Heat Wave Read online

  The door to the room had been left unlocked and the only lights left on were by the side of the bed. Luba was on all fours on the bed, wearing just a T-shirt, her rear facing the door. Obscene and innocent. Her legs were held apart and both her cunt and anus invited the steady gaze of lust, exposed, raw, available. The Frenchman stood on the threshold, as if hypnotized by the pornographic spectacle of the offering. I asked him to wait for an instant and walked over to the bed. Quickly delving into my own suitcase, I pulled out a tie and a black leather belt, which I used to bind Luba’s hands to the headboard. She had to adjust her position, her back arching to maintain her equilibrium and comfort and I spread her legs further. Her cunt now gaped. I found a silk scarf in her handbag and tied it around her head, denying her any kind of vision.

  “Now,” I said, turning back to the stranger. He was already slipping his trousers down and pulling his cock out. It was a majestic specimen. Uncut, thick, and veined like a delicately carved sculpture. He was already rock hard. He shot me a final glance, as if seeking my approval. I nodded. He positioned himself at her lips and with one quick thrust entered her. Despite his girth I was fascinated to see how easily he penetrated her and filled her, stretching her engorged lips to wondrous effect. Luba caught her breath, either surprised by his sheer size or momentarily seized by a brief moment of pain as he forced his way deep into unknown recesses within her innards.

  He attacked her with unceasing force, burying himself inside her flesh with every in and out piston movement, metronomically regular and untiring, his large, heavy balls slapping against her pale arse cheeks. For a second or so, I had an abominable thought of that monster of a cock breaching her other, delicate opening and dilating it to unthought of dimensions, like the aftermath of sodomies in some particularly revolting hard-core movies I’d seen.

  The Frenchman put me to shame in the energy stakes, I had to admit. He stayed hard, never losing his rhythm, systematically drilling into Luba’s cunt with ferocious ardor long beyond the time I knew I could myself sustain. I moved to the side of the bed and wiped sweat from Luba’s glistening forehead. She was feverish, burning, but I knew it was from sheer pleasure, and the knowledge that what we were doing was off the map and wicked. This was the epitome of anonymous indulgence. We were using each other, just as she was being thoroughly used by the stranger.

  He was now swearing under his breath as his attack on Luba increased yet in intensity, calling her a slut, a foreign whore. But she couldn’t understand French, and I was in no mood or position to contradict him. Then, with a roar, the man came. Luba shrieked. I held my breath, closed my eyes, imagining his mighty flow flooding her. Finally, total silence. He was still deep inside her, his head bent forward, almost resting on her frail shoulders. I could see the overflow of his cum pearling down her thighs. I wiped her face again and freed her eyes.

  She looked up at me, still impaled on his cock.

  “You okay?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she said softly, attempting a feeble smile. The front of her T-shirt was soaking wet and her nipples scraped downward against the material, denting the gray fabric.

  I felt guilty now. We had crossed the border from fantasy into reality and it felt awkward. “We did agree, anything.…” I said, almost as an excuse.

  The Frenchman stood silently behind us. Luba inched her way forward and his thick cock slipped out of her. He was still half hard and sizable.

  Her eyes shone as they always did after she came. She looked at me as she straightened herself out. And asked: “Anything?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, somehow guessing already what she would now require of me. Too many late-night conversations over soft pillows during previous encounters.

  “Want to be sucked clean?” she asked the French guy.

  He looked nonplussed. Failed to answer.

  “By him?” She pointed in my direction.

  He shrugged his shoulders. I moved to the back of the bed, dropped to my knees, and took his still-dripping cock into my mouth and proceeded to suck and lick him clean. It tasted of her, of course. How could it not? His seed just didn’t count. It was the least I could do for her now. Eventually, the man retreated, just as he was about to get fully hard again, no doubt nervous of the fact that another man was now sucking his cock and initiating the same feelings a woman’s mouth would evince. He muttered his apologies, pulled his trousers up, and made for the door.

