It’s a cliché, but the storm rolling in off the sea’s turning
the air electric. Paul’s humming with it. From the tips of fingers to
his toes, he can feel the gathering pressure. Some people get headaches he’s
heard, but for Paul it’s like being charged with static and if the weather
doesn’t break soon, he’s gonna start sparking off passing cats.
His hair stands on end when he tugs his shirt over his head and he pats at it helplessly. It’s not gonna help. Maybe when it rains it’ll stop looking like he stuck his finger in the socket. Shorts follow shirt, both getting tucked under his fleece to keep them dry. And now he’s ready.
Long dry grass brushes against his calves as he takes a few steps forward; his eyes fixed on the sky and the way the clouds gather, piling up like waves in the teeth of a tsunami, the light turning seagulls into blinding white flashes against glowering grey. This high on the cliff top there’s nothing between him and Mother Nature, just the way he likes it, plus there’s none to see him and wonder at the madman standing naked watching the storm.
It’s a kink. Not one he can indulge in every time that hum arrives in the air, but a couple of times a year if he’s lucky. When the season’s right and the cliffs are empty and the temperature isn’t gonna give him frostbite. Summer storms are best. That’s when he packs the car and heads up here, parking in the empty stone walled car park and jogging the short path winding its way between gorse and thistle to the top of the world.
The wind picks up, heavy gusts laced with tension, with promise and just a touch of wetness. The grass whips against Paul’s legs and he closes his eyes, drops his head back and spreads his arms, just feeling. His job makes an automaton of him; day after day stuck in the office punching numbers into a keyboard, body crunched up tighter than the insides of an old fashion alarm clock in a suit and tie. He loathes it. Daily. Up here he can hate it with a passion that’s beyond him when his feet are jammed into loafers and his spirit shackled by concrete. Up here he can find freedom. He can soar.
His fingers find his dick as automatically as they normally find the return key; it’s inevitable and happens when you need to move things along. He’s half hard, the blood reluctant to leave his quivering skin until he teases himself erect with gentle feather-light touches. His other hand casts about on his chest, mimicking a lover’s caress across his pecs and nipples, the flat of his hand smoothing over his ribs and abs. A low groan escapes his lips as his fist tightens around his cock, his hips starting a slow thrusting rhythm in pace with his heartbeat.
Too quick, too soon. The storm’s still building. If he gets into it too much now, it’ll be over and done before the time’s right. His fingers squeeze around his cock and he watches the sky shimmer with light as electricity arcs from one cloud to another, increasing the build of tension until he’s pent up and breathless. Still he waits, left hand gliding over his body, pulling at each nipple and drawing the spatters of rain together in thick lines. He buries his fingers in the soft dark curls at the base of his cock, teasing and twisting the hairs until the skin hidden beneath begins to sting. Feels so good.
The storm rolls in closer; wind wrapping itself round him in a warm damp cloud and he swallows hard, loosening his grip on the base of his erection as he holds his shaft in a loose semicircle of thumb and forefinger waiting for the moment. His whole body is raw, nerves screaming out with the need to let go as he stares upwards, seething with impatience but revelling in the sensation.
Rain trickles over his skin; the drops becoming heavier and more frequent, diluting the glossy fluid dribbling down the length of his cock as he holds it out like an offering to the gods. The distant sky lights up in a kaleidoscope of blues and yellows as the clouds cling tight to the lightning, refusing to release their charge. His skin burns and he shivers as it turns to gooseflesh, hips jerking convulsively and pushing his cock into the flaccid circle of fingers. No relief there. Not yet anyhow.
Thank Christ. The first crack of thunder resonates off the ground, shocking up through his body, and when it meets with his cock, he’s more than ready, sucking in a deep breath and squeezing every muscle as tight as he can. With a flick of the wrist and a twist of his fingers, he begins this long slow screw, face raised skyward as he licks raindrops off his lips and stands legs spread in defiant pose working himself off to the rhythm of the storm.
Magical is clichéd but true. For one beautiful moment he’s in touch with himself, skyclad and energised, potent in every sense of the word but when the clouds roll on past him drifting off in an easterly direction, he’s left feeling bereft until like all well behaved storms it circles back on itself. Lightning flickers over the ocean, the sky still teasing and keeping a hold of all that spark and Paul looks down, watching his hand dance over his cock, both slick with rain and pre-come.
Inching nearer to the cliff’s edge, he throws back his head and cries out, his voice lost in the low bellow of thunder that builds to a whip snap. His left hand cups his aching balls and he strokes a thumb over the solid wrinkled flesh, eyes rolling back as he fucks himself harder and faster with the storm crashing around him like waves.
It’s wet and cold and hot all at once and his chest burns as he heaves in deep breaths of humid ozone laden air. His hips pump and shimmy and he slides his left hand down over his inner thighs smacking and stroking then moving back upwards to squeeze fiercely at his balls. His voice gets lost in the wind, whipped from his mouth as he opens it in a final scream, a stream of white arcing out from cockhead to cliff matching the lightning that’s finally grounding itself over to the west. Another and another and another and he’s done, doubling over, knees slack and trembling from a combination of fear and adrenalin.
Thunder cracks while he’s still shaking and the raindrops fall harder sending the temperature plummeting down with them, both hitting his body at the same time. He shivers, slips on his shorts, grabs his fleece and runs for the car. There’s a thermos of coffee waiting and a blanket. He’ll watch the rest of the storm from there.