Heat Wave Read online

  Before long, the perspiration returned to our bodies. Despite the frigid ice, the tempo of my thrusting was plenty athletic enough to make my forehead and back drip with sweat.

  Marie seemed to spot the sweat on my brow, because she reached for my forehead and ran her fingers through it. “I’m hot in my pussy, but cold on my back,” she said and made me swap places with her. Grabbing her tight, I rolled our bodies over so she wound up on top, her thighs straddling my waist.

  My cock rammed in and out of her pussy as she pumped her crotch back and forward, keen to work up some sweat herself. And it worked, too, because the friction between us could have sparked a fire. “It’s so weird,” she groaned, as once again her cunt consumed the full length of my dick, “one minute I feel like I’m freezing to death, and the next I’m so hot I could explode.”

  What was that about Marie and me always thinking the same? Seconds after she said “explode” my prick began to burst into life. I bucked and thrust upward into my wife as a massive eruption burst my swollen crown. My jizz spurted into her as her orgasm began. It was a blissful moment, watching Marie writhing in total ecstasy like that. It was minutes before either of us could move, let alone speak.

  “I sure could use a few more sips of beer,” Marie said finally, once her heartbeat had finally returned to normal.

  Disentangling myself from our intertwined bodies, I stumbled into the apartment, returning with the two opened bottles of Corona. Marie smiled at me as I climbed back into the pool. She snuggled up real close.

  It would be another hour before the sun would finish setting, so we soaked up some rays as we watched it fall. You bet we took occasional “intimate” breaks whenever we needed to warm up . But even that wasn’t necessary after a while.

  You see, the heat of our passion had finally melted most of the ice, so with the heat of the sun it soon felt like we were bathing in a tropical pool. Right then I had the sun above me, warm water to bathe in, a bottle of beer, and, best of all, Marie by my side. Who needs a soft-top to drive around in when he’s got all that? Believe me, buddy, I don’t!

  In Dependence Day

  SAVANNAH STEPHENS SMITH

  A drink after work. That’s how it started. Robert, a pleased client, invited a few of us, and he sat there, dark and somehow authoritative, even then. He took us to a very fashionable place and bought the drinks. “To thank you,” he said. “for all your hard work.” He smiled. “I know I’m a difficult client.”

  We laughed, but it was true. But at least he knew it—and admitted it. I liked him for that.

  It was just Robert and his harem, for we were all women that night. Colleagues, falling into clique-talk, which left him and me sitting beside each other, quieter than the rest. As the boss, I was being careful, giving my assistant a little look now and then, one that said, “Be careful,” too. He’s a client, I reminded myself. I had to be guarded, because the drinks were flowing—our host was generous.

  And as women often do, we were soon talking about our men. Who had them, who didn’t. Girl-gripes. Was he listening, and picking and choosing, even then? Perhaps.

  “And you?” he asked me, a smile in his eyes that seemed to say, “I know all your secrets.” Although he didn’t, of course—I was just being imaginative. And just a little under the influence by then, though still careful of my tongue.

  “She’s single!” Sheryl said, grinning. “How about you?”

  Bold. Cheeky, even, undone by the glasses we’d raised, knowing it was Friday night, after all, Friday night in the city, and anything could happen. My warning looks would be ignored now, I knew it.

  “I am, too,” Robert replied, calm as ever, looking around his table with a smile. “Maybe I should ask her out?”

  “Yes, you should!” Julia exclaimed. Julia, settled with two little boys at home, and a husband who was—I couldn’t remember what he was. It seemed very important just then, to remember. I was not a good boss if I couldn’t even remember the most basic facts about my employees. It was Julia who had spoken up, always excited by romance, or its possibility.

  But the conversation had turned back to relationships, then to the demands my women made on their men. Whose husband or boyfriend cooked, cleaned. Helped with the kids. A best-guy contest, with lighthearted accounting and groans of pretended frustration with spouses they adored.

  And Robert, even then, smiling at their pretenses of shrewishness, announcing that he’d been a complete doormat for his wife—now his former wife—and provoking giggles at the confession. Smiling, sipping his drink, and saying that it wouldn’t happen again.

