Flash. Thrust. Moan.
The angry voices of the skies are your metronome and you keep perfect time, pressing perfectly into my most secret folds with every roar of the thunder. My moans are masked by the insistent staccato of rain hurling itself from the heavens as if late for that most crucial of meetings with the earth.
Another flash. Another tick of the metronome… and the sweet, sweet thunder drowns my cries as I drown in my own orgasmic storm.
Thanks as always to Ang of Sweltering Celt for the micro-inspiration.