It's a dark and stormy night. Or at least, it's going to be.
So says the weatherman from the small TV that sits atop the larger TV in my family room;
the TV that only knows the weather channel.
The main TV, muted, scrolls the winning lottery numbers as I glance down at my ticket.
"YES!" I exclaim, as throw the ticket away.
I shut off the main TV, my attention reverting back to the one that's never off.
SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING, he warns, and I take heed.
I go out into the garage and strip, not sexily, but quickly; efficiently.
Do you know the odds against being struck by lightning?
I buy a lottery ticket at the corner store whenever the dark clouds approach.
Part of the ritual. So far, I've never won, but that's OK. The lightning stays at bay.
I'm safe, as long as I'm in the garage. And as long as I follow the ritual.
Ah, the ritual. I AM sane by the way. I hold a job. I don't sight flying saucers.
I've only called the psychic hotline once, and that was just
to prove that they have no special knowledge about my life.
You may have seen me walking down the street, and if so,
you'd not peg me as being abnormal in any way. And you'd be right.
I am the very definition of 'normal'.
Well, except for the fact that I'm 30 years old, as attractive as any "Baywatch" chick,
and have never had a long-term relationship with a guy.
But this IS the 90's, after all, so that's not so weird, is it?
Besides, who understands men anyway. One day you think you can depend on them,
and then suddenly POOF!--they're gone.
But other than being alone, I assure you I'm completely normal.
Other than that, and other than the ritual.
As I said, the ritual has evolved as I grew from girl to woman.
It used to be enough just to hide in the garage,
naked of course (zippers and buttons might conduct electricity).
But to keep my mind occupied while the danger passed, I
began to partake in certain, ah, unusual activities.
And of course, each time I emerged un-injured, un-shocked, un-barbequed,
those activities then became mandatory during the next storm.
The storm is nearly upon me now, and I must hurry.
No time to be gentle with myself.
The clamps bite deeply into my nipples, linking them to the rope running UP
through the pulley and DOWN to the empty 5 gallon jug.
Rain starts to fall as I insert into the jug the garden hose
that runs through the roof of the garage and attaches to the evestrough.
The hose catches some of the rain water from the roof and begins routing it into the jug
while I secure my hands behind my back with handcuffs.
The key is imbedded in ice, molded into the shape of a large butt plug.
Unlike Ben Franklin's famous key, mine will not tempt mother nature.
It will be hidden deep within my body,
I once thought the ice itself was enough protection, but that was silly.
Ice is, after all, just frozen water.
So now the key, in the ice, hides within my bowels.
God it hurts to force it in there, but it's for my own good.
Meanwhile, the rain starts to fall harder,
and the drops falling into the jug turn into a steady stream.
As it gets heavier, my nipples are lifted upward- -gently at first.
Soon I'll be standing on tip toes, trying to lessen the pulling.
But it won't help--the jug will weight the same whether a foot of the ground
or just a few inches. And no matter how much I stretch it will not reach the floor.
Lightning dances, thunder barks. The power goes out,
leaving me to suffer in darkness as my nipples begin to hurt with the strain
of supporting the rapidly filling jug.
The rain is really coming down now, harder than I've ever seen it.
And the ice is melting so slowly despite my body's best efforts to thaw it.
The water is pouring into the jug, and I realize that I've made a serious error in judgment.
The water had never filled the jug before the ice around the key melted,
allowing me to uncuff myself and remove the nipple clamps.
But the rain has never before fell this hard, except maybe during THE storm.
So the jug begins to overflow, my breasts screaming from the strain.
And water, puddling around my bare feet, terrifying me as lightning actually hits nearby,
thunder mocking me only a moment later.
I scream out for help, clearly irrational, since I know no one will hear.
Still it felt good to scream at the storm, so I screamed again, and again.
I screamed at the top of my lungs, giving voice to the agony in my nipples. I
Screamed the scream of a 7 year old girl, watching from the garage as her father's lifeless, smoking body fell to the scorched grass.
I screamed my terror at the thunder, the lightning, even the raindrops,
which had now slowed to a gentle patter.
I screamed until I could scream no longer, and then sobs wracked my body.
The spasmodic jerks of my nude form tugged my nipples painfully,
and I heard the 'KLINK' as the key hit the floor.
"STOP IT" I shouted to my tears, as I steadied myself for the next step of the ritual:
I had to squat down, pick the unseen key from the floor with my restrained hands,
in order to unlock the cuffs and then free my tortured nipples.
Of course, to do this meant that I must raise the full water-jug with my nipples-
-a feat which was difficult even with the jug half-full.
My tit-tips were numb by now, which would help a little.
"Here goes nothing" I said, under my breath as I sunk downward.
Suddenly, the door was being kicked in, splintered from it's hinges.
I screamed at the intruder, a man dressed in black who suddenly appeared in front of me.
The final flash of lightning illuminated his face. "Daddy?" I whispered.
In the same flash of lightning, he saw me, and gasped at the sight.
Wanting to help, he grasped the clamp-grips and squeezed the heavy springs apart
before I could gasp "NO!!!!!"
He didn't realize that the clamps had to be removed slowly.
I knew from experience that it took at least a minute to get them off painlessly,
and I knew I had reached my threshold for suffering.
For a moment they remained numb, and I glanced down at the flattened white nubbins
and saw them fill with the blood that would return them to their proper shape.
Then the pain came, suddenly, like a lightning bolt.
I glanced back upward, into my fathers eyes as I fell toward him, and my mind shut off.
I came-to, moments later I guess, still naked, on the couch.
God did my breasts ache. So did my anus.
Uncle Rod walked into the room, carrying a blanket to offer me.
It seemed a little silly to be ashamed of my nudity after what he had just witnessed,
but I was cold, so I thanked him and covered up.
