Heat Wave

by Alison Tyler

  “Wow,” she said absently. “I guess art is exciting.”

  I glanced over to where a couple of bicyclists were strapping on their helmets and preparing to hit the road. Other than them, we were the only people on the patio; it was after the road-trip breakfast rush and too early for the hangover-ravaged club-goers.

  Vanessa lowered the paper and looked at me as she felt my cock stiffen fully under her bare foot.

  As one, we glanced over to see the two bicyclists disappear back into the café and pull the sliding-glass door closed behind them. The patio was underutilized, and as Vanessa glanced over to the tables hidden behind a conspicuously untrimmed magnolia tree, I knew immediately what she was thinking. I should have protested—would have, but the spaghetti strap of her baby tank chose that moment to fall fetchingly to one side, and the sight of her shapely shoulder exposed with its saucy tan line made my cock harden that last little bit, burying what might have been left of my brain in a flood of hormones.

  Vanessa slipped her foot out of my crotch and stood up, peering behind the magnolia tree.

  “I think I like that table better,” she said, and started walking there. As she did, I watched her unbutton the top of her button-fly jeans. With each step another button came undone, the shorts inching down to reveal her black cotton thong. In the instant before she disappeared behind the tree, she glanced back at me, her face ripe with lust, her lips slightly parted. Then she lowered her shorts and thong as one slowly over the delicate swell of her hips, and I glimpsed the hint of a tan line like a One Way sign pointing between her smooth cheeks.

  I glanced into the café to make sure they weren’t about to get an early lunch rush, and rose from the table.

  Before I’d even rounded the magnolia tree, Vanessa reached out and grabbed me. She was down in a crouch, her bare feet splayed at a forty-five-degree angle and her knees spread even wider, revealing the fact that she’d pulled her shorts and her thong down to her ankles. Her smooth cunt was exposed and her hand was working it eagerly, two fingers fucking herself as she rubbed her clit with her thumb. She took hold of my cock through my jean shorts and dragged me behind the magnolia, ripping my fly open and not even bothering with my belt. She got my cock out and wrapped her lips around it, pulling me hard against her face and making me grab the tree for support. Hungry for it, she slid up and down on my cock and whimpered deep in her throat as her hand squeezed the base of my shaft. As her tongue swirled around the head she glanced up to lock eyes with me for a moment, and I felt my cock surge as I knew in an instant just how far she was going to take this.

  All the way.

  She stood up, her mouth leaving a glistening string of spit trailing down to my cock until she was well above my belly. She pulled me to her and kissed me once, hard, caressing my shaft with her slender fingers. She stepped all the way out of her shorts and bent over the unkempt flower bed, her legs spread slightly and her gorgeous ass showing the white thong of her tan line cleaving it like an invitation. I dropped to my knees and pushed her forward, forcing her into the desiccated branches of a forgotten shrub. I pushed her thighs open wider, forcefully, making her lean even further forward and gasp as the prickly branches abraded her tits. I bent her forward just far enough so that I could reach her clit with my tongue, and when I touched it she shuddered all over to keep from crying out. I slipped two fingers into her, their pads pulsing hard against the sides of her swelling pussy as I suckled her clit and finger-fucked her until she shook. This time she couldn’t keep from crying out, so she desperately tried to cover it with a cough, but anyone with an educated ear would have heard what it was: a badly stifled, barely controlled squeal of feminine orgasm.

  I poked my head around the side of the tree and glanced back into the café; it was still empty except for the boredlooking alterna-chick reading Sartre behind the counter.

  I returned my attention to Vanessa’s ass. My tongue trailed down her crack and I parted her cheeks, slipping my tongue between them. She gasped suddenly; I’d succeeded in turning the tables on her. As my tongue teased the tight bud of her asshole, I kept fucking her pussy with my fingers, and the echoes of her orgasm made her squirm desperately on my hand. I pushed harder into her ass with my tongue and she clutched the side of the flower bed, shaking all over. My cock throbbed, her cooling spittle still coating it. I had to fuck her.

