Stormie Pt. 01: Risky Reunion

Authors Note: This is a collaborative effort by Openmouth, who wrote the part of Stormie and RoryOmore who wrote the part of Mark. All characters are over the age of eighteen.

STORMIE

Prologue: Stormie's Drive

Stormie put her bags in the car and set off towards the highway. As she drove she contemplated what had brought her to this point, and what the possible outcomes could be. Traffic was light and she anticipated a smooth journey without too many hiccups, although she doubted the whole trip would be that straightforward!

She thought about the contents of her suitcase. Maybe she was getting ahead of herself when she'd selected her favourite lingerie items and packed them, but if- if Mark was there,if he was unattached,if he had feelings for Stormie andif he was willing to act on them, she wanted to show him everything- a newly-purchased, black lace basque might be a nice little treat for both of them. She hoped her boyish bum and exposed neck were still appealing to him.

She sure knew how good she could look. She first experimented with makeup over a year ago. It was easier once she had her own place; she could spend hours perfecting her mascara and eyeliner to the point where she was confident to go out in public. The first time was from a hotel in Montreal; she backcombed her hair, put on a headband and heavy eye makeup, red lipstick, a striped top and black skirt, with black tights and sneakers, and a duffel bag over her shoulder. The plan was simple; walk out through reception and to the park, feel the breeze around her legs, read the newspaper. She was nervous before leaving the room, but spotting herself in the full-length mirror, her nerves melted away. 'Stormie, you are agirl,' she told herself.

Self-conscious in reception, she forced herself to act normal and not exaggerate her feminine walk. She didn't have to anyway, as it was her natural gait. As an older guy held the door for her, though, she remembered her voice wasn't a girl's voice! She managed to squeak a breathy 'thank you...' and was rewarded with a smile, the guy obviously approving of Stormie's appearance, to the annoyance of his wife.

It was a gorgeous spring day and she put on her shades. She reached in her bag for her cigarettes and lit one, drawing the smoke into her lungs with satisfaction. She smoked as she walked along; this was something else she had perfected, she was totally female in the way she held her cigarette poised delicately between her fingertips, the way she pouted her lips to drag and let the smoke slowly stream from her lips. She loved how smoking could draw attention to her facial bone structure and her lips; she'd practiced this for months and felt confident now doing it in public.

As she drove, reminiscing about being in the park, watching the world go by on that spring morning, she felt truly fortunate; by accident of birth she had feminine features and she was outgoing enough to be able to enjoy it. She was never belittled by parents or peers about being effeminate, and always managed to use humour to stand up to bullies. As an athlete, Stormie could outrun most situations anyway.

She smiled as she remembered showing off with her cigarette. She'd put on fresh lipstick before lighting another one, gradually becoming more confident, she'd read her paper and strolled, her cigarette hanging from her lips like Monica Vitti in Modesty Blaise. I want a cigarette now, she thought, resolving to stop at the next service station.

Her mind wandered to the contents of her case, again. The black ankle boots. She'd never worn proper heels in public, just some slip ons with a 1" heel. She considered herself to be on the cusp of starting to dress fully female in public, but wasn't sure if this was something she wanted. Could she go back to being a boy? Should she just continue to blur the boundaries? She didn't have breasts, but adored wearing a bra. Her trip to Montreal had also been fruitful for purchasing such things; dressed as a boy she had felt awkward, but also excited. By the end of the day, she was openly asking to try on items and enjoying the positive reaction from mature sales ladies, all trying to mother Stormie, a familiar situation she'd experienced with aunts and family friends.

The magazines. They had come later; not being able to forget Mark and their innocent encounter, she had tossed and turned in bed, waking up after a feverish wet dream, her own cock intensely spasming as she dreamed of the most enormous black dick sliding in and out of her mouth. A week later she took a trip to Toronto, and a sex shop on the outskirts of town. It had been exciting, having her desires stripped bare as she asked to see a selection of magazines featuring coloured men. The guys in the shop had leered at a pretty boy with an obvious interest in black men. They looked her up and down. One asked 'like the big ones, do you?' Typical Stormie, she'd fronted it out, replying that she liked them all, but especially the big ones. She left with a stack of five magazines, with titles likeBlack Love, Colour Climax, African Rhythms.

