chest as she reached for his smokes. “When did you start again?” he asked.

She moved back and tucked the sheets under her arm, contemplating her cigarette. “Today,” she said, a small cloud of smoke escaping her lips. She looked at him, his tears obvious on his face. “You okay?” It was his turn to be quiet.

He pushed the sheets back, stood up and wandered over to the balcony doors. There was a chill in the room, or was it just her? He wrapped his goose-fleshed arms around himself and stared at the random streams of water running down the glass and the night lights of the city shimmering through the rain.

A flash of lighting illuminated the horizon. He counted in his head, “one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four one…” a clap of thunder. It was an old habit: calculating the distance of the storm. He took a long drag from his Marlboro and opened the doors. Wind blew a spattering of rain onto his naked body as he stepped out. It felt good, every drop washing her smell from him.

“What is it called?” He pondered, “Vertigo? The pull from below, the sudden urge to step off the edge, to fly.” He could feel it pulling at his soul. “Come to me, just jump and it will all be better.” He stood hypnotized, looking longingly at the sidewalk below. A few cars splashed through the streets and a siren off in the distance raced to an unlikely fire in a rain-soaked city.

“What are you doing?” She asked, “You’re going to catch a cold. Come in, I’ll bring you a towel.” He didn’t see her standing at the doors, the comforter wrapped around her shoulders––he couldn’t, she was outside of his vortex, the black hole surrounding him from the moment she had told him.

They had just finished making love. It wasn’t really making love; they never made love. They fucked. There had never been any love to make. He realized that now. Was that all he had been to her? A surrogate penis, a cock to fill her emptiness? He flicked his cigarette over the edge and watched it drift down, like he wanted to do. Little red specks (of blood) dotted the sidewalk and then were quickly extinguished. His mind was wandering, his thoughts darting, what had she said? “I’ve met someone else.” Was that all? Who was he? Had she said that much? He couldn’t recall. Every time he tried to, this voice kept saying, “Come to me, just jump and it will all be better.” He pressed his waist against the cold metal and leaned over.

“Damien.” She broke his hypnoses. He stepped back. She stood there at the door holding a towel. He could see her now. He could see everything.

He took it from her and went inside. “I’m sorry, it’s just…” she couldn’t finish. There was no apology, no explanation that could make things better. Is that why she had allowed him to come to her?


“Damien, can you come over?” Her soft voice asked on the phone longingly. “I need you.” He had looked over at his clock: 11:37. He’d been asleep for an hour.

“What is it?” he asked. He always asked but knew what these late night calls were. She never seemed to need him except then. Three years. Three years and it had always been him that pursued her. The daylight meetings, the walks in the park, concerts, old movies on rainy Sunday afternoons. . . it was him, but late at night she chased him. Maybe this time he wouldn’t go. But he knew he would, and so did she.

He let himself in with his key and found her sleeping in her bed, her form gently rising and falling. He quietly walked in and slid his hand under the covers. She stirred as he massaged her feet, working her warm toes with his fingers. He slid his head under and kissed the soft pad of her foot, the faint scent of baby powder tickling his senses.

A soft moan escaped her lips when his hand found the inside of her leg and gently pushed it aside so his mouth could feel the soft skin on her legs. She tensed as he kissed and caressed, gently awakening her passion.

“Oh lover,” she exhaled when the stubble on his cheek met the silky skin of her inner thigh. The hot aroma of her nest drew him in closer.

His nose touched the nub of her clit as his whiskers scratched the inside of her legs. Her hands found his hair and wove through the light curls. His tongue drew circles amongst the short hairs on her mound, lapping up stray drops of juice, which escaped from her growing arousal. She ran her hands down the side of his head, putting it in place to fulfill her desire.

His hands ran up under hers, across the soft expanse Kütahya Escort of her stomach, then over the gentle slope of her bosom. Her small breasts were pushed together. He cupped them with his hands, and then let them go. His palms circled her nipples, stimulating them, stimulating her, both rising, hardening.

