Every once in a while, Twitter proves to be a really amazing chat tool. I tend to have these really strange but wonderful conversations, especially with Jake of FactsandFriction, Amy of Sex, Chocolate, and Red Lipstick, and Z of PhaedraFallen (and very often, Lilly chimes in!). Z and I got to talking yesterday and came up with a challenge: a fantasy/erotica short in under 1000 words with a theme of a thunderstorm, to be finished by the end of Thursday, July 2nd. We both finished early. ;P! Hers is here and utterly sexy. Two VERY different products from the same prompt! And here’s mine at a close 999 words! (BTW, based on THE Ex… purely fantasy though certainly derived from reality! Also, I went through a tug of war with myself to get a good title for this. I ended up going with a song that has no words because it was the only thing that matched the ‘feeling’ of this, Vanessa Mae’s version of the third movement of Vivaldi’s Summer, “Storm”. Listen to it here. Best to listen while you read. ;P)

He was seething. I had tried to make him jealous, dancing with another guy, but pushed it too far. His eyes had narrowed and his fists had clenched; he’d almost punched the innocent pawn. Instead, he’d grabbed my arm firmly and overdramatically pulled me out the back door of the club, despite the pouring rain and imminent lightning. His beloved muscle car was waiting there and he practically shoved me into the hood when he let go of my arm.
I was, for the first time ever, a little scared of him.
“Get in the car,” he growled. I slunk over to the passenger side door and tried to open it.
“It’s locked,” I said softly.
“Fuck, girl.” He tried his door as the rain continued to pound into our hair, clothes, and moods. “I gave you the keys.”
“They’re in my purse,” I said, a little more defiant. “Which you managed to leave inside when you pulled me out here!”
“Go get them,” he demanded. I glared at him, wiping my now drenched bangs out of my eyes.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I spat. I was not the good little Arab girl he wanted. I was a fiery, sexual, independent American woman and I refused to sit quietly by his side as a trophy girlfriend while he chattered with his friends in Arabic. That was why I’d sought out other company that evening – sheer, untranslated boredom. I looked too good not to be on the dance floor with some hottie, and if it wasn’t my self-centered boyfriend, then I would just find someone else. Clearly, he didn’t like that.
He closed his eyes and lifted his head to the sky as if to say, “Allah, why her?!” I perched myself on the wet hood of his car and just scowled, daring him to kick me off. Instead, he came at me, slamming his palms onto the hood, one hand next to each of my hips, almost straddling me. Lightning flashed as if on theatrical cue from him, and my heart jumped into my throat.
“Were you trying to make me jealous on purpose?” he snarled.
Looking him dead in the eye, ignoring the quickening beat in my chest, I smiled a little too sweetly. “Yes.”
He grabbed my wet hair in one hand and pulled my head at his, forcing me into a kiss. I tried to push him away, but he kept me in my place with muscled arms. Accepting the futility of slipping away, I clenched my hands in the folds of his soaking shirt, pulling him close. I fought back with my lips, trying to drown him in lust and storm.
The kiss was fierce and the hot summer rain had made it impossible not to feel his stiffening cock underneath the second skin of wet clothing. But when his knee crept up the hood of the car, underneath my clinging skirt, and against my panties, I knew there was no way he thought the rain had made me that wet right there.
Thunder cracked fittingly as he pushed me down, hard, onto his car. “I can’t believe you, little slut,” he said menacingly, licking the rain off my neck before nipping at it. He grabbed at my breasts, pushing my shirt and bra down to tease my nipples with his tongue. The rain on my bare breasts was too much, and I was unnerved – and aroused – by the exposure. I reached to push his hands away, but he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head. I whimpered. He laughed quietly. “You’re mine.”
He shifted his knee so that it was pressing tight into all the right places. I felt helpless, sopping wet and held down against the metal of his car, my body betraying me to grind into him and beg pleasure from his taking hands. I shifted my hips back and forth, trying to rub my clit to orgasm on his knee. He stopped teasing my nipples to watch me writhe underneath him.
“Turn over,” he barked. “Yalla!“ which, like that, meant ‘now!‘ I did his bidding, flipping over with my breasts pressed flat against the hood, his hand pressed flat on my back to hold me down. I felt my skirt flipped up. “Girl, I love your ass,” he said, before smacking it. The noise was loud, intensified by the wetness from the weather.
“You won’t do anything. You’re Muslim. You don’t have sex.”
“No,” he agreed, before pushing aside the fabric of my panties and slamming two fingers inside of me. “But I can do that.” I moaned inadvertently as he crudely thrust his fingers in and out of me. It was torturous – he refused to pick fast or slow and I had no idea how he was going to attack next. The rain fell harder and I became conversely wetter with it, rivers down my thighs. The hand that wasn’t in my pussy was suddenly tangled in my hair, tugging me like a puppet up to his waiting lips. The sensations were too much, my back arched to meet his mouth and his fingers roughly fucking my pussy. I felt myself on the verge of cumming and a pathetic “please” escaped me. He stopped and straightened.
“Please what?”
I bit my lip, shaking from the near climax and at the same time, dreading giving in to his dominance.
“Please what?” he challenged again.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to give in and beg him for pleasure. He slid his fingers from me and pulled my skirt back down to cover my ass. When he stepped away, I collapsed, weak-kneed and frustrated, onto the puddling asphalt. My clit throbbed, screaming at me to lose my dignity and plead with him to come back and finish, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Go inside and dry off,” he ordered, reminding me I lost anyway. “You’re too wet to get in the car. Yalla.”