She pulled into a service station and filled up, buying gum and a pack of Sevens before pulling out onto the highway again. Her thoughts soon returned to her magazines; they were her prize possessions, and she took great pains to conceal them in her university apartment. She had spent so much time studying them that she could remember 90% of the text, and grinned as she recalled one of her favourite spreads fromAfrican Rhythms. 'Rufus displays the impressive physical form that ensured several generations of his ancestors were rulers of their African village. Mindy knows nothing about his provenance, merely that his manhood is twice as big as anything she has been offered by a white guy, and he has a virility to match. She parts her young lips to accept his inevitable advances, feeling her approaching climax starting to engulf her.'

She drove, thinking of the pictures. The curly young blonde in shiny makeup, legs spread and a look of trepidation on her cheeks; the huge, distended, veiny black member poised above her, half the length of her torso. These were under-the-counter magazines; Mindy took his length, sucked him off, and proudly displayed his cum on her face. She started to think of Mark; the girls they dated at the lake would all give up their secrets very readily, and Stormie knew he was well hung, even at fifteen or sixteen. She thought of Mindy, herself as Mindy, flushed with anticipation, readying her tight little bum hole for Mark's rampant and unstoppable advances.

She was breathing hard, thoughts swirling in her head, heart pounding. 'You idiot, Stormie; he probably won't talk to me. What if he's not even there?' A hundred things could conspire to render the liaison unlikely. She wound down the window, reached for a cigarette and lit up, enjoying the cool smoke in her mouth and chest. She had calmed down after a couple of deep drags. Only another twenty miles to the lake; if there was no sign of Mark, she would at least be able to drink wine, smoke and enjoy her magazines. And there were always easy girls around.

STORMIE PT ONE: Risky Reunion

Stoney Lake Ontario: 1985

Mark:

I was sitting alone, out front of the family cottage, a bottle of Canadian dangling from my hand, and watching the swiftly moving clouds rush to swallow up the fast-setting sun. The lake was quiet for a Labour Day, most people had been scared away by reports of the bad storm moving in.

Stormy. Stormie. Fuck of a name for a guy. Seemed like everything reminded me of my old pal these days.

Since we were nine years old, Stormie Lee and me had spent every July on Stoney Lake. With both of us being a bit on the fringe of things, we'd hit it off right away. I was adopted by white parents, but I'm what some people call, 'black as the ace of spades'.

And Stormie? Well, there was always something special about Stormie, something secret, exciting and dangerous. He was sweet and smart, kinda girlie. Of course, some of it was his English accent. Man, he could say some of the dumbest shit and still make it sound brilliant!

From time to time, some new kid on the lake would tease Stormie about that...at least until I punched the guy in the nose. Nobody wanted to fuck with the only black kid on the lake, believe me. So, because of me, nobody ever fucked with Stormie either.

Well, maybe Stormie fucked withme. I was never sure what was going on behind that quirky little smile of his. I could run faster, jump higher, dive deeper, and hit harder than he could, but I always had a feeling that he knew a whole lot more than I did. It was like he knew shit and he wasn't telling me. I was bigger and taller, hell, I could pick him up with one arm, but there was no question that it was always Stormie who was leading, even if I was the one out front.

When we young adults, we were all over each other, wresting, hugging, even sleeping over at one cottage or the other, at least until I started getting a boner every time he brushed up against me. After that, we were still close, but I tried not to touch him; I tried not to look at his snowy white body when we used the outdoor shower. But I don't know... sometimes, I thought he was teasing me, like a girl would; posing this way and that, always wanting to play contact sports under the water.

I never really knew how it was with him. I talked tough, bragged a lot about the girls I fucked, and said shit about fags and queers. Maybe that scared him off; maybe it turned him off, I couldn't say.

One time, he slipped his arm around me when we were alone and kissed me, and I loved it. I lost my head, and I kissed him like I would have a girl, kissed him like I wanted to devour him. Then, somebody came along and interrupted; that led to one thing after another and we never got to talk about it. And then, he was gone.

Fucking Stormie Lee, man. Brown eyes, hair in bangs across his forehead, jean jacket collar turned up, Black Cat No. Seven dangling from the corner of his mouth. Fuck.

The clouds swallowed the sun, and the wind rushed through the trees. I took a swig from the long-neck and inhaled deeply. Smelled the rain, and the pine, the smoke from the chimney, and something else; something that didn't belong.