Her hands cupped the side of his head and he was deaf, her soft moans unable to be heard. His tongue ran the length of her, the tip barely inside, the top pressed against folds of her labia, his lip quivering on her clitoris. Her taste was strong on his tongue. He swallowed it, then gathered more, running his tongue up, moving it from side to side until it came to the base of her button.

She gripped his head harder as he ran his tongue over her clit, pressing it in hard, feeling the grove at the top cross his tongue before running it back down again.

He slid his hands down her warm body. They found her hands and clenched them, fingers woven together in a tight embrace, arms locked and outstretched. Her hips moved up to meet his mouth with every passage of his tongue over her.

He let go of her hand and cupped the heat of her pussy, then drew his long finger up to meet his tongue, licking her sweet juice from it. His finger moved back down, tickling her soft, moist skin before sliding inside. A long breath escaped her as he rhythmically fucked her with his finger, curving it around inside, pushing it in as deep as it would go, before slowly sliding it out again. Another finger met it, and they explored together.

She was on the brink. He could feel it: the sweat on her palm against his, the short breaths and slight quiver erupting through her body. “I need you,” she whispered.

She took his head in her hands once again and forcefully pulled him up. His tongue ran through the neatly trimmed hairs of her womanhood, across her stomach, and through the valley of her breasts, tasting the salty beads of sweat as they began to form on her body in anticipation.

Their tongues met. They fought a mighty war of excitement, lashing at each other, battling for desire. Their mouths locked together and the battle continued, tongues chasing each other in and out, pushing and pulling, undulating and writhing.

Her hand found his cock and teasingly squeezed it. Her thumb wiping the drops of pre-cum from the tip then she guided the head into position. He let it just sit there for a moment to contemplate it’s upcoming expedition. She pulled her hand up to her mouth and sucked the glistening drops from her thumb.

A soft whimper escaped her lips as his cock penetrated her in a harsh thrust. He stopped, their bodies entwined under the sheets, as close as two people could become. She held him to her, their heads close enough to hear each other’s thoughts, their hearts beating in unison. The same beat as the pulse from her insides against his entrenched manhood.

He slowly slid out of her, almost completely, the rounded head barely blocking the entrance, then pushed in again. She squeezed her muscles, making her canal even tighter than it already was. He pushed through it, natural lubricant easing the passage.

Her back arched as he began to thrust harder, a slow rhythm speeding up with every movement. She met his thrusts with her own, allowing him to plunge deeply inside her.

He looked between them, watching his cock move in and out of her. Watching her groin rise to meet his, their bodies kissing then pulling apart. His leg muscles tensed with each thrust, then relaxed before tensing and thrusting again.

He stopped and she pulled him into her. She kissed his face and neck, squeezing his ass hard with both of her hands, holding him inside her. He rolled her on top of him, trying not to break their connection. She pushed herself up, her hands on his chest. Her eyes screamed of lust as she slid her body back and forth across his cock.

He reached up and placed his hands on her, pushing her up by her breasts then dropping her on his cock, the long erect nipples of her breasts squeezing out between his fingers.

Skin slapped on skin as she rode him faster, scratching the itch that was welling up inside her. Long blond hair fell into her face and stuck to her forehead. Beads of sweat rolled from her shoulders as her upcoming orgasm filled her, then overflowed.

“Oh fuck yeah, oh god!” she cried as her body began to shake. He slid his finger down his stomach and found her nub. He flicked it in torture, making her cum even harder. Her hands tried to stop him, but couldn’t. She bit down on her lip from the rapturous pain. She could no longer move, he held her by the waist and fucked up into her.

He thrust, sending her back over the threshold. He felt his own orgasm well up. He pushed it back with all his might, each delaying second intensifying its strength until he could hold back no more.

His pulsating cock filled her. Dribbles of their cum dripped onto his pelvis then onto the sheets below. They Kütahya Escort Bayan were both exhausted, but neither able to let the other go. She finally moved off him. His failing cock escaping her caused another small orgasm, then she collapsed.

He got up and went into the bathroom, wiping the wetness from his cock and legs. When he went back to the bed he found her sitting up a look of deep concentration displayed on her face. “A penny for your thoughts?” He asked, sliding into bed beside her.