  Luba and I slept fitfully that night, our conversation at lower ebb than usual. The next morning, shortly after breakfast, we drove to Montpellier airport to catch our flight to Paris. There, we parted, moving on to our respective countries and homes. We kept in touch for some months, half-heartedly assuring each other we’d try to meet up again, but somehow our calendars and hearts never quite got it together. She met the guy from Korea. I fucked someone in New York. And so, monogamous adulterers that we were by habit and tradition, we mutually decided our affair had come to its logical term.

  We still talk on the phone every few months, and when we are in the mood for jokes, agree we’d had a most interesting holiday together.

  Heat Wave

  TAWNY BROWN

  It is August in Alabama. I love Southern summers, and the way the colors pop as everything is in full bloom for the last stretch of the summer. It’s the last of the dog days before the weather begins to turn cool again and changes everything. Somehow, August makes everything more sultry, more intense, more everything.

  But tonight, the weather is almost unbearable. It hasn’t rained in twelve days. The heat index is nearly 100, and it’s 9:00 P.M. The heat has been sweltering all day. Stifling, almost. The air conditioner is working overtime, and even the canned air isn’t doing any good this night. Everyone is walking around wearing as little as possible, including myself. The thin cotton shift that I am wearing for modesty’s sake is stuck to my curves such that you’d think it had been painted on. Welcome to the warm, humid nights of the South. You hate them and love them all at the same time.

  I’m standing in front of the air conditioner, watching you. You look hot even in nothing but your boxers and wifebeater T-shirt, lounging in the recliner, trying to concentrate on the work stretched out on your lap. For once, you looking hot is not a good thing. Well, it is, but it ain’t.

  “C’mere,” you growl, as you look up and notice me standing there, watching you. A single massive hand is outstretched, beckoning as you drop your paperwork on the floor next to you. I can’t imagine you even wanting to be close to someone in this heat.

  “No, it’s too hot.” I frown as I reply, because I know that no is not a word you recognize when you have that look upon your face. I silently hope you’re only teasing, because it is entirely too hot to even think about flesh-to-flesh with someone, much less the fuck-fests that you often turn things into. But that twinkle in your eyes tells me you are not teasing, that you are dead serious. Of course, the sudden and quite obvious tent in your boxers doesn’t help matters either.

  “Oh really? Too hot to make love, even? I can fix that, darling wife of mine.” With a laugh, you cross the room and wrap your huge hand around my wrist, dragging me out the door and into the sweltering night. The difference between inside temperature and out isn’t much, but it is enough to make me gasp for breath as the heat hits me in the face. You drag me barefoot into the darkness of the yard, and even the grass is hot beneath my feet. But it doesn’t remain that way for long.

  “Stand there, and don’t move.” You position me in the middle of the yard, between the house and the magnolia tree, and disappear into the shadows. Shocked gasps and squealing laughter fill the night air, seeming so piercing and loud in our nice, quiet, rural neighborhood. Once I realize you’ve turned the lawn sprinkler on, I’m laughing so hard, and shivering at the same time. The drops of water are like ice on my warm skin as the sprinkler fans back and forth between us, wetting us both.

  You lurch from the bushes that hide the outdoor faucet and growl menacingly as
you stalk toward me like some primal beast out hunting for the night. Surprise registers on my face as you whisper, “Want some candy, little girl?”

  “No! Oh Lord, not here, you nut!” I turn to run, laughing as I catch that look in your eye, but it’s too late. Both hands grasp me at the waist and yank me back against you, arms wrapping around me and capturing me. Your breath is hot on my skin as you drag me closer to the sprinkler. Water drips from both of us. I’m thankful for the huge magnolia blocking us from the street as I am manhandled right there in the front yard. Your whispers in my ear cause high-pitched giggles that I try to suppress as you pretend you are a savage beast about to ravage me.

  I love the way your hands feel as they glide up my thighs, lifting the soaked cotton, exposing my bare bottom to the contrast of cool water and night air. My nipples ache with hardness, both from excitement and the water as one hand wraps around a full breast and teases the nipple protruding there. Even with the cool water fanning over us, soaking us, your hardness is like hot coal as my hands slip between us and free you from your shorts. The fire is even hotter as you bend me forward just enough to enter me. The first thrust, hard, plants you firmly inside me, and my girlish giggles turn to moans. The contrast of warm skin, hot hardness, and cool water have my mind whirling and my body trembling as you thrust over and over again. Your hands are hard, and soft and warm, contrasting with the cool water as they grasp breasts, kneading, squeezing, holding me tight as teeth sink into the taut muscle at my neckline.