I twisted around in my chair, and for the first time, noticed a woman was standing at the bottom of the stairs, just a shape in the shadows, and a smell. I couldn't see her, but I could tell it was a girl. I felt a shiver run down my spine.

I stood up slow and fluid, so as not to scare her. "Can I help you, miss?" I asked. "I'm Mark Mackenzie, and this is my family's place."

Stormie:

I slinked out of the shadows, cooling it up, but I couldn't keep it going. I felt my dimples form, and my face split into an uncontrollable grin.

"Hey, pal..."

"Fuck me. Stormie!" He ran to me and we hugged, and he lifted me off my feet. How I'd missed that feeling.

He released me, looking me up and down with a slow whistle; the blouse, black pants above the ankle, slip on pumps, and the fresh coat of lip gloss I'd applied as soon as I'd spotted his truck.

"Man! Stormie, look at you! Stormie, buddy...fuck, you look good. So, are you a girl now, or what?" He was so excited, it was like he was wired.

"Hell, I don't know, Mark; I never did! Does it matter?"'

He took a deep breath and shook his head, looking at me with a kind of awe. "Not to me, man. I'm so fucking glad to see you, you coulda turned up with a beard down to your ankles - but this. Man, you must drive people crazy."

"I have a few loose ends to tie up with my parents' place. Did you know they sold it?" My face broke into a grin again, the dimples, always a giveaway. "How long are you here for?"

"I'm up all weekend, closing up our place. Everybody else stayed home because of the storm. Look, your place must be a mess, you gotta stay with me, okay?"

I didn't answer right away; I was too busy looking over the shape of his muscled torso and his toned arms.

"Wow, Mark! Look at you! God, you're a big guy, now! You always were, but..."

"Stormie, I tried to call you, but you know...shit, man! We've got lots to talk about. At least stay for a beer, I'll help you out with your place tomorrow."

He embraced me. "I was sitting here, just now, thinking of you, thinking I'd never see you again. Come on, it'll be like old times."

I smiled. Just try stopping Stormie Lee.

"'Me and you need to get drunk tonight..."

Mark:

One of the great things about the cottage, one of the things thatwas the cottage for me, was the isolation. We weren't that far from Toronto, but there was something about the terrain around the lake, and the atmospherics at night, that interfered with radio signals. We never had a TV up there, and at night, when the Canadian stations cut back on their power, you would get these random skip signals from all over the states.

Stations would fade in and out, and we would fiddle with the dial and just kind of take whatever came our way. It made you feel like you were at the fucking North Pole. It was very romantic, although, I never would have thought of it that way as a kid.

We were into our second beer, sitting across from each other at the little table in the kitchen, and after an hour, we finally came to a brief lull in our conversation. There was so much to catch up on, so much to remember. I turned on the old Sanyo Seven Band with the antenna that had a wire wrapped around the top and stuck out the window, and I roamed about until I got a signal. Oldies, I meanreal oldies like from the forties, came in from only God knows where.

"God, I missed that! The fucking radio... you and me," he said.

Outside, the wind picked up and the rain came down hard, there probably had been some lightening, too, but we hadn't noticed. Without asking, I got us each another Canadian, snapping off the caps with the opener screwed into the cabinet next to the fridge.

"You know, this reminds me of that time, before our first dance at Rideau Ferry. You remember that?" he asked.

"How could I forget?"

Rideau Ferry was a big lodge that held dances on Saturday nights and drew cottagers, mostly teenagers, from miles around. The parents hung out in the bar, while the kids danced in the main hall. It was a great way to meet girls.

"You were going to teach me how to dance," he chuckled.

I set the beer on the table, but he stood up, close to me.

"Come on! Who ever heard of a white boy who could dance?" I teased him.

"God, what was the song then?"

"'Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough'. I was gonna to teach you how to dance like MJ."

"Oh God! That's right, but we couldn't get it on the radio, and wound up with some kind of Lawrence Welk show, or something."

"But fuck, we made the best of it," I said. I stared into his eyes, my voice gone raspy.

"At least white boys know how to slow dance," he said in a voice that squeezed my already aching balls.

"You wanna?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Of all things, 'Moon River' was playing, but as long as it was slow, it didn't really matter.