  I stood up behind her and guided my cockhead between the swollen lips of her pussy. With one fluid motion I entered her and slipped my hands up her baby tank top; my fingers closed around her magnificent teacup breasts and I pinched both her nipples at once just as my cock reached the familiar, swollen pillow of her G-spot. The instant that happened, she came again; Vanessa’s G-spot and her nipples rival each other for sensitivity, and once she’s come you never know how many times she’s going to do it, orgasms popping like corn until she screams at you to stop. But I wasn’t stopping, now, no matter how loud she screamed, and in any event she showed little promise of asking me to stop anytime soon. I started to fuck slowly and rhythmically into her pussy, teasing her nipples as she reached down and began to rub her clit, her orgasm pulsing through her in spasms that gripped my shaft. I picked up speed and fucked her harder, releasing one perfect breast to grab her hair and tug it lightly. She moaned softly, struggling to keep quiet, as I released the other breast and slipped my fingers into her mouth. She pressed herself back onto me, coaxing my cock deeper until there was nowhere for it to go except back out again and in, harder, harder, harder with each thrust.

  When she came the third time I knew I couldn’t hold back any longer, and I matched the rhythm of my hips to the one that would make me come. My Catholic nature made me lean back and glance into the café again just before I came—the coast was clear. I pounded into Vanessa and she begged me for it, with whimpers and murmurs that might have been “Yes” but sounded more like articulate and desperate—but wordless—exhalations.

  I came hard inside her and kept, to my surprise, totally quiet. Vanessa froze, too, her mouth pressed tightly closed as she felt my cock pulsing inside her. The only sound was the wet thrusting as I entered her again and again, filling her. When finally I could take no more, I eased out of her and put my hand down to feel her cunt, now wet with my come. I bent down and kissed the back of her neck.

  “Fuck,” she gasped. “Is anyone watching?”

  I leaned back and looked into the café. A tourist couple was heading for the sliding-glass door. We had perhaps five seconds.

  “Don’t ask,” I said, and bent down to grab Vanessa’s shorts. She stepped into them obediently and I pulled them up her perfect thighs and over the white-hot tan line of her ass, buttoning as quickly as I could. I got my cock back into my pants and the zipper up about one second before the tourist couple entered the patio. They pretended not to notice us.

  Vanessa and I returned to our table, breathing hard. She returned to reading the paper, her hands shaking slightly as she leafed through the advertising inserts, admiring the Kmart lingerie. I sat down, turned the page of my sketchbook, and began a new drawing of her. This time, it was from memory; she was bent over with her ass in the air, begging for it.

  She looked up and glanced over toward the magnolia tree. For the first time I noticed the black thong that lay there, moist and forgotten, in full view of the tourist couple’s table.

  Vanessa wrapped her newspaper up in a wad and stood up from the table, tucking it under her arm and next to one half-revealed breast.

  “Time to go,” she said, and winked at me, turning her beautiful ass to me as she headed for the sliding-glass door, without so much as another glance toward her discarded thong.

  I closed my sketchbook and followed her.

  Summer Intern

  MARK WILLIAMS

  When you intern at a men’s magazine, life can sure get steamy.

  I had just turned twenty-three and found myself a position as junior writer/researcher for the summer at a periodical I’d sneaked into my room
since I was a kid. Judy was an attractive, leggy forty-something who worked in our production department. I had little idea what she actually did, but I knew she wore her skirts short nearly every day and I loved her for it. I didn’t know her story, but guessed she was unattached, perhaps a little lonely, and showed off her legs, her best feature, for a hint of male attention. I flirted with her playfully whenever I could, always sure to compliment her legs, her smile, her sparkling eyes. She never seemed to mind, though I doubt she took me seriously.

  The publication was planning a short how-to feature on cunnilingus, and for the first time, Judy and I found ourselves working together. I was cowriting and editing the two-page piece, and she was to oversee the layout and production aspects. I couldn’t believe my luck. I would both get my first byline and get to talk and work with Judy on a regular basis.

  One sweltering early-July afternoon, we found ourselves finishing the layout. Much of the office had departed early for the three-day holiday weekend.

