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Subject: {ASSM} A Tryst with the Storm Queen (MF "1st" Rom Drug Magic?)
Date: Thu, 26 Dec 2002 01:10:20 -0500
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To reply, get the lead out.

<1st attachment, "Tryst_with_the_storm_queen.doc" begin>

CAVEATS & DISCLAIMERS

About the following work:

The characters were taken from supermarkets and shopping malls,
movies & TV, family gatherings, religious gatherings, random
encounters, intimate encounters, and the works of better writers
than me. All are fictitious. None is wholly the author.

It may contain any or all of: graphic depictions of sexual
activity and/or violence, coarse and/or suggestive language,
emotionally charged situations, views and occurrences at odds
with your ideology and/or beliefs. If this offends you, please
consider reading something else. 

If you are underage, wait until you can legally read it. You'll
be shocked at how fast the years will pass.

If your government forbids you to read such material, why are you
wasting time with this crap? Foment a revolution!

Avoid driving or operating heavy machinery while reading it.
Refrain from making important life decisions while under its
influence. 

That was the foreplay. Now here's the story. Brace yourself.

A Tryst with the Storm Queen
By Passing4human

After two years in college I'd decided to take a break and see
the world. President Nixon's minions decided that the part of the
world I needed to see was Vietnam. Oh, it's not like I came back
with a headfull of combat trauma; as a supply clerk in Saigon the
only shot I ever heard fired in anger was from a drunk Marine
arguing with a madame. The Army trained, clothed, fed, and housed
me, bestowed the rank of corporal upon me, then a year later
restored my civilanhood with an honorable discharge and a taste
for exotic pharmaceuticals. Once I was safely back in Dallas I
struck up a business acquaintance with a purveyor of brain toys
who called himself Savage Henry. Henry was pleased to be of
service to a discerning connoisseur like myself, and had recently
introduced me to his Special Blend. "A mix of eleven secret herbs
and spices", he beamed, "including the abhorred twelfth spice,
the one that scared Col. Sanders".

I considered the Colonel's fear foolishly timid. Lately I had
found that I could maximize my enjoyment of the Blend by
ingesting a respectable dose, waiting until it was just about to
kick in, then stepping into a hot shower. Each steaming droplet
of water burst against my skin in ecstatic color. The sound of
the water was like transcendent music: masculine when it rumbled
against the tub, feminine when it rattled against the shower
curtain, a divine visitation when it pounded on my head. I would
stay in the shower until the water cooled (itself a delicious
sensation), then pull open the curtain and step out into foggy
bathroom, with the feeling that somewhere an audience watched my
entrance, avid to see and savor my every move.

Today, however, for some reason, I turned off the shower sooner
than usual. Because the water had still been hot the bathroom was
like a sauna. I opened the bathroom door and the cool, dry,
air-conditioned air from the hall poured in and slid under the
warm, moist, atmosphere inside. I sat down on the toilet seat and
watched dreamily as a string of foot-high cumulus clouds boiled
up along the boundary between the air masses, their tops the
color, texture, and size of cauliflower. Soon they had all
disintegrated except for one standing dead center on the
dry-line. It drifted away, growing as it absorbed the tattered
remnants of its cohorts, and I followed it on hands and knees as
it floated into the hall. 

By now it was over four feet tall and had turned an ominous dark
gray. It hovered two feet in the air and a milky white
pseudo-cirrus top stretched away towards the kitchen. Lightning
flickered, strobe-like, striking sparks from the wooden floor;
how would I explain it to my Mom? The hall was filled with the
snap of thunder, the whisper of microburst, and, finally, the
almost inaudible susurrus of rain. Now, thin streaks of
pearliness began falling from the cloud's base: hail, rattling
faintly on the floor. A pizza-sized wall cloud popped down and
began boiling and spinning violently. And finally, a funnel
cloud, extending hesitantly from the cloud base, then thickening
and lengthening until it met the floor. I imagined the
mosquito-like whine of emergency sirens, terrified dust mites
running for tiny storm shelters. If hallucinations were art this
was a masterpiece.

