Heat Wave

by Alison Tyler

  “Into my shirts again?”

  Saul, home from his game.

  “Not as I intended,” Kit shot back, throwing the wet shirt Saul’s way. “I’m surprised you did that, considering the free show you’re getting.”

  She dived backwards, submerging just enough for her pussy to come up out of the water. That always got Saul’s attention.

  Again, the water felt like silk against her skin and she avoided the surface—and Saul—for as long as she could, hoping to leave the image of her cunt poking out of the water in his mind. If the weather was too hot to move, at least skinny-dipping made it possible to tease Saul.

  When she came up for air, she found Saul hadn’t moved an inch, except to pick up the shirt she’d tossed toward him. He held it forth and said, “It hit the ground. You made it dirty.”

  Kit came to the shallow end and rose to her feet. Like Venus at the water’s edge, she came from the pool, naked curves and crevices and cleavage. But her smile was decidedly more puckish than seductive. “So?” Mildly, she challenged Saul.

  “So,” he answered, definitively. He dropped the shirt, grabbed Kit by the arm, and brutishly crushed her naked body to him. He kissed her roughly, his tongue commanding the lead. Kit melted at his decisiveness, effectively letting Saul squash her playful rebellion.

  Kit felt his tennis whites grow wet from her, but she also felt his erection pressing against her as well. Without a doubt, Saul wanted the upper hand. Without a doubt, Kit was willing to yield.

  When he broke the kiss and lessened his grip, Kit automatically asked, “What would you have me do?” The words came out one breath above a whisper.

  “If my shirt’s dirty, then it means you’ve got some sweeping to do. Get the push broom and get to work. When you finish, come to me.” Saul scooped up the dirtied shirt and turned toward the house.

  Great, Kit thought, in this heat. But she knew how this worked. A chore combined with her naked compliance often led to thoroughly satisfying sex. I just hope he has the air-conditioning on when I come in.

  She fetched the push broom from the utility closet and set to sweeping. Poolside wasn’t really all that dirty, but a line of dirt did nonetheless accumulate with each sweeping push of the broom. Kit divided the chore into four sections, one for each end and each side of the pool. As she completed the first end and moved to sweep a side, the water that had drenched her skin evaporated. Halfway through the chore, her skin was hot from the strong sun. Any moment now, she thought.

  That moment came as she swept around the diving board. Her hair had grown warm and sweat rose on her brow, her upper lip, along her shoulders. As she pushed the broom, she felt her armpits go slick with perspiration. Damn, I hate sweat. It was, in fact, why she hated hot weather and why she preferred New England to central Illinois. There, the heat and humidity were summertime constants. You sweltered in it daily, without respite. Sometimes a thunderstorm couldn’t even break the nagging humidity; once the sun returned and the steam rose from the tarmac, the heat returned as mean and muggy as ever.

  New England wasn’t quite as bad. Sure, some summers had a few days that matched Illinois at its worst, but most summer days were tolerable, even hot ones like this. When it came right down to it, Kit would rather endure a brief heat wave in New England than even one day back home.

  By the time she had swept each pile of dirt into the dustpan and dumped it in the trash, Kit was flushed and sweaty all over, even between her legs.

  Especially between her legs. Each step smacked, thanks to slick thighs and, higher up, moist labia. That wetness was discreet compared to what beaded and ran down her torso, but it was unfamiliar enough that it seemed exaggerated, heightened, and it thrilled her.

  I sure hope he uses that to his advantage, she thought.

  Kit found Saul just inside, sitting on the futon in their entertainment room. Leaning back lazily with his iced tea in hand, he was the picture of earned relaxation, except for one thing: the upward bulge in his pants.

  Saul stood and ordered Kit to remove his shorts. Any other time, it would’ve been “take my cock out,” but not today. Today, it was “undress me,” a delicious departure from the usual routine.

  As Kit bent to her task and pulled his shorts from his hips, a rare wonder revealed itself to her: his jockstrap. Its white cotton pouched around his crotch, holding his cock and balls tight to its weave. It was stunning and it punctuated Saul’s irresistible cock.

