Heat-Stroke

The Underground in July: a succession of tin cans of tightly packed Mixed Rage and Disappointment, even at this hour on a Saturday evening. In the middle carriage, one particular morsel of broiled baffled anger. Angry because he's late, and late because he's angry.

Angry because a week ago a Saturday pizza jaunt with Evie meandered into an argument. He had referred to a friend of hers (who had turned up drunk, insulted a waitress, and played gooseberry for an hour) as 'a crude needy piss-artist'. This, Evie said, meant he thought she was Common, which was because he had no sense of fun, which in turn, when she thought about it, explained a lot of things. To change the subject, he had slid his hand up the back of her skirt, drawing his fingers up the inside of her thighs until his hand brushed a stray wisp of hair, then slid on upwards to round the cotton-cased bottom.

She had said: 'I thought you said you ought to go into the office this afternoon'.

He had pulled her onto his lap, sprung the clip on her bra with the free hand, and sunk his face into her neck. So far so good. He had slid a finger into the leg of her knickers, and grumbled that he couldn't concentrate on work now.

She had responded: 'Well don't ring me up all week whining about being stressed at work then. I need a cup of tea and a bath.'

And baths are sometimes for after sex, but never before. Even on a Saturday.

So, having persuaded himself he'd drunk just one too many with the pizza, he had gone home rather than to the office, and wanked until it hurt. On Sunday he had played cricket, and then gone to the pub. And at work on Monday he had been bollocked about his backlog.

Today at 3:30, after six days' silence she had rung and said, 'Are you coming over tonight? Cos we could go to the flicks. That Shakespeare thing you wanted to see is on at 6:30.'

He had agreed far too eagerly and then, in dread of another episode, lay on his bed glumly playing with himself; half wanting to get one off his chest so that he didn't want her, and half afraid to, in case she wanted him.

So at just gone 5pm, in a haze of curdled lust, he had started to look for clothes she might like him in, and panicking because the journey would take ninety minutes on a good day.

Late because he was angry, and angry because he is late.

This is not a good day. 'Routine engineering work' has made him later still (exactly how late, he is not sure). Once at her stop, elbowing through the shuffling mass to the escalator he digs out his phone to text 'sorry! Fucking tubes! Here now!' but finds she's beaten him to it.

'Wher th fuck r u? Bn wtg here nrly an hr. Going home. If u thght yr on a promise u cn thk agen.'

He stops. Where's 'here'? Cinema or station? Is it worth suggesting going to a pub instead? Or for a meal? That probably wouldn't...

'Make yer bloody mind up, wanker' says someone behind him, and he is swept onto the escalator. He tries to stop, gather his thoughts, text something.

'Fchin tube buggrrered. Pub.inste.a.d?'

The escalator spits him out at the top. At the station entrance, Evie's diminutive frame is silhouetted against the sunlight.

It's worse than he thought. She's chosen today to push the boat out. She's wearing what she calls the banshee dress that had turned his world upside down the first time he set eyes on her; the dress she had still been wearing three hours later when they fucked for the first time, standing up against a tree, with the sound of their picnicking friends just yards away behind a row of bushes in the park. He has only seen her in it twice since. It has had to be cleaned each time.

There are the boots, whose heels raked the backs of his legs as she came that first time. There are the matching skull-pattern ring and ear-rings he bought her the second time they went out, but none of the make-up he doesn't like.

She spins on her heel, red curls flying, beautiful pale nape and shoulders flickering through the high black lace collar. 'Evie!'

Someone behind him laughs: 'Oops! You're in trouble, son.'

The ticket gate won't read his card for one - two ('Fuck' sake mate! Get a fuckin' move on!') - three attempts, then springs open. He dodges clumsily out ('Bloody charming!... a 'Sorry' wouldn't hurt, y'know...') - she's vanished.

Which bloody way? If she's going home there's a short cut which she won't take on her own, he can catch up... and he starts to run. The bag with the book and the bottle of white wine in it bouncing and slipping on his shoulder, the canvas boating trousers (chosen for the easy-peel button fly that made her laugh) and the flat slip-off deck shoes are not helping. Some underpants would have stopped his bollocks swinging so painfully. By the time he cuts up that alley that she hates, into her road, he is half-erect, red, sweaty, breathless, his feet hurt, but he must be ahead: she can't run in those boots, however pissed off she is.

Plan A, turn right, double back towards the pub, catch her as she hits the corner, make a joke of it, cold beer...Bloody hell she's right across the road - how did she get there?

She's striding furiously; the curls over her ears and forehead are slightly sweat-flattened. The dress pressed by the breeze, moulded across her breasts and hips, and the slight curve of her belly. The lace pattern of the dress shows a black flash of the very expensive bra that she chose to go with the stockings. He remembers her making him sit and wait, in an agony of confusion, trying to hide his erection as she chose it.

As he runs to cross the road, her stride doesn't falter.

'Don't talk to me! Just don't say ANYTHING!'

'Evie...'

'DON'T!'

And she's passed. Does she mean it?