  “I think we’re close to wrapping this baby up,” I told her. “It looks great, and that’s mostly due to you and your hard work.”

  “Thanks, David,” she replied, “but I couldn’t have done it without your help. You appear to know a lot about the subject matter.”

  I blushed hard. “Most of that was j-just research,” I stammered.

  “Oh? I thought it was all based on first-hand experience.”

  “It was a combination....”

  She had me flustered and was obviously loving it, I could tell. Here was a worldly older woman determined to embarrass me and fuck with my head. I knew it, yet stuttered like a lovesick schoolboy.

  “Relax, David,” she smiled. “You’ve flirted with me since your first day here, and now when I tease you a little bit, you come undone.”

  “Well, I’d definitely like to tease you back,” I replied, gaining confidence. “You know, just to make sure I got everything right in that article....”

  It was her turn to blush, but only briefly. Then her tone turned abruptly stern. “Please step into my office, young man.”

  My stomach leapt to my throat. Would she accuse me of sexual harassment? I was just some dumb young intern—I hadn’t meant to say anything to offend her. I went in first, and she swung the door behind us. It failed to close completely, but I didn’t think anyone else was still around. I immediately noticed how warm it was in her office, but said nothing.

  “Damned A/C has been off and on all day,” she snapped in explanation.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Judy. I was out of line. I...”

  “No, you were right,” she said softly. “If we want our readers to be good at certain things, we have to give them all the facts. However, I think the piece needs a bit more research.”

  “What do you have in mind?” I hoped my inner jitters weren’t visible to her.

  “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for under my desk,” she said, with a hint of humor in her voice. I nodded obediently and surveyed her work area. There wasn’t much room under that long, narrow piece of mahogany, but I carefully backed myself in, eager to face whatever Judy had in mind for me. To my delight, she sat down on her black leather swivel chair and rolled herself to within tempting, taunting distance. She parted her legs slowly as her khaki tan skirt rose nearly to her hips. She wore no slip.

  “Have you found anything yet?” she asked sweetly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, trying to sound both respectful and repentant. I began to playfully lick her thighs. She was wearing pantyhose, to my dismay. So typical of her, even on a hot, humid day. Miss Prim and Proper. She edged forward on her chair in response, seemingly pleased that I was taking the hint. I heard a rustling sound as she went through a top drawer. She handed me a small but sharp pair of scissors. “You’re going to need to do some cutting on this piece,” she said, playing with an editorial term I’d often heard before. But never in this sense. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, completely.” I began to snip carefully at the crotch of her pantyhose, fearful of nicking her. The fabric cut easily, as the nylon panel and her hose began to run in several directions. I felt guilty about destroying her stockings, but now had full access to what I—and I suppose she—wanted. I began to lick all around Judy’s vulva, slowly, gently, pacing myself as I had instructed our readers to do in my article. It was incredibly warm and stuffy under that desk, and I soon began to sweat profusely nearly everywhere. My discomfort only made me more determined, however.

  Judy moaned audibly as I became a bit more aggressive. I was cramped beyond belief, flushed and almost dizzy, yet eager to show her I could successfully go down on a woman in any situation. I fingered her lightly, gingerly exposing her clit to my hard, firm tongue. She gasped in delight. This was going to be easy, I thought. Suddenly, a knock on her door, followed by the noise of it swinging open, brought us back to reality. It was Judy’s boss. Of course he’d still be around, because he never left early or took a sick day in his life. Mr. Corporate America. I hated him. The knock was merely to be polite, since he had every intention of simply barging in, as he always did. I froze.

  “Good lord, it’s warm in here. You need to call the building about the A/C,” he pompously lectured her. He was Captain Obvious, if nothing else.

  “I already have, Mr. Johnson. I guess everyone’s gone for the Fourth.”

  “Figures. Nobody works anymore. Anyway, how’s that oral sex piece coming, Judy?” he asked, sounding unintentionally ridiculous. “As I’m sure you know, the magazine goes to the printer first thing Tuesday.”