  And I, tongue loosened at last, was telling Sheryl my own woes about men. That I was tired of always being in charge, making decisions, worrying. That it was nice to have a man who understood what it was like to be a working woman, but...

  That was precisely why I was single; I was tired of being the only grown-up in the relationship. What I’d seen at first as easygoing turned out with experience to be passive—and lazy. I wanted a man. Not a dependent.

  I didn’t know Robert was listening.

  “So, I’m dominant, and you’re a bit of a submissive,” he said later, leaning closer to me. The noise level of our table had grown with each round of drinks. I noticed that he smelled nice. Something sophisticated, but subtle. “That could be interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Do you think so?” I asked, giddy with flirtation.

  “It could be...” he smiled again. “Unless you’re afraid to give it a try. Or go out on a date with me.”

  Ah, I thought, a challenge.

  Looking around at the lounge, full of people now. So many pretty women, and the glitter on the glasses and bottles, the city beyond. The familiar seemed strange for a moment. A submissive? Me? I didn’t think so. I was the boss, in control, burdened but pleased by responsibility. “Are you always so...?” I began, and then didn’t know what to say. He is a client, I reminded myself. Careful.

  “What?” Robert seemed more amused than offended.

  “Bold,” I replied, reaching for my purse. Time to go. To gather up my girls, and make sure they all got home safe and sound.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  And thank goodness, they took my cue, looking at watches, exclaiming at the time. The most sober, I arranged rides home. In charge again, I thought, tucking my girls into taxis and arranging for Beth to take the other two, as she’d hardly had anything to drink. I was going home alone.

  But not before I thanked Robert for his generosity and assured him we’d enjoyed working with him, and would be happy to do so in the future. I finished my polite recitation standing there by my car, but he seemed in no hurry to say goodnight.

  “I agree,” he said, calm. “We’re off to a...most satisfactory relationship.”

  “Thank you, again,” I said. “Goodnight.”

  Robert nodded, but didn’t move away. “Drinks again? And dinner. You and I.”

  And I said yes. And that was how it began.

  Now it is summertime, and my bargain has been made. We are staying at a vacation house, a simple cabin by the ocean. A friend of Robert’s owns it, and it is ours for a long weekend.

  It is strange to be out of the city with Robert, to see him in another context. But the place he has taken me is beautiful, peaceful and happy. Robert loves the wild, loves the silence and the storms. He tells me that in winter the waves roll in from the Pacific in great crashing explosions against the black and rocky shores. The windows get wet with spray and wind. I wonder whom he has been here with in winter, what woman lay with him by the fire while tempests raged. I do not ask. What future there is, for him and me, does not matter. Only today.

  And it is not stormy now; it is a beautiful July afternoon. We’ve been sitting on the deck, reading and drinking gin and tonics, simply basking in the freedom of Saturday, soaking up sun and words. The ocean glitters, peaceful and blue, and the only sound is birdsong and a plane droning far overhead. Now and
again, a boat goes by, but we are set back from the water, and no one approaches the small private dock.

  I’m half-stunned with heat and alcohol, but so happy. Robert rises and goes inside, and in a minute I follow, thinking of nothing in particular, only that I have to use the bathroom. That I want more ice. That it is cool and shaded inside, surprisingly dark when one comes in from the brightness. I’m very hot. I’d love to go down and swim, but he says no. Not with alcohol in my veins, and not with him drinking, too. It isn’t safe. Sober, we swim. Not sober, we lie in the sun, and he trickles an ice cube down my belly, making me gasp, watching it melt. Solid things dissolve with the right heat. After two gins, he persuades me, and my bathing suit top is removed. I feel gloriously wicked, sitting out in the sun, facing the ocean and any boater with a good pair of binoculars. The sun touches my breasts like a caress. This skin is delicate, he says, and rubs sunblock over my breasts. The lotion is cool and slippery.

  Wouldn’t want a burn now, he teases. I wriggle like a cat beneath his touch, wonder when—and how—he will fuck me. Outside? He likes it outside, I know that much. But sometimes I wonder if I know anything at all. He is mystery and surprising power. And I have become enthralled.

