Struck by Lightning (TF/TG Story) [Exclusive]

The storm has been building all evening, thick air pressing down on your shoulders as you trudge across the soaked field. Every breath tastes of ozone, sharp and metallic, like the sky itself is hungry. 

Dark clouds boil overhead, swollen with rage, the horizon flashing pale white for an instant before swallowing itself back into black.

You mutter under your breath, boots squelching in the mud, clothes already plastered to your skin with sweat and rain. Your cock shifts in your jeans with each step, chafing against wet denim, an irritation you can’t ignore. The whole world feels charged, humming, the hair prickling along your arms, your spine. Thunder cracks so loud it rattles your ribs, makes your teeth ache.

You look up, chest heaving, defiant against the storm’s fury. 

A growl in the sky answers back, rolling deep and long, and you feel something, some heat, some pressure, gathering in your gut, as though the heavens have chosen you.

The flash rips the world in half. A white spear splits the sky, and for one suspended instant you swear you can see every vein of your own body lit up from the inside. Then CRACK—a boom so violent it feels like the earth itself explodes under your feet. Your ears ring, your vision goes blank, and then the pain hits.

It isn’t pain like a broken bone or a cut. It’s molten—every nerve in your body a wire plugged into raw electricity. Your back arches as if a puppet string yanks you skyward. Breath won’t come. Muscles seize, spasm, shake. You drop to your knees in the sucking mud, fingers clawing at the earth while the storm drives itself through you.

The charge doesn’t kill. It breeds. You feel it coil and twist inside, hot, feral, sexual. Your cock jerks hard once, twice—and then the sensation changes. The lightning digs deep into your groin, melting you from the root. A strangled groan tears from your throat as your shaft throbs, then collapses, folding inward like liquid metal pouring into a mold. Skin seals over the retreating flesh, every throb a white-hot pulse of both agony and unbearable release.

Your chest burns. You clutch at it but your hands meet swelling softness. Nipples ache, stiff against your soaked shirt as weight balloons beneath them, tender flesh pushing out, rounder, fuller with every heartbeat. 

The shirt clings to swelling mounds, rain sliding down the curves, and your scream slips into something lower, breathy, a moan you don’t recognize as your own.

Hair prickles along your scalp, roots tingling, then tugging as if pulled by unseen hands. It lengthens in a rush, damp strands plastering across your face, sticking to your lips, whipping down your back in the storm wind. Your skull feels lighter, face shifting, bones creaking beneath skin, reshaping into something smaller, finer.

Your thighs quiver, mud squelching under your twitching knees as your hips widen, your ass swelling with juicy heft that makes the wet denim strain. Lightning sears your spine, curling it with each spasm, until you’re writhing in the muck, guttural cries swallowed by thunder. Between your legs, the void where your cock was clenches, wet and aching. Flesh folds in, sculpted by the storm’s brutal hand, blossoming into slick, pulsing lips. The first drip of wetness leaks down your thighs, heat so intense you whimper, shaking.

Every surge of thunder above is echoed in your body below.

BOOM—your breasts bounce heavier, jiggling with raw sensitivity.

BOOM—your pussy clenches, slick and greedy.

BOOM—your voice breaks in a high, cracked scream that pitches into something needy, helpless.

You collapse flat, chest pressed to the soaked earth, hair tangled with grass, mud caked to your skin. The storm howls but you can only feel the molten furnace between your thighs, the wild charge of life flooding you. Each breath comes ragged, broken by sobs and moans, your body no longer his, but hers—reborn under the storm’s savage, fertile hand.

You lie there in the muck, chest heaving, rain sluicing over your trembling body. Your fingers clutch at the mud, knuckles white, as if you can ground yourself against the impossible. But the impossible is you. The swell of your chest rises with every ragged breath, nipples hard little knots straining through soaked fabric, each twitch making your whole body shudder.

You drag one hand upward, trembling, and when your palm cups the heavy mound of your own tit, you gasp out loud. Soft. Warm. Real. Your thumb brushes your nipple and your hips jerk, thighs squeezing together. 

The sudden wet heat between your legs makes you cry out again—high, sharp, needy.

Confusion claws at your mind, but lust drowns it. Your fingers slide down, pressing against the slickness between your thighs. You feel the lips, swollen and tender, spreading at your touch. When your fingertip slips inside, you moan—long and broken, the sound swallowed by thunder. The walls clutch at you, so hot, so impossibly tight it sends sparks bursting behind your eyes.