  I couldn’t care less who sees anymore. I couldn’t care less if the entire neighborhood knows that we are fucking on the front lawn. My dress rides higher, my own smaller hands slide between my thighs, pressing against my swollen clit, teasing it. Pressing back against you, my back arched, oblivious to the heat, to everything but your body joined with mine. My whimpers, your growls, lusty whispers, and soft, heated giggles fill the night. Shudders rock me as you erupt inside me, filling me with your own kind of heat.

  Eventually, you slip from inside me as I turn, wrapping myself around you, kissing you hard. Another set of giggles erupt as the night air grows quiet again and, faintly, we both hear Mr. Jones down the street, his rocking chair creaking, as he loudly whispers to his wife, “Martha, those two are at it again.”

  Girls of Summer

  ALISON TYLER

  “Boys of Summer” came out right when I finished high school. I went to the beach with my friends every day, all day long, and it seemed as if that’s the only song the deejays played. I’m exaggerating, of course, but that’s all I remember. That and the scent of tropical suntan oil. No sunblock for us. No SPF 45, or 62, or 1006, or whatever the kids are using these days. We wanted oil, the lowest protection available, and we rotated, as if on spits, to get the most even tan.

  My girlfriends kept their eyes open under their ever-socool Wayfarers, searching the Santa Cruz beach for cute surfers and college boys. I kept my eyes shut, picturing my recent ex, a man, not a boy, who had not actually broken my heart, but had somehow managed to leave town with that most vital organ in his possession. Since he’d disappeared, I didn’t feel anything. Not happy. Not sad or angry or confused. I cruised on empty—not interested in anything but a tan.

  Every so often, one of my pals would say, “Oh, Carla, open your eyes. Look at him,” as some blond Adonis made his way toward us. I’d peek from beneath half-closed lids, toss out a number on a scale of one to ten, then shut my eyes again.

  We spent all day at the beach, because we didn’t have anywhere else to go. In the fall, we’d all be scattered at universities around the country. Until then, we lived at home, occasionally working odd in-between sorts of jobs, like hostess at Chevy’s or checkout girl at Whole Foods. We had bonfire nights and went to midnight movies. But mostly we baked until bronze beneath the summer sun. The chicklets in my group all yearned for the heat of a summer romance, while I let the sound of the waves take me back three months to the last time I’d seen my man.

  You’re not supposed to have a man when you’re in high school. You’re supposed to have nerves about SATs, and tantrums about your curfew, and giggling fits with your girlfriends when some dork feels you up at prom. But I escaped that nonsense by losing my heart to a man, a twenty-sevenyear-old rebel who looked like James Dean, dealt cocaine to the executive assholes in Silicon Valley, and picked me up after study hall on his stolen Harley-Davidson.

  In my defense, I didn’t know about the coke or the fact that his bike was stolen until long after he disappeared. I didn’t know that he’d spent time in jail, or that he had a tattoo of the Zig-Zag man on his forearm beneath a bandage he always wore in my presence. I didn’t even know who the Zig-Zag man was. All I knew was that at the sweet fresh age of eighteen, I’d learned that nothing about high school really mattered, that none of the teenage problems my friends worried over had any significance to the real world. My boyfriend, the man who fucked me in a twenty-dollar motel room in East Palo Alto, positioning me on top of him with my thighs spread wide, insisting that I look into his deep blue eyes as he made me come—that man, was gone. And the phone number he’d given me now reached a recorded voice stating the line had been disconnected. And when I finally tracked down his best friend by hanging out in front of the bar in Menlo Park the two frequented, he told me the real deal about my ex and then gave me the less-than-brilliant advice no one with a broken heart has ever been able to follow:

  “Do yourself a favor, kid,” he said. “Forget he even existed.”

  Apply more oil. Turn and roll.

  Here I was, with all my pretty credentials, and none of them mattered at all. Nothing mattered except my tan.