  I am warm and limp—and slightly drunk—when I go inside. He hasn’t fucked me yet, only teased. And so I long for it. Not paying attention, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dim when I push the door open and step into the house. I walk right into him, impolite and clumsy, adolescent again. I knock the glass from his hand and it falls to the floor, spilling. I freeze, uncertain. Robert stands there, nude, his heavy cock half-stirring. Obviously, I have just interrupted him about to do something. To me? Perhaps he has plans.

  “Sorry,” I say immediately, backing out onto the deck again. The wood is hot, burning the soles of my feet. I have forgotten my place. “I should have been more careful.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Robert says calmly.

  “I am sorry,” I repeat, looking anywhere but at him, standing there, nude, but not diminished in his nakedness. Now I know I will be chastised, for up here, in this new place, I forgot our roles. The ones I agreed to. I feel the first dart of excitement—what will my punishment be? Deciding not to compound my error by lingering, I step back further into the sunshine. The heat sinks onto my bare back. No. I’d better clean that mess up.

  “Stay there,” Robert says, and his voice tells me that it is an order. “You came in to...?”

  “Get another drink. Use the bathroom.”

  “All right.” He steps back, motions me to enter. I feel excitement deepen to apprehension and wonder what he has in mind. “Go,” Robert orders me. “Ladies first,” he adds with a smile I distrust.

  I do, carefully shutting the door behind me. It’s very quiet. When I am done, I wash my hands like a good girl, looking at the woman in the mirror. No makeup, dark hair damp at the forehead from the sun, the pink flush of summer and gin on my cheeks. Her eyes meet mine. Is that me? Who is this woman, this woman that will do anything for Robert?

  Has it been me all along, or did he create me?

  I return to him standing in the hall. I return with my questions unanswered.

  The spill’s been cleaned up and he holds a glass casually in one hand, as if it were perfectly normal to drink in the nude. Maybe for men it is. “Outside,” he says, and I go back into the sun, blinking against the bright, indolent day.

  Robert follows a moment later, surveying the Pacific from the railing of the deck. Like a ship, this house perches over the sea, as if we could sail away. It must be so beautiful in a storm. Wild and exciting, the wind and water raging. But the Pacific is pacific today. After a moment, he turns from the endless blue and looks at me. “Strip,” he says, as if I’m fully clothed, as if I’m not already wearing next to nothing.

  As if it’s not two o’clock in the afternoon, and we are not outside.

  I cannot do such a thing, not in front of him. Well, that’s not, strictly speaking, true. In front of him is a new pleasure, daring the inherent risk of revealing oneself, literally. His appreciation usually soothes me, and stops my fingers from trembling as I unfasten buttons and slide fabric down. But it is daylight. We are outside. “Now,” he says, advancing the order, and I do not argue. I am aware that I am bare-breasted, and slightly sunburned even with the lotion on. It smells like summer, like every summer I have known. The touch of air on my breasts is intoxicating, sensitive as they are now, sun-kissed. Robert’s eyes linger on my hardening nipples.

  Hazy with sun and booze, I sit down on the towel and pull my bikini bottom down my thighs, then over my ankles. I sit primly, legs together. Robert’s prick has risen, no doubt aware of sex. The game. Or me, divested of all clothing. He seems entirely unselfconscious about being out here without his trunks. His cock is like a thing alive. Standing, it has become something new. Wanting me. I am chosen, blessed. Anointed when he comes.

  The way I’m sitting, he’s looming over me. I’ve never stripped so brazenly in front of anyone before. In front of the whole blue ocean. “Spread your legs,” he says. “I want to see you.”

  “Sorry,” I say again, automatically, for apology has become my nature. Time is moving slow, thick. I am an actress, and I am in the audience, passive. I am neither. When I don’t move quickly, he crouches down and opens my legs for me. His eyes on my skin feel as palpable as his touch. He lifts me and sets me back further on the towel as if I were some doll, and spreads my legs wider, as if I were a whore.

  “Better. Lean back.”

  I do, letting the sun and his eyes sink into my skin. I feel a low throbbing, desire intensifying. For a moment, he simply looks at me, and I feel the heat increase. “Touch yourself,” he says, and I do.

