Heat Wave Read online

  I must have stood there, the slasher in my hand, for at least fifteen minutes while I listened to the disembodied pants, shrieks and screams, each seeming peak surmounted by even greater passion until her sudden quiescence came as a shock. Through her passion I wondered at the woman, the expressions on her face. Such abandon, I thought, would be the reward of maturity and hers would be the beauty of self-knowledge. Thinking that, my mind turned to my own little Ruthie, more able to take my breath away each day we live together.

  In the quiet following the woman’s noise and, I imagined, orgasm, I was painfully aware of the erection tight in my shorts and the maladjusted underwear twisted about my balls. I only partially succeeded in adjusting my clothes, pushing my thoughts away as I applied myself to replacing the slasher cord. The image of the rough hands and solid stumpy fingers of Lawrence’s gardener flitted across my mind.

  Later, as we ate our Thai salad on our own veranda overlooking the gully, taking in the cooling sunset, I remembered. “Did you hear that woman this afternoon?”

  “What woman?”

  “You didn’t hear her? This woman over the other side of the valley somewhere was having this amazing orgasm. It just went on and on. I thought everyone in the street must have heard it.”

  Ruthie speared a piece of chili-streaked chicken from the bowl between us as she giggled, “Yeah? I didn’t hear anything. Do you think she lives there? Have you heard her before?”

  “Maybe she’s just moved in.”

  “Why don’t you let me know if you hear her again.” It wasn’t a question, and I was caught a little by her prurient interest.

  The next weekend, I was working in the garden again, doing one of those chores one does to add value to the family asset. I’d forgotten the woman entirely until I heard her noise. I started to scan the house fronts visible from where I stood, before I remembered Ruth.

  “That woman’s at it again,” I said, interrupting Ruthie at her desk.

  “What woman?” Her mind was somewhere in her work.

  “The sex woman. The loud one from last week.”

  “Yeah? Really?” She pushed past me and threw open the French doors onto the veranda.

  The noise pushed into the room accompanied by garden scents and the afternoon sun, making the air lushly viscous. My wife stood, framed by the opening, concentrating on the sound as her eyes and mouth grew into a wide grin. She laughed out loud, the impolite cackle she usually manages to suppress. She fell against me, her face in the pit of my shoulder, snorting. I stood there, feeling a bit foolish, arms around my wife as we listened to an unknown woman’s crescendoing passion.

  Ruth, face still against me, her giggles wetting my shirt, began rubbing the crotch of my jeans. I started to back into the privacy of the room but she slipped her other hand into the back of my trousers and held me in place. She found the zipper at the front, pulled it down, and hooked my growing erection out.

  I felt the heat of the sun on the sensitive skin and worried that I might get sunburned, a thought never far from the mind with my carrot hair and fair skin. Ruthie’s fingers pulled at my foreskin, dragging it over my glans, working the hardness into me and I took a chance with the sun.

  My cheeky little wife’s giggles quieted as the woman’s cries became more shrill, and she grinned up into my face, her eyes sparkling. I expanded against the bite of the metal teeth of my fly, and she changed her grip, encircling my cock, squeezing it to the edge of pain, speeding her strokes. Pinning me to her chafing, with her other hand she entered my ass, first one finger, then others stingingly crowding it.

  The woman’s passion continued to rise as I came, my sight unfocused and my head dizzy as Ruthie kept working at me, creaming ejaculate across her knuckles while her pressure from behind trapped my hardness.

  And then the woman was quiet and Ruth relaxed, releasing me. In the sudden silence a dog began to bark, somewhere down the gully, and it was joined by another and another.

  The following Saturday, Ruth said she would be getting lunch a little late. She fussed about setting the veranda table with champagne, French bread, cheeses, half-shell oysters, and other delicacies. I was beginning to worry that I had forgotten something important, guests or an anniversary, when she finally called me to the table, set with just two places next to each other.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Oh, nothing.” It was an obvious lie, compounded by the skirt she wore. Skirts at home are not Ruth’s thing.