“I’ve meet someone else and I can’t see you anymore,” she said flatly, not looking at him.

For what felt like an entire minute, his heart stopped. Then the black cloud moved in. All he could see was the room, the brown and white room. Everything was brown and white. Brown bed, white sheets, brown carpet, white walls, brown curtains, white window frames. Brown and white everything beginning to spin. A tornado surrounded him. He tried to focus on one thing, one thing that was not brown and white, the green glow of the bedside clock, but it was just washed into the vortex.

He fell back onto the bed. Anxiety and fear was replaced by darkness, complete darkness. He could see nothing, just the clouds of despair rapidly taking hold of his soul.


The phone rang. He knew it was him, a quiet one-sided conversation of “yes…, uh-huh…, okay”. She hung up the phone and said, “You’ve got to go.”

“Was that him?” He asked, already knowing.

“Yeah, that was Kevin.” Kevin. The name stabbed through his heart like a lance, “him” was what he knew, if it was just “him” he could handle it, didn’t seem real. “Kevin” was real. Kevin was…

“Kevin Bates?” He exclaimed. A sudden flash of lightning filled the room, “one-one thous-…,” the storm was close, “As in your boss Kevin Bates?”

She just nodded.

“Jesus Christ Amy!” He whispered sternly, shaking his head. “What the fuck are you thinking?”

“He loves me, Damien,” she responded, chastised.

“And his wife?” He threw the towel to the floor. “For god’s sake Amy, he has two kids.” His voice was rising.

“He’s leaving her, he already…”

“Bullshit!” He cut in. He knew Kevin. How many had there been before? He knew of at least three before Amy came along. He was hurt. Couldn’t she see? Didn’t she care? How could she throw away three years for something that was going to last for maybe three weeks?

Shame began to fill his heart; shame of coming over that night, shame of being with her, shame of ever having let her get to him in the first place.

He was naked, and putting his pants on did nothing to clothe him. He brushed past her, struggling to get his arms into his shirt. He grabbed his boots and yanked the front door open, slamming it against the wall, and then rushed out, barefoot with his shirt half on.

He threw himself against the wall, exhausted, a wave of emotions flooding over him: anger, hurt, shame, frustration, and depression. He shook as he tried to slip his boots over his bare feet. The blood rushed from his head as he stood up, nothing but emptiness replaced what was left of his fragile mind.

The bottom fell out of the elevator. He was plummeting to hell. The fires met him as the doors opened. He stepped through onto the concrete floor, cool trapped air chilling his bare chest. He walked to his car and started it, turned the volume on the stereo all the way to the right and queued the CD to track nine.

The sound of violins awakened him, the repetitive piano notes started his heart, and the base beat against his brain.

“Extreme ways are back again.
Extreme places I didn’t know
I broke everything new again
Everything that I’d owned”

He pushed the clutch in and pulled the stick into reverse, letting the tires spin slightly as he backed out. He cranked the wheel hard right, narrowly missing a post before hitting the brakes and letting the car slide into position.

He slammed into first and revved the engine. His foot dropped off the clutch and the back end kicked out slightly before moving forward. Sparks flew as the steel bumper of the old Jaguar ground along the guard rail after a hard left onto the spiral ramp. More flew from the right as the car pin-balled down. He jammed the brakes hard and slid into line for the exit. Then he pinned the gas again.

The passenger mirror shattered as it hit the post on the exit and the car bottomed hard as it flew out of the garage. He threw the shifter down a gear and cranked hard left, the wet tires spinning on the rain soaked asphalt. The car slid sideways across both lanes as the tires fought to get grip. They did and the green Jag shot forward into the rain.

The wipers had trouble keeping up with the steady downpour as he splashed through the streets. The light ahead turned yellow. He shifted down to third and matted the accelerator, almost hydroplaning through the red light before gaining control on the other side. He watched Escort Kütahya the speedo climb past sixty, sixty-five, seventy. The twelve-cylinder motor barely audible over Moby,

“Oh baby, oh baby,
then it fell apart, it fell apart.
Oh baby, oh baby
like it always does, always does”

He hit the brakes and down shifted, pulling the car down to fifty-five before turning right at the next intersection. It proved too fast. His life spun out of control. The streaks of light across every window as the sports car spun in circles wildly over the wet street before hopping over the curb and coming to rest on the grass.