We started to dance, right there in the kitchen, and I was at the point of kissing him when thunder exploded like an atom bomb. The wind came in a rush and the front door banged. The lightening knocked out the power and everything went dark.

We had a good laugh, once we locked the place and lit about a dozen candles. Power outages were common there; sometimes they were short, but more often, they lasted until morning.

I brought a couple more bottles of beer into the living room, close to the fireplace where Stormie was stoking up the fire.

"Stormie, you remember Shelia and Cynthia?"

"How could I forget?"

Sheila Crowe was three-quarters Huron, dark skinned, thick black hair down to her waist. Cynthia Babbitt was pale-skinned with freckles and curly red hair. In a way, they were almost a female version of us. When we first met them, Stormie went straight for Shelia, and I went after Cynthia.

He bent at the waist, pointed his sweet can at me, and poked the fire. "We were thirteen," he said, looking over his shoulder at me.

"Shit. You were so smooth, 'Why don't we play for stakes?' or something like that, like right out of a fucking movie," I chuckled.

"It wasn't my smooth talking, Brother! They both just wanted to get a look at you."

Stormie:

I leaned towards Mark, and stroked his arms and chest. "It's you they wanted to see, especially Cynthia... I was a little jealous; I used to think about how her body would look, next to yours."

He tousled my hair, and laughed. "Man, Sheila was gorgeous, too. With your charm, you could've had both of them!"

I rolled my eyes and replied, "You, asshole! I meant, I was jealous ofher."

He looked awkward for a moment before I pounced on him, and punched him playfully in the stomach and sides. He laughed, and slapped me back. "Hey, quit it, you homo!"

I grinned, and he gave me a resounding smack on the left buttock when I climbed to my feet.

"Hey, want another beer?"

I returned with two fresh beers, the cards, and an evil leer. I started dealing Pontoon.

"For stakes?" he asked with a grin.

I gave him a wink and started to deal. "Twist. Twist. Ahhh..."

I tossed my hair, and gave him a look. "Mark, I do believe you need to hand me an item of clothing."

He removed a sock, took a swig of beer, and dealt. I busted too, and realized I'd been slightly unwise. I wasn't wearing socks. I took a drink, but I already felt slightly inebriated.

"Ok..." I took a deep breath, and swayed to my feet.

I needed him to see me; the cards were merely a distraction. I blew the fringe from my eyes, unbuttoned my shirt, and let it fall from my shoulders. Mark's face was a picture when I revealed my pink, silk camisole.

I kept going. My trousers were from the female department and zipped at the side; I let them fall and stepped out of them. There, I stood, in front of him wearing only my camisole, knickers, black stockings and garters.

I heard him gasp. "Stormie! Fuck..."

I'd truly laid my cards on the table. I put one hand on my hip, and managed a sickly smile as my heart trembled. I hoped I didn't sound too desperate.

"Mark, I'd really like to feel your arms around me."

Mark:

From the moment Stormie wiggled out of those tight pants, I didn't think of him as a guy. Well, at least not as a 'he'. After that, Stormie was 'she' in my mind. No matter how weird things got, I knew she belonged in the feminine category.

Me, I wasn't sure what the fuck I was, but, I knew what I wanted. I wanted her. I'm sure I scared her, because for what seemed like five minutes, I sat there with my mouth hanging open. I was stunned, and not only because she was gorgeous, I'd never seen a girl dressed like that outside of a magazine.

Black nylons and garters! Fuck, I loved that shit! The first thing I wanted to do was rub my face against her leg, and then, bury it in her crotch; completely forget what I would find there.

"Mark," she said. Her voice trembled, and in a flash, I realized how hard this must be for her.

She buried her face in my neck, her hot breath driving me nuts. My hands moved from her shoulders, down her slender back, feeling the cool silk, down to her tight ass. More silk, more elegant lace beneath my rough, unworthy fingers. I pulled her panties down, just a little, with my thumbs, and then squeezed her. As I molested her, she clung to me with her arms around my neck, her cock slowly humping my leg.

Stormie:

I felt so vulnerable, so naked. I didn't simply take my clothes off in front of him, I presented myself in girl's underwear; I bared my soul. Whatever happened, right then, I wanted to be a girl for him from then on. He'd grown and become even more masculine, and my head swam with the possibilities, and the alcohol.