Without warning my masterpiece doubled over and began thrashing
in place, an impossible convulsion for a real thunderstorm. A
second funnel cloud slid down beside the first and they waltzed
around each other, growing longer as the cloud's base began to
rise. The wall cloud continued its violent whirling and expanded
outward and downward, hiding the tornadoes' upper reaches. The
main body of the cloud twisted violently and two broad bands of
cloud peeled off and flung themselves out, becoming...arms. The
tornadoes' feet became feet in fact, with ankles and toes, the
pseudo cirrus became a cascade of hair outstretched by
centrifugal force, and the rest of the cloud constricted and
congealed into a rapidly pirouetting woman. She stopped spinning
with the sound of tires squealing on pavement and shook her head
violently with a loud gargling noise. "WoooOO!" she exclaimed.
She was about two inches shorter than my 6' 1", with the solid
muscular build of a weightlifter or swimmer. Her eyes were large,
dark brown, and widely spaced, topped by thick brows. Her butt,
broad hips, and large, rounded breasts all seemed designed to
draw cupped hands like a magnet. A dark gray sundress revealed a
great deal of skin. It was the blue color of that Hare Krishna
guy. "Oops", she said, and gave a violent twitch. She was now the
dark brown of a New Delhi native, a skin tone then rare and
exotic in Dallas. It clashed weirdly with the great cascade of
platinum blonde hair. "Picky, picky." She snapped her head
forward with inhuman speed and I scuttled back as that great mass
of hair whipped at me, throwing off whiteness as if it were water
and becoming a beautiful glossy black. "Better?" From the air she
plucked a barrette in the form of a stylized thunderstorm,
crossed by a zig-zag of lightning that gleamed and flashed with
more than reflected light. "Sorry for the wog outfit, I just got
here from the Bay of Bengal." I thought I saw bluish light
flicker around her arms and shoulders as she bound up her hair.
When she'd finished she studied me. 

"You must be the mortal. Why hast thou summoned me?" 

The closest I could come to speech was a dry click in my throat.
She cocked her head. "What a lovely glottal stop, you should take
up Arabic." She enjoyed my discomfiture for a moment or two, then
grinned. "Sorry, trick question. Fact is, I invited myself. After
I finish a big job like the one I just did in East Pakistan I
feel the need for a little...rest and relaxation, if you know
what I mean and I think you do." She looked me in the eye and
smiled. 

By now I was capable of limited speech. "Who are you?" I
stammered.

"I've gone by so many names." she mused. "Kali. Chalchihuitlicue.
Oya. Kamikaze." She began ticking off on her fingers. "1588.
1900. 1926. 1938. 1953." She smiled dreamily. "But for now you
may call me the Storm Queen. You may address me as 'your
majesty', 'my lady', or", she paused, "my beloved. Any
lese-majesty like 'Hey you' or 'Yo, babe!' and I erase your
trailer park and tree your pickup." She looked into my eyes, and
I was sipped entire, tasted, judged, and returned to my vessel.
"And you are Corporal Dennis William Carney, U.S. Army (Retired),
Vietnam vet, bon vivant a la chemie. And..." Her eyes lit up with
surprise and delight. "And you're still virgin! At your age?
After a year in Saigon?"

I remembered the bed partners available to a lowly corporal in
Saigon. As if on cue, a street whore appeared in the doorway to
the bathroom, famine-thin, wearing an electric blue halter and
hot pants, thick makeup almost hiding a halo of cold sores around
her mouth. She lifted her skirt to show her stock in trade and
grinned. "Hey, soldier, you like? Five dollar 'merican." Her
teeth were stained red and her dark eyes held less warmth than a
crow's. She might have been fifteen years old.

"Yeesh, no wonder you're still virgin." The Storm Queen flicked
her hand and the apparition sneered and vanished. "But that is
going to change. Now. Excuse me while I get comfortable." She
gestured and her sundress became a nimbus of dissipating scud.
"Ah, much better." She walked up to me, draped her arms around my
shoulders, and pressed my body against her. I was suddenly so hot
for her that I was afraid I'd take her by force. My excitement
grew as she rubbed my back, my sides; it was like being caressed
by heavy machinery, frighteningly arousing. I ran my hands down
her flanks, over her hips, reached around to squeeze her
buttocks, crushing her against me, feeling gentle electric shocks
where my skin touched hers. She moved herself against me, swaying
her hips and rubbing against my hardness. "Lightning rod", she
whispered, and giggled. She smelled of fresh rain, of ozone. She
ran her hands down my back, crushing me to her and I held her
tighter, unable to get enough contact with that magnificent body.
"Now then, Corporal Carney", she breathed. "We are gonna go, you
and I, into yonder boo-dwar. And make. Some serious. Whoo-pee."