  So that’s why gay men call it a basket. That’s why they get all fetishy about it.

  “Remove this?” she asked, reaching for the waistband.

  “Absolutely.”

  Kit fumbled with the unfamiliar garment. Tougher than underwear at the waist, it wedged like a thong in the back but clung in the front in a way that was totally unlike a woman’s thong. It didn’t come off easily, not like underwear, but when it finally pulled away from Saul’s genitals, Kit was rewarded with the full, rich smell of his sex.

  OK, she admitted to herself, that’s one fine reason for hotweather tennis.

  Saul sat down, reached for the back of her head, and drew Kit to his rising cock. His message was clear to her and she brought her mouth to the tip of his cock. As she took it in, welcomed it to her tongue, to the hollow of her mouth, she inhaled, taking in that powerful, intoxicating odor.

  But not at the expense of his cock. Never one to dally, even in bliss, she set to work immediately, sucking and licking, working up and down its thick length diligently, finding satisfaction only when Saul moaned at her ministrations.

  “See how far down you can go and hold it there.”

  It wasn’t until Kit was four inches into her task that she noticed the air-conditioning wasn’t on. The realization alone was enough to make the sweat break out on her.

  She pushed farther and tried to force open her reluctant throat. A sudden gagging and she pulled back. She swallowed her saliva, gathered her courage, and tried again. This time, she went farther down. It was probably a fraction of an inch but it might as well have been a yard, and the seconds she held herself there felt like minutes. This time, she almost wet herself when she finally gagged. Sweat dripped from her brow and ran down her nose.

  “That’s good enough, brave enough,” Saul acknowledged. “Go back up, near the top.”

  Without wiping the sweat from her face, Kit applied suction as tight as she could make it while she worked the upper length of Saul’s cock. She kept her tongue on his sweet spot, pressing, swirling, and always thinking of his pleasure and arousal. She wrapped her hand tight around his sack and pulled on it, drawing the balls tight within it. If she doubted whether she was on track, the throb and shudder of his cock told her otherwise. Still, she dripped in the heat of it all.

  Saul’s hand gathered hair at the back of her head again and drew her off him.

  “Back up, just a little.”

  Kneeling, Kit gave Saul the room he needed to open up his shirt. A light layer of sweat glistened on his chest.

  “On your back. Spread your legs for me.”

  And he was on her. She looked down and watched his hard cock search her out. Like an arrow aimed at its target, it took only two determined, exploratory thrusts before it found entry, and as Saul pushed into her, as he parted her so easily, the penetration took her breath away. With his cock slick from her mouth and her cunt wet with sweat and juice, it was a swift, exciting discovery.

  Saul’s cock made Kit come alive with sensation. Every push, every pull rippled inside her, so deliciously it made her ache for orgasm. Saul grabbed her wrist and held it behind her head. His other hand pushed her leg to the floor and gripped her there. Pinned in place, Kit thrilled at her captivity.

  As they fucked, one of them in motion, one still but for her panting, sweat rose and mingled on their skin. They became as slick as river otters and as wild as rutting animals. Sweat fell from Saul’s face onto Kit. She shivered at its touch, so strongly that Saul shuddered at her reaction.

&nb
sp; This never happened on a hot day back home, Kit mused. To Saul she wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t form. All that came out was, “Oh, oh, oh!”

  Kit tightened all over. Her torso stiffened, her hips, too. Inside, she clinched. Saul’s pounding cock felt so good, she couldn’t help but clinch tight. When she released, he moaned and quivered. Encouraged, she clinched with every stroke, milked his cock as it pummeled her, sending Saul closer and closer. But their bodies became noisy with slipperiness and their communion grew haphazard. No matter how tight Kit held herself, no matter how sure Saul’s aim was, they were dangerously close to slipping apart.

  “I’m so wet,” she whispered. “So wet.”

  “Too wet,” Saul decided.

  He pulled out, unable to overcome the sweat that drenched them.

  “Roll over, on your knees.”

  He took her again, slipping in from behind. He wasted no time resuming his steady pace, a pace with only the goal in mind. Kit hoped he’d make it happen this way, knowing that if he failed here her ass would be next in line. And no matter how good this was, it was too fucking hot for that as far as Kit was concerned.