So, fuck it. So...what? Go home, ring Helen, and see if she wants to play? There's always a chance there, only she's a bit...and she'd probably ring Evie and tell her...and it's best part of two hours' journey back, and - anyway, no, bugger it, that'd just be - limp. God, Evie's arse is just wonderful. No. Other women may have arses, Evie has a backside. A bottom. With perfect, compact cheeks.

Walk briskly, don't run. This is bad enough, must not look desperate.

She turns into her gate, up to the front door. In the time it takes her to get the keys out, drop them, and sweep them back up, he's on her shoulder. She opens the door...and slams it hard against him as he follows. And then again. And again.

Say what? "Steady on, you'll break the glass"? No, that's wet, just push - but she's left it ajar and stamped off up stairs without a word. Don't call. Follow? Chase? Wait? Close the door? What a good little boy.

A high-heeled black suede calf-boot bounces off the banister and hits him in the chest. The second one misses by several inches.

Charge upstairs, two, three at a time, following the flash of red hair and black lace into the bedroom, slam the door open. Shocking how loud a crash it makes against the wooden bed-base. For a moment they're both brought up short. She's got her ratty old black jeans in her hands, staring straight at him mouth slightly open. Standing in that tiny bedroom strewn with clothes, she looks thrown; as if she's been caught burgling in fancy dress. He is the first to look away. Can't help noticing that Evie must be the only woman he knows who would leave her vibrator on the window-sill.

She starts wordlessly to life, cramming first one stockinged foot then the other into the trousers, wriggling them up under the dress, dragging at the fly. Before she can get her dignity back, he tries: 'Love, just calm down, you'll...'

'Don't talk to me like I'm fucking SIX!' she hisses, and forces her way past him out onto the landing.

The smell of hot skin mingled with the scent on the dress and - something else- flicks a switch in him. He flings out an arm and catches her round the middle from behind. The curve and weight of her breasts on top of his arm is startling, gorgeous. She's solid, hot, off-balance. For a moment the whole length of her back is pressed against him. His prick reacts instantly in the loose trousers and demands to join in.

She can feel it. She squirms, furiously muttering 'JeezUS! You have no fucking chance!' In that same second his whole need is the feel of her body clamped against his clanging cock to ease the throbbing, like a hand pressed to an aching head. He just pulls his arm tight. And finds that he has her trapped. The other arm clamps across the top of her chest, almost her throat. He's dry-humping his aching, straining cock against Evie's back. Doesn't care if he cums in his trousers. Serve her right.

Better idea - one hand lets go of her to pull up the back of the dress, tug open the drawstring in his waistband to hose the rising cum on her bare skin. She squirms round, almost to face him, and lands a couple of cramped, wild punches round his ribs, gets both her hands against his belly, pushes hard, ducks her head and she's slipped free.

A long second staring at each other. Panting. Him: sweating, his hard-on bolt upright and craning over the untied waistband of the trousers. She'll piss herself laughing if he cums now. Her: hair anyhow, two buttons on the dress have come open, warning finger to her lips, and pointing at a handwritten sign on her housemate's door, a bare two feet away: 'FUCK OFF IM SLEEPING'. Moll the nurse works shifts. So bloody what? There's a rushing noise in his ears...

He lunges across the landing, inches from Moll's door. A couple of flailing, glancing blows from her hands round his head and he's got her clenched against his chest, and dragging her towards her bedroom, both of them quietly gasping and grunting. She throws her weight downwards and backwards, like a recalcitrant child. The dress rides up, and she slips his grip again so suddenly she falls on her backside. There's a glimpse of suspender belt above the half-zipped trousers - underneath, a flash of tight black pants.

He catches at a wrist and pulls, trailing her across the carpet. That's harder than he expected. She squeaks; did that hurt? Another dress button goes. He bends down, pulls her up off the carpet, forcing kisses onto her twisting face, neck. Hands up inside the dress, feeling the sweat on her back as he searches for the bra clasp. Fuck. Of course. Front loader. He remembers her giggling as she slyly showed it to him, not quite out of sight of the leering shop girl, when she bought it.

He flings his arms tight round her, smothering the struggle. The tip of his cock is printing into the warmth of her belly. He lurches to pin her against the wall, thrilled by how much stronger, heavier he actually is than her.

Have her, here. Right here. Now.

One knee between her legs, thigh hard against her crotch. Feel the heat of it through the cloth. Trap her with his weight, both hands hunting, one wrenching at the jeans, the other clutching a breast, a beautiful, perfect, handful of breast; groping for the front clasp. Fuck That. Yank it up, off the breasts. It snags. Two, three tugs, and another, slightly louder, grunt of protest: 'Not. Here. Not.'

Get the other knee in, force her legs apart. That earns a hand thrust up into his face. She tries to knee his ribs, can't reach. Each blow less fast, less telling; the back of her head bumps against the wall.

A pause, she starts to slump a little under him. He tugs at the jeans again. Can't move them, pinned like this. Her head is turned, trapped against his chest, but he can make out the whisper of 'Not. Here. Moll.'