You arch up from the mud, hair plastered to your face, back curving as if begging the storm to strike you again. Both hands roam your new body now—one kneading a breast, the other pushing deeper, curling, stroking. 

Every movement sets off a chain reaction: tits bouncing, ass writhing, thighs slick and sticky with arousal.

“Ahhh—fuck—” 

The voice doesn’t sound like yours, higher, breathier, dripping with raw need. 

Hearing it turns you on more. You squeeze your tits harder, tugging at your nipple until pain melts into more pleasure. Fingers in your pussy move faster, knuckles grinding against your clit with every thrust. The wet sounds of your own body mingle with the storm, obscene squelches drowned and amplified at once.

Your body feels endless, alive in ways you never dreamed. Every nerve screams for more. You slip another finger inside, stretching yourself, hips bucking wildly. Lightning flashes overhead, and you see your reflection in a puddle—long hair clinging to your cheeks, lips parted in delirious lust, breasts spilling heavy and full, eyes glazed. The sight makes you moan louder, desperate.

Your thighs quake, toes curling in the mud as climax coils hot and brutal in your belly. You ride your own hand, grinding down, mewling like a slut in heat, lost in the feral energy that remade you.

Another crack of lightning splits the sky, and your whole body jolts with it—your pussy spasms around your fingers, your tits bounce up against your palm, and you let out a whimpering moan that sounds like it belongs to some desperate slut begging to be filled. 

The storm isn’t letting you go; it’s feeding you.

Each strike in the distance sends another wave rolling through your body. 

BOOM—your ass swells rounder, heavier, clapping wet against the mud as your hips buck. 

BOOM—your breasts surge larger, nipples aching, the weight spilling through your fingers when you squeeze them. 

You can’t stop playing with yourself, can’t stop the frantic rub of your clit, the slick slide of your fingers inside your hungry, dripping cunt. Every flash makes you louder, every thunderclap makes you wetter.

Your thighs tremble, spreading wider, toes digging into the ground for leverage as you rut against your own hand. Lightning rips overhead, and your hair lashes around you like a wet whip, sticking to your face while you grind, whimpering:

“Mmm—ahhh—yes—fuck—” over and over without thought. Each moan comes higher, sluttier, echoing across the storm-soaked field.

Another strike nearby rattles the earth, and you nearly scream—your pussy clenches hard, milking your fingers as if they were a cock buried deep inside you. You twist them, pump them faster, thumb circling your clit, the obscene squelch of your wetness mixing with the storm’s roar. Your body arches upward, tits bouncing as your back bows, every muscle straining under the storm’s current.

Then the world goes white. A massive bolt hits so close you taste metal on your tongue. The thunderclap hits instantly, booming so loud it shakes your bones, and you explode with it.

“AAAHHHHH—FUUUCK—!”

Your orgasm tears through you raw and violent, electricity in your veins.

You collapse into the muck, chest heaving, thighs quivering, hair plastered to your sticky, sweat-and-rain soaked skin. Every nerve still buzzes, little aftershocks crackling through your veins like the storm hasn’t quite released you. Your pussy flutters around your fingers even as you slip them free, leaving you dripping, clenching on nothing, aching for more.

You roll onto your back, tits heavy on your chest, nipples hard as diamonds, rising and falling with each shuddering breath. The storm rumbles in the distance now, retreating, as if satisfied with what it’s made of you. 

You trace your own body in disbelief—your wide hips, your swollen breasts, your soft belly rising and falling—each new curve throbbing with residual pleasure.

You bring your wet fingers to your lips, tasting yourself, and moan. The flavor is raw, salty-sweet, like the essence of the storm itself. Your other hand cups your sex, palm pressing against your still-throbbing clit, and you gasp at the oversensitivity. Even the gentlest touch makes you writhe, makes your legs spread wider in the mud as if offering yourself to the sky.

The rain eases to a drizzle, cool droplets tracing over every inch of your reborn form, soothing the fever the lightning burned into you. You sigh, long and content, letting the wet earth cradle your naked back. For the first time you’re not fighting the storm—you’re basking in it, owned by it, changed forever.

Your last moan slips out softer, needier, a promise to yourself as much as to the dark clouds above. 

“Mmm… more…”

But the storm has gone quiet. However, deep in your still-tingling body, you know you can bring your own storm at any time.