  Up until I met Mark, I was one of the smart girls, destined for UCLA, a National Merit finalist with four years of Latin, a weekly column in the student newspaper, and a truckload of extracurricular bullshit on my high school “résumé.” Now, that he was gone, I didn’t care. Yeah, I’d go off to school in September, for want of anything better to do, but I didn’t care. Yeah, that blond Hercules leaving the crashing California surf was definitely a 9.9 on the Richter scale, but I didn’t care.

  “Boys of Summer” played endlessly, and I oiled up, and rolled over, and imagined Mark and me on the day I’d taken my spring finals. He picked me up at the auditorium and kissed me hard, in front of everyone, before driving me off to his tiny apartment on the Atherton/Redwood City border. It caused a stir among my posse, but all that mattered was the rumble of the Harley between my legs, and the way Mark looked at me when he led me up the stairs to his second-floor apartment.

  He looked at me as if I were a woman, not some airbrained teen that nobody wanted to take seriously. He fucked all the test questions right out of my head, bent me over his bed and did me doggie-style. And let me tell you, high school boys don’t know what doggie-style is. You need a man, a man with a will, a man whose hand comes down on your naked ass and makes you scream while he fucks you.

  At least, that’s what I needed.

  More oil, now. Scent of pineapples surrounding me.

  I never thought about the future when the two of us were together. Although I didn’t know for sure what he did when he wasn’t with me, I had a feeling he was no Boy Scout. Yeah, I was naive. But I wasn’t an idiot. (Couldn’t be an idiot. I was a National Merit finalist after all, right?) I knew “importing and exporting” had to be code words for something underhanded. I knew that he wasn’t dealing in handwoven baskets from some third-world country. So I lived for the times that we were together. I lived to go down on my knees in front of him and unbutton his fly with my teeth the way any good little slut should. I lived to feel his cock slide between my gently parted lips. I lived to swallow him to the hilt, to work him until his cum filled my mouth and I was breathless with the scent of him.

  And then he was gone. And it was summer.

  “Look at him, Carla. Look at him!”

  Before he left, Mark made love to me in my bedroom, while my parents were holding a d
inner party just down the hall. He taught me how to go down on him in our den, behind a door with no lock, while we were supposed to be innocently watching a horror video. (“They’re coming to get you, Barbara! There’s one now...”) He grabbed my hair whenever he kissed me, wound his firm fist in my long tresses, and held me in place for the brutality of his kisses.

  Brutal. That’s what his kisses were. Believe me. I can still close my eyes and taste them. I always felt bruised when we parted. That was okay. I wanted bruised. I wanted the heat of his body pressed to mine. I wanted that rock-hard cock of his, sheathed only in his faded Levis, slamming against my body when we made out on the couch. He was dangerous, and I needed danger.

  You don’t get danger in the darkened gymnasium of a high school dance. Not even if the boys have been drinking—and they’ve always been drinking. Not even if your lab partner, the cute dark-haired nimrod who cribs your answers during chem finals, tries to get you to go behind the bleachers with him. No, you get danger when you cut class to meet your man, and he dangles a pair of sterling silver handcuffs in front of your eyes, and says, “Baby, you’ve been a bad girl. We’ve got to deal with that fact today.” And your heart stops, and you look down, and you know that you’re going to have to wear longsleeved shirts for at least a week, even though it’s hot as hell out. You get danger when your man lifts your skirt in public and spanks your ass hard for giving him a sassy answer. “Don’t talk back, girl, or Daddy’ll have to spank you.”

  High school boys don’t have cuffs.

  High school boys haven’t ever heard of spanking.

  High school boys would never, ever have you call them “Daddy.”

  “Come on, Carla. He’s sublime. Open your eyes!”

  I’d already opened them. I’d already seen what a man could do.

  So I baked all summer long. Oiled up with my long black hair loose, the sand so hot beneath the blanket. I sipped cool drinks of vodka-spiked lemonade, and occasionally indulged in views of handsome boys spearing the surf with their boards. And I thought of Mark somewhere far away. In jail? Maybe. Dead? Maybe. Give me a multiple choice—I knew how to answer that sort of question. Real life? That was a whole different story.