  Saul employed a different tactic, to Kit’s relief. Without warning, he slapped her ass, sending a strong, stinging blow into her plush flesh. The burn of the slap told Kit that her ass had likely reddened immediately, but Saul didn’t wait to appreciate it. He planted another blow, then another. The intensity sent Kit shaking, moaning, crying out, but Saul didn’t let up. He rained blows upon her ass, making her frantic as he fucked her, and he didn’t stop until she screamed and sobbed.

  That’s what he needed. On the tail of her stunning surrender, he came, peaking, pumping, driving hard into her once, twice, again and again, until finally he had nothing left to give. Together, they collapsed, spent, he on top of her, she, stomach to the floor.

  For a time they didn’t move, but eventually Saul rose from her. He gathered her up, into his arms, and carried her out of the house.

  “It’s too hot in there,” he commented as he juggled open the sliding-glass door to the pool and patio.

  The sun, bright with afternoon haze, beat down on them, prompting Kit to comment, “It’s hot out here, too.”

  Saul said nothing as he descended into the pool. Only after he lowered them both into its cool waters did he speak.

  “This makes it cooler.”

  As the water washed away their sweat and soothed them, Saul kissed Kit, deep and long. Love, Kit observed, always follows lust with him. In the shallow end, they sat and cuddled, satiated, until Saul placed his finger between her legs, at her clit. He set his finger in motion and murmured in her ear, “It’s not too hot for this, is it?”

  Kit wanted to say “it better not be” but all that escaped her was a moan of confirmation. That, and a strong throb from between her legs. Around them, the water lapped, synchronized to Saul’s busy hand, and as Kit felt her body respond to the rhythm of Saul’s hand, as she rose toward climax, she realized that hot and hazy wasn’t so bad after all.

  The Waters of Biscayne Bay

  M. CHRISTIAN

  If this story had a soundtrack, it would be cool jazz; something with low, thoughtful notes trickling from a piano, and a slow, soulful sax. If this story had a texture, it would be soft yet scratchy, like a vintage wool dress that’s been slept in night after night. But if this story had a smell, it would be nothing sweet or romantic. No perfume, no incense—nothing like that. Dead fish and motor oil. The look and the smell: Biscayne Bay.

  The place wasn’t what I expected; but then all I had was an old postcard to go by, and that photo had been taken at night. In the foreground, a sweep of tiny blue lights marked the shore, dully reflected in the dark water. Some red ones, some yellow ones, and a couple of other colors, tiny points festooning the masts and bows of fishing boats. Miami was everything else: big hotels, neon signs, palm trees, and the gray curves of under and overpasses. High in the sky, there was a bright silver moon.

  The reality was harsh and smelly. Dark water shimmered in gasoline rainbows; the tiny flashes of beer cans just under the surface. Guy wires ringing like bells on aluminum masts, swells farting and belching between old fishing boats. Why anyone would bother making the place into a postcard was beyond me, and why anyone would ever come here was even farther beyond.

  At least I had a reason beyond inexplicable tourism. She’d talked about the place several times; she was fascinated by it. Something to do with that card she’d found somewhere and the lyricism of the name, Biscayne Bay. I guess she read too much Hemingway in high school. Gail had always wanted to come here.

  It was hot in the sun, so I tore my eyes off the scenic landscape and got back into my rental car. A lot of the cool air had faded since I’d pulled up, so I started it up again, cranking the A/C to Arctic.

  “What you expected?” I said to the cardboard box sitting on the passenger seat.

  What would she have said? On the way down, I’d superimposed her on the college kid sitting next to me, changing a geek wearing headphones and bobbing to scratchy rap into an old lover. Bringing her back, at least in my imagination, was easier than going it alone.

  “Not exactly the place for a golden moment, eh?” she would have said, laughing.

  Not even a brass one, I thought. “That’s my darling, always the cynic; your glass isn’t even half empty. Instead it’s broken, sharp pieces scattered all over, just waiting for bare feet.”