  She poured me a glass of the champagne. She fidgeted about rearranging plates to her satisfaction as I watched her, wondering if I had done something or maybe she had. She broke some bread, spread it with avocado and offered it to my mouth. As I took a second bite, our coupledom was interrupted by the sounds of the woman, taking what was beginning to seem her regular passion. I looked at Ruth as a relieved grin spread across her face.

  “Why don’t you relax and let me feed you?” And so she slipped morsels into my mouth, the bread, cheese, marinated mushrooms, olives and so on, to her choice.

  The serenade grew more impassioned, and her arched fingers picked an oyster from its shell. I thought she was going to eat it herself as she leaned back, but her free hand pulled her skirt up, revealing her knickerless hair and peeking cunny. She slipped the oyster along the pout of her slit before dangling the creamy flesh in front of my face. I leaned forward, opening my mouth, but she pulled the morsel away and pressed it into her own mouth. Her grin grew even wider, lips glistening.

  Her butt forward in her chair, Ruthie lifted her foot into my lap, pressing against my erection as her labia parted. She rubbed another oyster against herself, then teased me, suspending it between us.

  As I leaned forward and caught the mollusk in my mouth, she caught my hair and pulled my face into her bush. I licked at the tang, trying to distinguish fish from wife, as she adjusted her position. Pressing her heels into my back below my shoulder blades, she brought her opening against the tip of my tongue. I pressed into her, the hot walls tasting metallic against the sides of my tongue as I worked my nose against her bud.

  My hardness and balls ached, caught between my lap and belly. I pushed my legs back, scraping the chair against the deck until it capsized as I wove my arms under Ruth’s legs, slipping my hands under her shirt till my fingers found her nipples. My ears, against Ruth’s thighs, were full of the sound of my blood, our juices, and my breath as I drew it past her sex.

  I was lost in my favorite world, slick and aromatic, pressing my tongue into her quim, searching out her soft corrugations. Then she pushed harder against me and her growing pants vibrated against my face. Knowing she was close now, I could imagine the washes of emotion across her flushed face and her eyes wide. Her thighs tightened, grinding my ears against my skull, and I burrowed my tongue deeper, eager for a final delicate taste before she ejected me from her tenderness.

  And so it was that Ruthie came to the decision that she had to see the third member of our tryst. She had the copy shop blow up the street map of our suburb, scanned the other side of the valley with my binoculars, and marked houses she thought likely. She directed our evening walks along the streets of the valley, and when we passed single women or couples she’d lean into me, whispering, “Do you think she could be the one?” or “What noises do you think she makes?” Later in the nights, as we settled under our duvet, her scent would be rich as she initiated frenzied couplings.

  I wondered at the line between innocent fun and stalking, variety and fixation. We disagreed on this subject, yet, through the week, we both anticipated the next Saturday with growing excitement.

  The day finally came and Ruth was ball-achingly beautiful, flushed with expectation, in her walking boots and her arse-curved shorts and her erect nipples pushing against her T-shirt. I luxuriated in the sight of her as we debated, again, the propriety of Ruth’s quest and I trotted out my line about sex not being spectator sport, even as the heat of my thickened member against my thigh argued my hy
pocrisy. And so we waited, both knowing we were going to search out our unwitting partner.

  And waited.

  Until the coolness of the evening, hunger and our mutual disappointment drove us inside.

  Neither of us felt like making a meal and, rather late, we decided to treat ourselves to a restaurant. Over our food we wondered what had changed for the mystery woman. Perhaps, we contemplated, she had become aware of our antics. Maybe she had even watched us on the veranda, carried away after her own passion. During our sweets, Ruth’s knee pushed its way between my own and I looked up at her face.

  There was that grin of hers.

  The Yacht

  SAGE VIVANT

  Renee slathered another layer of sun protection over her fair skin. She loved the sun, but it wasn’t inclined to love back. She vowed to return to Minnesota looking sun-kissed if she had to spend weeks coaxing her melanin to the surface.

  “Pass the lotion over here when you’re done with it,” Pamela directed from her nearby chaise. “That is, if you don’t use it all,” she added, shielding her eyes to watch Renee more intently.

