Thunder roars in the distance. The naked tree branches swoosh about as a gust of wind blows through the yard. Dried leaves swirl in eddies across the sandstone path and come to rest, though briefly, at the base of the cedar hedge.
The pitter patter of raindrops approach. Faint drops make their way across the grass, the car roof, then the stained-glass window of the bedroom. A light syncopated rhythm building to a crescendoed drumbeat against the shingled roof.
Lightning flashes across the sky and a crack of thunder closely follows. Bright streaks light up the wet, oppressive night and the ground quakes in it’s wake. Again, and again. Boom. Boom. The thunder is deafening.
Then it is done. The thunder, the lightning, even the rain has ceased. Remnants of the storm trickle down and flow along the paths edge. The rain moves on and the humidity dissipates. The thick heavy night leads to a fresh new morning. Mother Nature has quenched her thirst.
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Not a typical masturbation piece, but something about rainstorms completely turns me on.