She led me to the bedroom, our arms around each other; I was glad
for the support, since lust and nervous anticipation had left my
legs less able than otherwise to keep me standing. We walked to
the bed and I'd turned to face her, trying to seat her on the
bed, when she stopped me. "Weather on top", she whispered, and
smiled. She looked into my eyes and kissed me, first on one
corner of my mouth, then on the other, finally long and hot fully
on my lips. Her breathing quickened. My breathing labored as she
pressed me to her in a bone-crushing embrace. Finally, with no
exertion whatsoever, she picked me up, laid me out on my back,
then 
climbed on top, straddling my hips. "You're aggressive. I like
that in a man." she said, and grinned. She ran her hands over my
belly, my chest, teasing my nipples. I did the same to her and
she moaned in a surprisingly low-pitched voice.  She bent over,
wrapped her arms around me, and lifted the upper half of my body,
crushing me against her breasts. I wrapped my arms around her and
hung on for dear life, partly because I very much wanted to,
partly because I was so excited I was afraid I might fly off if I
didn't. My erection was so hard and urgent it was almost painful.
She bent her head and kissed me, running the tip of her tongue
across my lips. Then she became perfectly still and she looked
into my eyes. Ready? she seemed to ask. I answered by kissing her
and holding her, hard, and writhing between her legs. She gave a
quiet chuckle and lowered herself onto me. Lowered onto? It was
more like she seized and devoured me in one gulp, and I gasped at
the moist heat and pressure around my manhood. She began an
exquisitely slow pumping against my groin. I cried out, softly,
the sensations too intense for me to do so loudly, and crushed
her against me, hard. She made a rumbling noise somewhere deep in
her throat, a noise almost like thunder, which was strange
because I'd heard that the thunder always came *after* the
lightning. And lightning there was, striking me squarely in the
crotch and passing throughout my body; only electricity could
account for the convulsion that shook and tautened my toes feet
legs belly arms neck face, forcing a single yelp from my throat.
It must have struck her too, because she gave a long shuddering
sigh and held me so tight I started seeing flashes of light in
the darkness that had crept into the edges of my field of vision.
And after the thunder and lightning, of course, comes the rain; I
could feel the moisture, mine and hers, collecting where the
lightning had struck. She lay on top of me for what seemed like
an endless time, thankfully resting most of her weight on her
elbows. I looked into her eyes, shivering at the timeless
superhuman wisdom I saw there.

Afterwards I lay there, my ribs and other parts pleasantly sore
as she straddled me, stroking my chest and sides, crooning and
chuckling softly to herself. As I basked in post-coital bliss (my
first!) I became aware of something cold and wet on my stomach
and chest. Looking down, I could see my semen drying undisturbed
where it had splattered. But how could that be? Not only had I
been inside her the entire time, it would have smeared when she'd
snuggled against me. I couldn't see anything on her belly, but
reached up anyway to see what I could feel, only to yank my hand
back in shock as it sank into her body.  "Hey, that tickles!" she
giggled. Hesitantly I touched her again and found firm female
flesh, impossibly clean and dry. "One of the little fringe
benefits of being a goddess." She gave me a playful squeeze with
her thighs that almost broke my hips, then lay down next to me,
snuggling and running her fingers along my belly. "Dennis", she
said softly, "I'm going say something that sends most men running
in terror for the door." She put her mouth against my ear and
whispered a single word:

"Marriage."

She smiled. "Think about it. You could have a goddess for a
lover. Could do what we just did and more, any time, any place."
She ran her hand down my chest, my belly. "I'd never grow old,
and I'd be at your side for the rest of your life. I could even
make myself over into somebody else, if you'd like." She touched
my manhood, playfully, teasingly ran her fingers over and around
it. "Sure, there'd be drawbacks. Nobody but you could see me. You
wouldn't be able to introduce me to others, and they might have
trouble understanding what we have between us. On the other hand,
nobody could take me away from you. There are men who would
cheerfully kill for a lover like that." She smiled. "And all you
need to do to make me yours is keep taking that Special Blend you
get from your friend. 'With this shit I thee wed'." Shegrinned.

