4-The storm
The air was heavy and thick with the cloying humidity of a summer night. The birds had long since given up their sibilant chirping. Only the buzz of cicadas punctuated the night air. Black clouds hid the stars and moon making the darkness hang like black velvet. In the distance, the occasional flash of heat lightning gave promise of a violent summer storm. To paraphrase Shakespeare, the evening would bring a night of sound and fury.
Andre struggled to get to sleep. His fifth wheel provided adequate ventilation but the stillness of the night offered no cooling breeze. He lay nude, twisting and turning on the sweat-drenched sheets. His mood matched the night, dark with flashes of white-hot anger. The divorce had taken everything. He was left with this RV and a condominium in Big Bear California. He was travelling cross-country to his new home. His ex wife and best friend now occupied his home of twenty years.
Hot tears of rage, frustration, and humiliation streaked his face. His fist pounded the mattress in futile rage. He was too fucking civilized! He should have killed them both. He caught them fucking in his marriage bed and he had done nothing!
He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. He reached for the half-empty bottle of Markers Mark, poured a water glass half full and down it in a swallow. He picked up the blunt he had been smoking and relit it. The acrid smell of marijuana drifted about the room and out the screen windows.
Angrily he grabbed the bottle and walked out into the pitch-blackness of the night. He plopped his lanky frame into the fold up lawn chair that sat just outside the door. He took a deep drag on the blunt, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs.
The campground was only partially full. A hundred yards to his left was a Class A motorhome. The family was comprised of only a 40ish couple. The husband was a big brash Irishman. He loved his whiskey and could tell tall tales all night.
John, the husband, had insisted he have a drink with them. Andre accepted the invitation with great reluctance. He was in no mood for socialization and idle chatter. However, the big Irishman's bon homme was infectious. Despite himself, his host's obvious zest for life lifted Andre's spirits.
His wife, Lauren, was short, thin and mousy. She seemed to inhabit the eye of this hurricane of a man. She was the calm center, the real anchor of this gregarious Irishman. Physically, there was nothing outstanding about her. She defined petite at barely five feet and less than 100 pounds. She was as reserved as he was outgoing There was no memorable bubble butt, no sensuous lips in an otherwise homely face. She was ordinary. Her body was spare, thin. Her breasts mere bumps on her tee shirt.
Andre thought he detected something else. Beneath that bony frame, a heat, a passion seemed to emanate from her. When she walked by them as they drank, the air felt like it did before a storm, crackling with electricity. Several times, he caught her observing him. He felt a little uncomfortable, like prey that senses the presence of a predator.
The lightning flashed, illuminating the sky. He glimpsed a solitary figure sitting outside the RV. Andre took a pull from his bottle and then a toke from his blunt. He heard the faint crunch of footsteps on the pine needles. Jack was drunkenly aware of his nakedness. He struggled to his feet.
"Don't mind me!" Lauren's squeaky voice penetrated the gloom.
"Please excuse me, Andre stammered, I'll go put some clothes on!"
"No, Andre, you are fine!"
He half turned, struggling to get into his fifth wheel and make himself respectable. He felt a visceral fear. At first his sodden brain rationalized, it was the fear of being seen naked talking to another man's woman. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he realized the fear was more primitive then that. He was being stalked. A predator had him in its sights.
Lauren Anderson closed the distance between them. She entered his private space, causing him to take an involuntary step back. Lauren reached out and grabbed Andre's flaccid member.
"I want to fuck; she said unabashedly, I want to be used like a cheap slut!"
Andre tried to step back but she held his cock tightly, almost painfully. She yanked on it several times.
"Look, Lauren, I'm not sure what is going on, but...!
"Sex! Mindless, no strings attached sex that is what is going on! Fuck me, plant your seed in me, and send me back to him!" Her head jerked in the direction of the motorhome
"But...but...!
His words were cut off as she lifted the shapeless shift over her head. She stood naked in front of him. Her body was lean, angular but with the full hips of a mature woman. An almost transparent thatch of blond hair covered her labia. Her eyes never left his as she sank to her knees. A hot fire burned in them. A sudden night breeze, presaging the coming storm, carried the pungent aroma of her arousal.
Reacting to her scent, thousands of years of sexual evolution caused the blood to rush to Andre's tool. It overwhelmed fear. It replaced common sense as the driving force in his life.
Lauren lightly kissed the head of Andre's cock. Then her tongue licked hungrily at the slit. She held his swelling member in one hand while licking it root to tip like an all day sucker. In a slow erotic rhythm, her head moved down and in, then up and back. Loud slurping sounds filled the air as she allowed her saliva to build in her mouth and then trail unchecked down his shaft.
"What... about ...John?" The words issued haltingly from his mouth. His hands hung loosely at his sides. The mix of booze, blunt and unexpected sex caused his head to spin.
She stopped, reached up, placed a hand on his abdomen, and pushed back into the chair. He rocked back, almost missing the chair. He sat with his legs splayed out in front of him and his head resting on the backrest of the chair.
"He is drunk and sleeping. For you, for now, I am your slut. I am the bitch you lusted after in your dreams. I am your ex wife who cheated on you and kicked you out. Take out your lust, your rage, and your need on me!"