He sat dazed, watching wipers streak back and forth, the headlights shining through the rain and Extreme Ways tearing away at what was left of his heart.

It took three tries to start the car again. When the big engine fired up he sat in silence for a moment. The sound was excruciating. He reset the CD back to “Extreme Ways” and eased the car off the grass and back onto the road. He didn’t know where he was going. Not home. He drove around in a blur.


He smelt the rot on the streets; men huddled in doorways, old women with plastic bags tied over their heads, all their worldly possessions held in by the steal cage of shopping carts with wobbling, spinning wheels. Groups of people stood around burning garbage barrels under the overpass, shivering and smoking cigarettes and crack. This was where society came to die. Just east of downtown, just west of the suburbs and just up from hell.

He backed into a dark alley and unscrewed the cap from the cheap whiskey he got somewhere along the way. He watched the whores standing under red, black or rainbow umbrellas. They waved at passing cars, shaking their under-dressed asses and tits at passers by, some barely fifteen, some fifty.

He was startled by a knock on the window; he leaned across the seat and rolled it down. “Looking for some fun honey?” She asked, her big pimpled pale breasts spilling out over the windowsill. The putrid smell of cheap perfume, cigarettes and gin sickened him; she sickened him. He quickly drove off, her head just barely getting out of the window before he did. “Fucking asshole!” he heard her scream, and something bounced off his back window.

He pulled the whiskey out from between his legs and took another long pull, letting the warm liquid stream down his throat and set his belly on fire. He tipped it up high again and the last few drops fell into his mouth.

The bottle shattered as it hit the pavement, and the car swerved all over the road as he reached behind him for the other bottle. He found an empty bag instead. “Did I drink it?” The empty bottle on the passenger side floor was the evidence.


The commuters were beginning to fill the roads as the darkness turned to grey. He found himself parked in a driveway near his house, seatbelt still on, car running and Moby running continuously on repeat. He carefully backed the car out of the strange driveway and drove drunkenly past three more to his own.

He fumbled with his keys until the lock finally grabbed them and let him in. His shirt was still unbuttoned and he let it fall to the floor before stumbling over to the couch. The effort of taking his boots off proved to be too much, and he passed out, his face pushed between the cushions.


His nose protested the pungent smell wafting up to it. Despite the already stabbing pain in his head from the light filtering through his eyelids, he gingerly opened them. A small congealing pool of brown and white vomit met his close gaze. Drips down the edge of the couch pointed to a large puddle on the floor. His stomach wretched, balled into a knot. The smell and site of last night’s supper and booze forced his insides to try to expel what little contents they had left.

Bile burned the back of his throat as his stomach pushed it up to his mouth. He sat up, the pain in his head exploding as he tried to stand. He staggered to the toilet and fell to his knees on the hard tiled floor, staring at the white porcelain. His stomach continued to convulse, every dry eruption threatening a blackout from the sheer pain. A few drops of spit and concentrated acid fell into the clear water in the bowl. He relaxed, letting his stomach settle before reaching over to the bathtub and turning the water on.

He crawled over the edge, his jeans still on. Unable to stand, he rocked forward and back on his hands and knees, letting the icy water hit his back and head. His hand fumbled for the dials. He slowly turned the hot until he could feel the cold fingers of water beginning to warm.

He gingerly stood up and undid his soaked jeans, letting them fall into the tub. He was feeling better now. His stomach was still empty and his head still hurt, but it was only a hangover. He could handle a hangover.

He dialled the cold down until the hot water lightly burned his skin, and then stood there motionless, letting the heat take the chills from his body. He was refreshed now, the sober memories from the night before fading, the drunken ones non-existent. He towelled himself off and looked at the clock. It was blinking 4:03am. The power must have been out last night. It was grey outside.

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