My rapid breathing and pounding heartbeat had nothing whatsoever
to do with arousal or nervousness at her proposal. She had taken
to idly grasping my manhood, pulling it up, erect, to over twice
its size, then blasting it with a lightning bolt from her
fingertip, causing it split asunder and collapse in flaming ruin.
Three times in row she did this. Soundlessly. Painlessly. She saw
my look of horror and giggled with embarrassment. "Oops! Sorry, I
get kinda playful, you know, after." I found myself desperately
wishing I could evade her attentions and nearly fainted when my
genitals were sucked into a puckered hole on my crotch. "Hey,
hide-n-seek!" She reached in and pulled, restoring my privates to
their normal appearance.

"Your majesty", I gasped, "I am not worthy of you!" I was trying
with terrible desperation to be diplomatic, placating. 

She snorted. "Men! Mortal or otherwise, they never commit!" but
to my intense relief she didn't seem greatly offended. Instead,
she looked chagrined at her recent forwardness. "Somehow I
suspected your answer was going to be 'no'", she said with sad
resignation. She sniffed and dabbed at her eye. There was the
sudden rattle of rain on the roof, startled yelps outside from
the neighbors' back yard. "But at least we shared this special
moment", she breathed, and took me in one of her bone-crushing
embraces. Then, to my unease, she thoughtfully studied me. "You
know, Dennis, you're alone all the time and I just don't think
it's good for you. I mean, look how quickly you succumbed to my
charms. Promiscuity is such a bad trip!" She was silent for a
while, then brightened. "I know! There's a mortal who lives in
this area, a devotee of mine. You and she must become acquainted.
You should find her...interesting." She grinned. "It'll take
about a year to arrange."

I stared at her. "A year?"

"Oh yes. These things take time to do right."

"Uh, okay. What do I do in the meantime?"

"In the meantime you make yourself into a man worthy of my
devotee." She looked around my room. 

I did the same, seeing it with halfway sober eyes for the first
time in...how long had it been? Dirty clothes covered nearly
every surface, hung from every projection; what on earth had I
been wearing? Mingled with the laundry were take-out containers
from a nearby Chinese restaurant, all too many of them sporting
fur coats. I counted three roaches, four, staring incuriously at
the scene on the bed, then left off counting with a shudder. As
for the bed itself...had these sheets really been white once? No
wonder she'd wanted to be on top. "You see my point", she said
dryly. "Also, my devotee is of modest means and couldn't afford a
'kept man', if you get my drift." In other words get a job. Sure
thing Mom, I thought. Thankfully she didn't take that as a cue to
transform. 

As I watched, however, I noticed that her outline was becoming
indistinct, and I could see the closet door through her, faintly.
"Oh Dennis", she cried, "I haven't had this much fun since I
flooded the Netherlands." She kissed me, slowly, her lips like a
touch of mist on mine. "Remember me always, love!" she said, as
her voice faded. "And don't you dare disappoint my devotee!" were
her final words, coming as if from a great distance. And then I
was alone.

The worst thing about it was that I had to take another shower.
This one was lukewarm and business-like, and after it was done I
opened and closed the bathroom door several times, equalizing the
air inside and outside the bathroom. As I stepped out into the
hall I paused. There was a puddle of water in front of the door,
no mystery there, I had stood there dripping wet from the earlier
shower doing God knows what. The little scorch marks, however,
were a bit harder to explain away.

Cleaning myself off had taken maybe twenty minutes. Cleaning out
my room   flushing it might be a better description   took the
entire weekend. Monday morning was taken up with job hunting.
Monday evening I called Savage Henry and cancelled my order of
Special Blend, describing what had happened. "I know a warning
when I've been taken by one", I said. He was disappointed but
sympathetic. "Yeah, I hear ya, man. Sounds pretty heavy," He
paused, then: "Hey, this Storm Queen chick. She got a sister?" I
said I didn't know, and to this day I don't know if Henry ever
tried looking for her or found her if he did. Finally, on Tuesday
I was informed that I'd gotten a job, at a large printing shop,
and spent the rest of the week learning the ropes. 

