FICTION

Passion In The Eye Of The Storm

Written for the lighthouse prompt on Tantalizing Tales Capturing the clouds on her canvas, movement caught her eye

It was the tenth consecutive day Francoise walked the steep trail towards the lighthouse, a rucksack with supplies on her back, an easel in one hand, canvas in the other. Even after ten days of this, and being reasonably fit, she panted when she finally stopped at the spot she had chosen on that first day up here.

She had spent most of that first day to find the perfect angle to draw and paint the lighthouse. Every day since she was in awe of the beauty of the phallic structure, etched against the ever-changing sky, and bordered by the rugged cliff dropping to the sea.

Francoise shivered as the wind cut through her flimsy sundress. When she left home, there were little clouds in the sky. Now the dark sky served as the perfect backdrop for the red and white structure. She cursed herself for not bringing a cardigan with her, but walking back to her car was not an option, since the walk up had already taken her the better part of an hour.

She rubbed her hands over her arms to get some warmth in them, then unfolded the easel and secured the canvas on it.

Looking from the painting to the lighthouse, and especially the dramatic sky behind it, Francoise knew today she needed to concentrate on capturing the dark, stormy clouds. She just hoped the clouds would blow over and not threaten to pour their contents over her.

Soon she was emersed in mixing colors and applying brush strokes to the canvas, seeing the painted sky come to life.

Glancing at the clouds behind the top of the lighthouse, she turned back to the painting, then jerked her head back.

There was something there.

Or someone.

She had detected movement, but studying the lighthouse now, nothing was there.

Her attention was soon with her painting again, and she loved how the sky on the canvas felt as filled with power as the real thing. The stark white and bright red of the lighthouse enhanced the dramatic feel of the piece of art.

When she saw it again, she knew it wasn’t her imagination.

Someone was in the lighthouse.

She had clearly seen a figure at a window.

Francoise, happy with the work she had put in, and the way the painted sky had turned out, cleaned her brushes, and packed her supplies.

Then, instead of walking down the slope to return to her car, she grabbed her stuff and walked to the lighthouse, determined to find out who was there.

Halfway there, a lightning flash cut through the dark clouds, immediately followed by a loud crack. Big drops splashed around her, and as well as she could with her heavy load, Francoise ran towards the door of the lighthouse, and crashed through it just as the sky opened up into a heavy thunderstorm.

She closed the door behind her and dropped her gear to the floor. Above her, she heard shuffling. Francoise — not one to be scared — tiptoed up the stairs, which ended in an open space at the top.

Her eyes swept over the sparse furnishings — clearly stuff a regular camper would use — and came to rest on a man who stood watching the storm, his back turned to her.

“Hello…”

Her word sounded uncertain, because she didn’t want to startle the man.

“Hi, beautiful lady,” he said, without turning around.

Something stirred inside Francoise at the unusual greeting.

What she had seen told her he had been staying there for more than just one day. Those words made it clear he had probably been watching her from that first day she had come up the hill.

Not that she considered herself beautiful, but him not turning around uttering them did something to her.

She went to stand next to him, and together they looked out over the wild waves of the ocean. Several times lightning and thunder split the sky, and every time it did, it heightened the excitement Francoise felt in every cell of her body.

Not a word passed between them when their hands locked together.

Soon, they couldn’t make out the sea below them — their world had shrunk to no bigger than the lighthouse.

How it happened and why she did it, Francoise would never be able to tell, but when they turned to each other, their lips met in a passionately explorative kiss.

Their clothes found their way to the floor; their bodies to the thin mattress and sleeping bag.

Hand and mouths explored.

She arched her back when he sucked her flesh; he grunted when she nibbled his earlobe.

Their passion grew in unison with the storm.

His fingers dipped inside her wetness, finding and stimulating a tender spot, which drew a long, intense moan from her. He had barely touched the bundle of nerves at the apex of her slit when she exploded in a climactic scream.

He invaded her body with force, pounding into her with abandon. Francoise lifted her legs and grabbed her knees, opening herself wide, welcoming the onslaught of his rigid member.

The storm reached its climax at the same time they reached theirs.

Lying together afterwards, they were as silent as before, and together they listened as first the storm quieted, then the rain.

Soon sunlight streamed into the room.

Francoise untangled her limbs from his, stood up and got dressed.

“Goodbye, beautiful lady,” he said from the bed, his head resting in his hand, his gloriously naked body turned towards her.

She smiled, descended the steps, grabbed her gear and set off to return to her car, knowing she would be back tomorrow.

Back to paint.

Back to him.

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