  “It just doesn’t seem like a place worth capturing. To be thrown away, yeah, but not captured, even on a postcard.”

  “Whimsy, my dear Mr. Russell, is sometimes its own reward.”

  I was crying. I couldn’t tell you when the tears had started, but there they were. I wiped them off on the sleeve of my jacket, blinking Gail away.

  “Let’s get a drink,” was the last thing I imagined her saying.

  “Melancholy tastes so much better chased by a good scotch.”

  Gail wore clothes. Simple cotton dresses, mostly. I remember one, a favorite of mine: short sleeves, pattern like a Japanese print, tiny blue birds chasing each other diagonally across it. Some magic of cut and seam made it move in special, mysterious ways: the buttons down the front parting here (a tiny window on white cotton panty), there (the swell of a breast), and other places (the plush pillow of her belly, the flat hardness below her throat, the momentary view of strong thigh). Gail wore clothes because she was always, and forever, naked under them. You and me, we’re common human beings: we start at our slacks and jeans, gabardine and nylon—we start at our clothing, more comfortable with than without. Gail wore clothes, but they were never part of her. She hung them, tight in some places, loose in others, over her plush little body. You knew, looking at her, that they might fall away in an instant, discarded for what they were: just threads and shame.

  Once inside the door, they came off, dropped anywhere convenient or slipped slowly off of her. She’d walk, bedroom to bathroom, bathroom to bedroom, or even out to the backyard, and her simple cotton panties would slip, sag, droop and then fall down to her calves, then her ankles. With a kick, they’d fly off or just tumble away. She’d walk around her tiny house—the one her mother had left her—heavy breasts swaying with every step and movement. Reaching for an album (in the’80s) or a CD (after that), a nipple would peek, and then poke out. Putting it on the stereo (any decade), the other would follow. Suddenly aware of the confinement, she’d snort, say something silly about a “booby-trap” or something, and flip the contraption off. Or, taking aim, with her tongue stuck out in concentration, she’d shoot the thing at a distant doorknob like some kind of double-D rubber band.

  Gail was a broad: sassy, quick, mercurial—fluid in her interests, slippery to define. Other women didn’t like her, and she didn’t like them. “If you’re going to bust balls,” she said once, “don’t pretend you’re going to kiss them first.”

  I met her at a party a friend of mine had thrown, a littl
e theme thing wrapped around a late-night showing of The Maltese Falcon (in the early ’80s, no VCR). I came as Bogart (badly), she came as Mary Astor (wonderfully). I knew my lines and she knew hers, and while the rest sat around a tiny television, we sat on the back porch and played our roles. Well, not expertly: Spade and Miss O’Shaughnessy/ Wonderly/LeBlanc never kissed. We did. For what seemed like hours.

  We never moved in together. We never talked about “us,” but we both knew that this was something good, something rare, and something magical.

  It was quick, her death: a shadow on an X-ray, four months in a hospital, a small service, and a cremation. From boundless life to a small cardboard box on my car seat—all in half a year. She left her house to me. I didn’t want to go in, to start to dislodge any of the chaos that she’d created. I avoided it for months, until I was staring my fear in the face. The next day I rented a small van and started dealing with the stuff of her life. It was easier than I thought. The CDs were just plastic and paper. The clothes were just—yeah—threads and shame. Then I found the envelope, the envelope with the postcard and the letter.

  I’d heard her talk about it, Biscayne Bay, but I hadn’t done anything about it. “Put me there,” the note had said. That’s all. Just “put me there” and that cheap, tourist shot of that polluted body of water.

  And that’s just what I’d do, after a good stiff drink.

  Gail loved the water. Mercurial, fluid, slippery—it was definitely her element. One memory stands out, a precious recollection I frequently fall back into now more than ever. It was a hot, sticky afternoon, maybe late July or early August of last year. My own little house, as always, was an oven, so I walked over to hers since I knew that hers was cooler. I found the front door wide open and the house empty. In her tiny, carefully maintained backyard was one of those sprinklers that fanned water back and forth, back and forth. Lying on the close-cropped grass, naked but for a pair of cheap sunglasses, was Gail.