My fear of thunderstorms goes far back, to my childhood.
We were on a family picnic at a local state park, with a pond for swimming and fishing, a hiking trail, and pavilions with grills for cookouts and safety from the rain.
On this particular day, we'd had so much fun splashing in the pond, playing with my older brother and sister and various cousins, that I didn't want to leave when thick, dark and angry storm clouds suddenly rolled in. But Dad wanted to beat the rain, so we packed up in a hurry.
As I ran to the car, not ten feet away from me, a lightning bolt hit the ground, accompanied by terrifying loud thunder. The force of the bolt knocked me down, and the static electricity in the air made my hair stand up, or try to. I lay on the ground in a fetal position, screaming and crying, when Dad came and scoped me up. We spent the rest of the day in the emergency room. The doctors said I was shaken up, but otherwise uninjured.
Shaken up? They had no idea. I haven't been able to handle a thunderstorm since. Even the slightest rumble of thunder takes me immediately back to that day, and I am often paralyzed with fear. I'll start shaking and crying even now, in my forties. I just can't help it.
A thunderstorm last summer changed my life, and Derek's, forever.
Derek was 22 years old that summer night, as handsome and athletic a young man as any mother could desire. He's a swimmer, and he tones his muscles by lifting weights. I have to admit, when he started developing into the hunk he is today, I sometimes had shameful thoughts about him. I have since learned I am hardly the only woman who has ever felt this way.
Derek has since admitted to me that I was one of his go-to dream girls when he masturbated. He says he loves my thick auburn hair, my breasts (about as large and round as cantaloupes, according to him), and my dancer's legs, which he described as tapered. Re-enacting some of his fantasies has provided us with enormous amounts of fun.