  “I’m putting the finishing touches on it right now, sir,” she said in her most professional voice. Now it was my turn to fuck with her. I pushed my tongue against her clit so hard that she nearly squealed in delight. Suddenly I almost didn’t care if we got caught.

  Johnson apparently missed or ignored her squirming. He was probably looking at some copy of his own, as he usually did. “The intern—Donald, what’s his name?—wrote that, didn’t he?” he asked Judy.

  “Yes sir, he did. His name is David.”

  I gently bit her as a thank-you. She slipped one hand under the desk, desperately trying to push my playful face away from her dripping love box. I licked and sucked her fingers, then returned my focus to her clit. I noticed she was now sweating in several areas, an observation that turned me on even more. As I looked up, I saw her silky royal-blue blouse showing noticeable moisture spots around the underarms.

  My ultraperfect dream woman was actually perspiring! Was it the warmth of her office or the heat of my tongue? Most likely, a combination. I thoroughly reveled in her wetness—and mine, nearly giddy with excitement.

  “Rather ordinary work, but not bad overall for his first article, wouldn’t you say?” The bastard.

  “Everyone has to start somewhere, sir,” she replied sweetly. Her voice was weakening, yet she remained amazing under pressure. I continued to lick her as quietly and efficiently as I could, enjoying her dilemma more than I could express or imagine. I was determined to make her come while her boss was still in the room, most likely several feet away. He probably thought the warmth of her office was getting to her. How could he know it was much more than that?

  “Point taken, Judy. Too late to make wholesale changes in it, anyway. Well, please put this on my desk before you leave, would you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson, it’s almost finished. I need to put it between a couple of ad pages.” She was squirming, straining to appear composed and professional. She began desperately trying to press her thighs together, while I playfully wrestled to keep them apart. I licked, stroked and fingered her, trying feverishly to finish her off. Sweat poured down my face and clung to my shirt.

  Judy was melting a little, herself. I was loving every second of it.

  “Okay, Judy, have a nice holiday. And by all means, call the building about your A/C, since you appear rather warm.” The guy was a total asshole, thankfully oblivious to everything but his bo
ring copy, which I imagined him reading even as he talked to Judy. Peering over his glasses to read instead of buying bifocals, which he obviously needed.

  “I will. You too, sir,” she gasped. She was losing control, and I had her exactly where I wanted her. My cotton dress shirt felt as though I’d taken a swim in it. The fabric clung to me like a soaking wet washrag. I was also sweating in my underwear, where my raging hard-on was hopelessly cramped and imprisoned. My navy-blue dress slacks stuck to my legs as though they were rubber-cemented.

  Luckily, Johnson pulled the door closed behind him as he left. We heard the door click, then I went for the kill.

  “You son of a bitch,” Judy said, finally, sighing.

  “Shut up and come,” I slurped, continuing to lick, suck, nibble, and dart with my tongue. She obeyed, almost on command, shaking, shuddering, groaning, yet somehow not letting loose completely, given our circumstances. She moved forward on her chair, involuntarily, in fits and starts, during her release. I stayed with her as long as I could, and when I felt her pull away, I knew she was too sensitive for me to continue.

  “You talented son of a bitch,” she repeated, sounding drained yet satisfied.

  “Johnson said it was ‘rather ordinary work,’” I reminded her.

  “Well, I was totally moved by it.”

  “I believe in being thorough in my research,” I murmured in response.

  A pause. “You have a real future in journalism, that’s for sure.”

  “And you shouldn’t wear pantyhose in such hot weather.”

  “I’ll try to remember that next time.”

  I smiled to myself, thoroughly self-satisfied, and licked and kissed her nylon-covered, run-saturated, sweat-soaked thighs a few more times. I simply couldn’t get enough of this woman. I again gently kissed her sopping-wet pussy one last, lingering time, firmly and slowly. She sighed but didn’t pull away. As I gazed up at her, I could see she was flushed and sweaty. Her makeup was beginning to run, much as her pantyhose had. She smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but feel great pride and pleasure at making this prim and more experienced woman so disheveled and wet. We were both soaked with sweat, yet I don’t think either of us minded all that much. I had certainly learned a lot this day, as a good intern should.