The months passed, bringing with it a raise and promotion and,
surprisingly, an outlet for some of my Army supply clerk
training. The shop was located near the University and we got a
lot of students looking to have their term papers and
dissertations typed up professionally. Plenty of the co-eds were
good-looking and showed interest in me, but something held me
back; fear of lightning or some other manifestation of
meteorological displeasure, perhaps?

I found other ways to spend my free time, more wholesome than my
earlier activities. One of my favorites was riding my bicycle on
the drives and hiking paths around White Rock Lake. It was there,
a little more than a year since my encounter with the Storm
Queen, that I was caught by a sudden thunderstorm. I pedaled
frantically as the first ragged volley of baseball-sized
hailstones shattered on the ground around me. I had barely made
it to the shelter of a covered picnic table when the clouds
opened up and delivered a hailstorm of biblical proportions. The
roar was deafening, and between catching my breath and gaping in
awe at the weather it was several minutes before I noticed that
there was someone else under the shelter.

She was about two inches shorter than my 6' 1", with the solid
muscular build of a weightlifter or swimmer; she'd been both in
high school, as it turned out. Her eyes were large, dark brown,
and widely spaced, topped by thick brows. She was wearing a dark
gray sundress that exposed skin the dark brown of a New Delhi
native, although she'd been born in Gujarat. The barrette that
confined her long black hair was perfectly ordinary, but she had
sewn an appliqu thunderstorm onto her blouse. 

She watched the retreating thunderstorm with dreamy fascination.
I watched her with open admiration. Okay, your majesty. The
devotee. Gotcha. There was a rumble of thunder that sounded
suspiciously like laughter.

She found me only slightly more interesting than the weather;
avid attention from her under the circumstances, I would later
learn. Her name, so at odds with her exotic appearance, was Laura
Howard. She'd spent all of six months in India, just long enough
to be born, orphaned, and adopted by an American couple. Now she
was a grad student at the University of Texas at Dallas. In
meteorology, of course. 

We dated, became lovers. I helped her do field research on
violent weather for her PhD, by driving, monitoring emergency
services' radio and the weather itself, and frantically evading
as needed. When we ran into hail I replaced the windshield.
Sometimes I prayed. 

Eventually we set a wedding date. Vows, rings, and a kiss had
just been exchanged, when the ceremony was interrupted by the
howl of emergency sirens and a great roar of wind outside the
church. I had just ushered the guests to relative safety behind
the altar when I saw my lovely bride standing in the doorway to
the church, bouquet hanging forgotten in one hand, outlined by
the almost strobe-like flashing of green lightning as she stared
raptly into the weather. As I came up to her she turned to me and
pointed at the monstrous tornado bearing down on the church.
"Dennis, look! It's anticyclonic!" she said delightedly. I
pointed out to her, with embellishments unseemly for the house of
God, that perhaps she should seek shelter from this F5 twister?
An exaggeration, as it turned out; it was only an F4, and all it
did was dance a time or two around the church and rearrange most
of the cars in the parking lot without damaging them. Everyone
was relieved and not overly surprised; after all, tornadoes do
strange things. So do deities at their devotees' weddings.

That was over thirty years ago. We live in Oklahoma now, where
Laura is a senior researcher at the NOAA National Severe Storms
Laboratory. There she cranks out papers peppered with esoterica
like Eady waves, operational mesoscale Eta models, and WSR-88D.
Our three daughters, Audrey, Carla, and Camille, crank out the
grandchildren. She's reached the age where, with a mix of regret
and relief, she's started delegating field research to her grad
students. Mortal my Storm Queen may be, but she's wonderfully
real, and oh that woman can give a hug! 

And when the wind howls, the sirens wail, and the rain roars on
the roof, as it so often seems to here in Oklahoma, I turn to her
and, with looks, words, lips, and hands bring us to moaning
desire. In all the years we've been married she's never asked me
why extreme weather excites me so. But she's never complained,
either.




<1st attachment end>


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