Perfect Storm

Thunder rolled round the bowl of the Mendips and the

Bristol night became more complex as her

languid tongue slid under my balls and

her muffled voice said “count”—

count what? my brain being

disconnected by her mouth and hands

took a moment but I remembered the

elephants between flash and rumble despite the

rhythmic grace of her hand and the

exquisite wet penetration and when I got to 3 her

finger joltingly replaced her tongue and her

mouth and hand consumed my cock as the

storm burst and I

pelted her stomach with sperm like

Summer raindrops.