"Your phone line was out, and your mother insisted I come check on you.
I heard you screaming, so I broke down the door. I'll fix it, of course."
Funny, it seemed like HE was embarrassed.
"You've got to tell mom I was OK, alright?"
"Well, were you? I mean you did that all to yourself, right?"
I felt myself blushing. "It's just something I do, sometimes. Sometimes when it's storming."
"Everytime it storms?" he asked. The tone was not judgmental.
He seemed to understand, at least as much as anyone could understand such a stupid ritual.
NEVER, NEVER would I EVER do it again, I told myself.
Of course, I tell myself that EVERYTIME.
"Yes, everytime. Pretty stupid, huh?"
"Oh, I don't know. Storms like this have a bizarre effect on me too.
I don't like them, not one bit. I feel like a werewolf during a full moon.
I do strange things, too,"
"Naw, I can't tell you. I'd feel stupid."
The look I shot at him was to remind him that he had just hauled my frozen naked ass in
from the garage where I had tied myself up and flattened my tits,
all because a thunderstorm had had a 'bizarre effect' on me.
The look also told him to speak, or I'd have to have him killed.
And so he spoke:
"You know how your daddy hated to come in off the golf course
just because of a little rain?
We'd all run for the garage, where they kept the golf carts--where it was safer.
But he'd just stay out there and finish 'just one more hole'.
He always say 'the odds are better that you'll win the lottery than be hit by lightning'.
I was 18 the year he died, just old enough to buy a lottery ticket.
And ever since then, whenever there's a thunderstorm warning,
I run out to the store and buy lottery tickets, the scrape-off kind.
That's why my wife eventually left me. Divorced me for gambling."
"Really? How many tickets do you buy?"
"Well, that's the problem. I feel a compulsion to buy them until I lose.
I scrape them off right there in the store, so I know right then.
And if I win, I buy that many more tickets, and try to scrape them off before the storm hits.
One time she was with me and I had a thousand dollar winner.
And we really could have used that money, but I traded it all for more tickets,
stood there scraping like a maniac while the storm rolled over.
She left me the next day.
Pretty pathetic, huh?"
"Not at all, in fact, it makes perfect sense to me." The blanket he brought me was course,
and it was really hurting my nipples.
One thing I'm not is an exhibitionist, but I had to expose my poor boobs,
and I told him so as I lowered the cover.
"That's OK, I should be going anyway. Isn't there anything you can put on them?
Anything I can get for you? Ice?"
"NO, no ice." I exclaimed. "Nothing, nothing helps.
If I had a man, I'd have him kiss them to make them better,
but other than that, I'm just gonna be sore for a while."
"Well, that'd be some lucky guy. Hell, if I was 10 years younger,
and if I wasn't your dad's brother…"
"Yeah, I know. And the way I feel, I'm sure I'd let you."
We both realized that he was staring at my chest,
and suddenly he looked away, away from me. Toward anything else in the room.
"Yeah, that'd be too weird, too bizarre" we both mumbled something to that effect.
But suddenly, he was on top of me, devouring my tits.
"GENTLY" I urged. "Gently." It didn't feel good, but suddenly,
and for the first time, they didn't hurt either.
And suddenly, without taking his attention from my bosom,
he began to quickly remove his clothes, and the blanket was tossed aside.
I realized that he was going to fuck me,
and I realized that I wasn't going to try to stop him.
The huge throbbing penis-head began to part the soft hair of my womanhood,
and I waited to hear what I was going to say.
Lightning brightened the room for an instant,
and my brain began the instinctive countdown to the thunder,
the measurement which would tell me if the storm was coming back.
CRRRRRRAAAAACKKKK! It was.
The rational side of my mind struggled to hang on;
to not surrender to the side that cowers from thunder, that runs from rain,
that makes sacrifices to the unseen lightning gods.
The folds of my vagina parted. HE'S 12 YEARS OLDER THAN ME! HE'S MY DAD'S BROTHER!
HIS WIFE JUST LEFT HIM! I CAN'T LET HIM FUCK ME!
I DON'T HAVE SEX WITH OLDER GUYS, WITH RELATED GUYS, WITH GUYS ON THE REBOUND!
IN FACT, I DON'T HAVE SEX WITH ANYBODY!
And THAT'S why I don't have any freakin' BIRTH CONTROL in this house!
My rational mind was winning, even as his manhood began to make headway, And this is INCEST!!
Don't let him do it! Say SOMETHING, for God's sake!!
"FUCK ME UP THE ASS!!!" my mind heard my voice say, as I pulled away enough to twist under him.
And he did. It was big, and it hurt.
I felt an urge to escape to the garage, but it was just a fleeting thought.
If uncle Rod had a compulsion to run to the store for lottery tickets,
he redirected those thoughts toward violently ravaging my asshole.
As the rain returned in sheets against the window,
God's strobelights flashed, his percussion section solo'd.
ORGASM! My first with a man. Other women could close their eyes and see fireworks,
but I could open mine and see the most powerful light show that heaven and earth had to offer. Yet even as the lightning became more intense,
I knew I was safe. My father's brother's stamina held, as I sensed it would,
'till the lapse between the lightning and thunder began to grow.
And mother nature had finally found some small way to restart the growth
of a womanhood she had stunted long ago.
And so the ritual has again evolved; this time I think for the better.
I know there's still something a little kooky about a woman
who needs the feel of her dads' brother's semen bubbling into her bowels
in order to comfort her in a storm.
But now when I look at the small TV (the one that sits on top of my big one),
the one that's always tuned to the weather channel,
and the meteorologist calls for T-showers,
I feel a twinge of anticipation working to displace the anxiety.
- - - -
Stories, tales and drawings
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