  “If you’d brought your own, you wouldn’t have to grovel,” Renee replied with delight as she tossed the bottle to her friend.

  “Ladies, please. There’s more suntan lotion on the island, I’m sure. We’ve got our errand boys to pick some up if we need it,” Susan interjected, glancing mischievously at one of the crewmen.

  None of the women had determined conclusively whether any of the three men spoke English beyond “please” and “thank you.” Pamela and Susan spoke boldly around the men; Renee preferred to exercise more caution. Her instincts told her these guys had been on their share of boats and probably knew more languages than she had shoes. She’d stick with discretion until she had more facts.

  “Yes, but who could stand to be without the sight of them while they go off to do our bidding?” Pamela sat up now, smoothing the creamy concoction along the length of her tanned arms. She winked at Susan and smiled at Adam, who’d just shyly glanced her way.

  “God, these guys are really built, don’t you think?” Susan observed, fixating boldly on Tyler’s fluid movements as he swung some boxes from the lower to upper deck.

  Renee groaned. “Honestly, you’d think the two of you had never seen men before.” She put her sunshades over her eyes decisively.

  “Holy shit,” Pamela gasped, followed by a quiet moan from Susan. Renee snatched her shades from her face and looked at her friends, both of whom were transfixed by something to her right. She turned to see Dean, recently shirtless, resuming his rail polishing as if his biceps weren’t completely riveting, pulsating under the hot sun.

  “Mmmm,” Renee noted with curiosity. “I see what you mean.”

  “Renting this yacht was the best idea you ever had, Renee. Travel really can be so broadening, don’t you agree, Pamela?”

  “Don’t bother me. I’m salivating,” Pamela said, only halfjoking.

  The women laughed, drawing the attention of the crewmen, who smiled with polite indulgence.

  “Everything about them is so taut and finely tuned,” Susan said, as if the men were elsewhere. “They’re like expensive, hand-made instruments.”

  “Why do I think you’ve got only one instrument on your mind?” Renee chuckled, still surreptitiously watching Dean’s muscles flex and relax. The midday sun instilled a growing restlessness in her and she wondered whether she should get up and walk around to shake it.

  “Have you ever seen such tight little rear ends?” Pamela marveled.

  Renee didn’t want to comment because she had, in fact, never seen such glorious male bodies collected in one place and so close by.

  “Oh, man, it makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?” Susan asked.

  Dean caught Renee’s eye and held it, grinning a devastatingly knowing grin.

  I ought to put my sunshades back on, she thought. Yet, she could not will the movement as long as he looked at her.

  She heard her friends talking. She suspected they might even be talking to her. In her mind, her tongue followed the slim trail of sweat traveling down Dean’s breastbone.

  “Renee!”

  Irritated, she turned with a jolt to Pamela. “What?”

  “Which sailor do you think has the best butt?”

  “Oh, good God,” Renee hissed, reaching for her wine cooler. After a few healthy swigs, she took a deep breath. There was no mistaking the moisture between her legs. She felt herself swelling with desire under her swimsuit.

  “Until I know how much English these guys speak, I’m keeping my vote to myself,” she finally replied.

  “You’ve just given me a great idea,” Pamela said, getting to her feet carefully. She’d had several wine coolers since breakfast. With her hands on her hips, she spoke to the crew authoritatively.

  “Gentlemen! Would you bring those gorgeous bodies over here so we can pick a winner?”

  Susan burst out laughing, balancing embarrassment with relief. Renee smiled and shook her head.

  To their amazement, all three men approached, moving like hungry panthers toward the women. Renee lay still as the slick anticipation between her thighs spread throughout her body.

  “Now you’ve done it,” she muttered to her mouthy friend.

  “Well, at least we know they speak English, don’t we?” Pamela volleyed, clearly proud of herself for facilitating this impromptu, albeit awkward, contest.

  Adam and Tyler wore their white uniforms; Dean wore only his pants. The men beamed with eagerness, smiling and awaiting instruction. Yes, it was clear to Renee that these men had served in a wide range of capacities throughout their seafaring lives.