  Leaning back as he requested, I know I am shamelessly on display, and hope that the deck railing disguises what he is making me do. He wants it this way. Sun, gin and tonic, his authority—all conspire. I have never felt so brazen in my life. Robert is staring at me, staring at my body. I touch my breasts, fingertips lingering over my nipples. That touch sets the rest of me ablaze. He watches me, and his cock steadily hardens, rising higher. And my longing deepens, for it all makes me more excited: doing this, being on display for him, and watching him get a stony hard-on. He is not unmoved. He is human. Of course he is. I am drunk, I tell myself, silly from the booze and the sun. I’m drunk and sunburned and horny. And so far from home.

  He shifts, blocking out the sun. As I lie there, captive to his will, it is intensely pleasurable to touch myself. My belly. My inner thighs. A whisper touch on the hair of my sex, brushing lightly. I feel everything. I feel almost as if I were on the edge of tottering over the edge of the world. Desire is all. It always was. Is.

  Robert watches. I touch myself, the way I long for him to. All that I know is the heat of the sun, and the heat deep in my body, stoked anew by him watching me do this intimate thing. And longing for the thick, stiff cock he is now slowly stroking.

  I want that cock.

  We don’t speak. I touch myself for him until I can no longer stand it. I don’t close my legs, and I don’t get up. That is not my role. I put my head back and moan, helpless. I want him. I need him. I want so many things I mustn’t ask for. I wait, and then open my eyes, impatient. Robert is closer, and fully erect. He has moved between my open legs and is standing over me, his thick penis in hand.

  He wants, too.

  He steps back, and I sit up. Without waiting to be told, I rise to kneel, scrambling in my eagerness. Blood pounds in my ears. He touches my lips with the head of his penis. I open my mouth for his skin.

  Robert doesn’t have to tell me what to do. He slides in, fully hard. His skin is hot. Sucking on his cock, I feel complete—almost. Lewdly splayed open for his amusement, I sink low and suck slowly, amazed at how easy it is to take him in deep at this angle. I don’t even mind when he speaks softly, telling me what to do, what he likes. I know what he likes. How could I not, tutored so? Yet Robert talks to me
as I suck him, his voice quiet, standing in the blazing day, the heat of July bearing down on all outdoors. But the breeze has returned, and I can smell pine as I suck his prick. I’m a girl at summer camp, learning new tricks with a rope. The shape of his penis caresses my tongue, a melody made flesh. I slide down his shaft, my mouth grateful. Aroused by sun, daring, and gin, and now fellatio, I know the wetness between my legs is a demand he cannot ignore. No one could be that cruel. Robert’s fingers are gentle in my hair as I suck on his hard penis. He carefully slides into and out of my mouth, as if he were giving me a gift. He is. And he is kind. My lord.

  I suck harder. And then he is coming. He cries out, knowing no one will hear, even if a boat glides by below. “Yes—suck it. Yes...” All those words, meaning nothing, when we are lost in everything. His words turn to a harsh groan. And I do what he asks, not wanting to fail now. His heavy cock twitches, then pulses, and I taste his semen. Hot and thick, like nothing else. I swallow as his penis jerks in my mouth like a thing alive.

  And then I want to weep. Because it is over. His orgasm, the finale, last act, the culmination. The throbbing between my legs is intolerable. I can’t put my fingers down there; I dare not until allowed. I agreed to the game, after all. So I swallow his gift obediently, hoping that it will please him enough to forgive my transgression.

  It wipes the taste of gin clean away.

  Robert says nothing, only sighs, and stands there. After a moment, I begin to rise. “No,” he says. He stays, trapping me. I sink down, close my thighs. My skin is hot.

  He brushes his palm lightly across my bare breasts. I moan again, desire never forgotten. He crouches lower, his hands on the outside wall by my shoulders, and touches the head of his cock against one hard nipple. The wood must burn his palms, but he doesn’t flinch. His penis must be soft and done. I’m so hot. He’s hot. Sweat trickles down my hairline, making me itchy. “Stand up,” he says, and I do, feeling dizzy.