  Pam sat back in her chaise once again, this time with a smug authority that didn’t suit her. The men’s cooperation was unexpected and she obviously needed a moment to recover.

  “Ask them to turn around,” Susan whispered.

  “Ask them yourself!” Renee chortled. “They do speak English!” She wasn’t sure which was more entertaining: watching these beautiful men or witnessing her friends revert to adolescence.

  Pamela gulped from her wine cooler, stalling, before she smiled back at the willing, perfectly sculpted men before her. Her courage returned, firing her eyes with lusty playfulness.

  “There’s an inequity here,” she pronounced. “Dean is the only one without his shirt. You two will have to take your shirts off, too.”

  Adam and Tyler obliged without hesitation. The pectoral lineup silenced the women into awed appreciation while the men continued to smile. Maleness emanated from them with an intensity that simultaneously bolstered and weakened Renee. She gripped her wine cooler, her eyes glued to Dean’s hard, gleaming torso.

  “That’s better,” Pamela said. She appraised Adam’s broad chest just a little longer than necessary. He winked at her.

  “Now, then. We’ve been trying to decide which of you has the best set of buns.”

  Adam’s eyebrows knit together slightly and he turned to Tyler, who muttered something the women couldn’t decipher. Adam understood quite well, however, and turned back to Pamela with raised eyebrows and a renewed gleam in his eye.

  “So, if you’d all turn around so we can evaluate you properly…” She gestured coyly with her index finger in a circular motion.

  The sailors did an about-face in unison. Their V-shaped backs tapered into trim derrieres, each with its own unique merits. Adam’s was tiny and perky, Tyler’s suggested meaty fulfillment, and Dean’s sat in astonishing proportion to the rest of his body.

  “Oh, this is going to be harder than we thought, isn’t it, ladies?” Susan pointed out, running the sweating wine cooler bottle across her forehead. Renee had already made her decision but said nothing.

  “You’d better take off your pants,” Pamela instructed with mock officiousness.

  Squeals of delights erupted from the women as the crew stood before them, each sporting identical thong underwear. Had they coordinate
d their attire in the event of just such an occasion?

  Such firm, smooth perfection! And not a single tan line visible. The women were no longer aware of each other; they saw only the globes of flesh cleaved by the slimmest strips of enviable fabric.

  Pamela moved first. Kneeling behind Adam, she grasped his hips and bit into his left cheek. He yelped, laughing. She rose and cupped the bitten cheek in her hand. “You win,” she whispered hoarsely into his neck. He turned to face her.

  “Follow me and I’ll show you how to collect your prize.” Taking his hand, she led him down to her cabin.

  Tyler glanced over his shoulder in search of some indication of the remaining women’s desires.

  “We’re still deciding,” Susan piped up. Seconds later, she was on her feet, pressing herself against Tyler’s back. She held a handful of his rear in each hand.

  “You’re my choice,” she said, squeezing him.

  “I am glad,” he replied, reaching for her breast as he turned to her. She kissed him while he slipped a hand into the bra of her swimsuit. They headed for Susan’s cabin.

  The brilliant sun beat down on Dean’s strong back. He did not flinch.

  “I should probably tell you I’m really not playing this game,” Renee explained from her semisupine position. The day would never come when she made herself vulnerable enough to initiate sex. Initiators could be refused and that was completely unacceptable. She prided herself on more sophisticated seduction methods.

  At her words, the object of her lust provided her with a full frontal treat. The bulge in his thong communicated everything she needed to know. She looked from it to his face with what she prayed passed for cool discernment. What fun it would be to drive this Adonis crazy with desire! She worked a dollop of suntan lotion between her palms. “So, I’m sorry that you won’t be enjoying the same kind of perks your friends will,” she said dismissively, focusing on spreading the lotion over her arms. She then tended to her chest, using slow, deliberate motions to ensure adequate coverage and absorption. She dallied at her cleavage, pretending to be unaware of him, as if he’d disappeared.