Oh, really? Spin her round to face to the banister. Clamp one hand over her mouth; bend her over the flimsy, creaking rail. Bends down, whispers in her ear: 'We'll have none of that from you'. He pulls down on the back of her jeans waistband, and she twists violently, and kicks.

'Right, I'll teach you...' Arm tight, tight round her waist. Hoist her completely off her feet from behind; swing her through her bedroom doorway.

One breast has come free, he can feel. She is still off the ground but still squirming, as he drags the door almost shut with one foot, rushes her towards the bed. She braces one foot against it just as his own feet snag in some garment on the floor, he trips, and lands on the bed with her somehow on top, still clenched tight in his arms. As she fights and contorts, his arm slips up from her waist, and this time his fingers find and slip apart the catch. He cups a breast and his thumb slides over and round and back again, feels the nipple harden, but still she twists, drums her heels on his shins until she misses and kicks the timber of the bed base, and yelps with the pain.

He bodily heaves her up the bed, scrabbling through the gaping buttons of the dress to free her breasts, flings her onto her back She pushes her hands randomly up against his face and throat, and chest, but she feels slower, flagging. He grabs her wrists and presses them back above her head, sits astride her ribs. A drop of sweat lands on her face, just by her mouth.

A second.

'Oh Yeah?' she says.

His cock stretches again in his waistband.

He bunches both her wrists into one hand and shoves the other into her bodice. She wrenches one wrist free and lashes him round the shoulders. No sign of flagging this time. Her body is writhing under him, arching and bucking. As he chases her flailing arm he digs his feet between her thighs, forces them apart, and sits back to pin them wide open. He stoops to plunge his face into her open dress, between her spreading breasts, and is startled to hear himself moan aloud. With his teeth he pulls the cloth away and wraps his tongue round a rigid nipple. She twists, strains, twists. And groans.

He looks up the bed and just above her screwed-up face is a chaotic collection of scarves draped over the bed rail. Throws his weight up the bed, his tip sandwiched against her, begging to be inside her but it'll have to wait. He grabs a handful of silk and begins frantically twining and knotting it about her wrists, pulls hard up and hitches it to the end of the bed rail, same at the other side. Just slack enough for her to be able to pull at it, struggle with it, but not enough for her to be able to reach either knot. She struggles but nothing gives and now his hands are free, he peels his shirt over his head, hearing something tear as it goes.

She's stopped thrashing; he looks down. She is staring up at him, over the shining tip of his prick, mouth half open. He shuffles back, sitting across her hips now, and takes hold of the two sides of her dress, twists up a grip. 'You wouldn't fucking dare' she says out loud.

He can't back down now, so he tears at it until every last button is open or gone.

Kneels upright, takes hold of the waistband of his trousers and peels the fly buttons apart so that his erection leaps free, and he pauses, one hand on the bedrail above her head, the other stroking his cock for a moment, leering down at her. He is like a god, now. Stroking faster, he leans over her tits, her face.

'Don't get it in my hair, you bastard!'

He falls forward, presses his weight down on her so that his cock is ground between the heat of their bodies. He starts to work down. Hungrily kissing anything in reach of his mouth. Throat, shoulders, breasts, belly. Her treasure trail hint of pale fuzz. Back to her breast. Wrestles the jeans zip fully down, crawling his fingers down her mound, and her hips begin to bounce on the bed, to writhe, her little grunts are quicker, but still half whispered.

Pulls his hand out of the trousers, thrusts it back, this time under the waistband of her plain black knickers, her bush is soft, thick, and his middle finger meets lips that are hot, huge and plump to his touch. Her writhing struggle is fiercer, and fiercer, the grunts rising to squeak pitch, but still guiltily quiet. He slides one crooked finger between the lips, behind the delicate little clit. And stops. Her knees pull up, curling her into a ball, and then thrash out straight and part, scrabbling at the bed, and her painful whisper: 'fuck you, GO ON'. He thrusts the finger high in, strokes the cunt wall, and feels a tremor against his hand. That's enough.

He scrambles between her legs, she cries out when he clumsily leans on her knee. He snatches at the jeans and the knickers together and drags at them. She lifts herself just long enough for them to move, to show the rich, coppery triangle on her mound. He pulls, pulls but she is not helping any more - suddenly she is straining her legs apart, making it impossible to pull down any further. He hoists her legs up onto his shoulders, presses over, her knees pinned against her chest, gropes with his frantic prick for a way in. Misses it, finds it. In, wet, hot, deep. Not stopping, No stopping me. Not stopping. Thrust. Her breasts quiver, and his prick instantly feels as if it's grown an inch, thrustthrustthrust, quiver quiver, the tip of his cock against the top of her inside - God I'm a monster - her eyes fly open and her gasp is sharp, 'Weird! That's Too...'

He's pulled out already, throws her over on her front, her tethered wrists crossing over on the pillow, jerking on the ties. Now he can haul the jeans, the knickers, completely off, stands at the foot of the bed to throw them aside.

He yanks his own leg free of his drooping trousers. That heavenly rear view. The bottom framed by the black stocking tops and the suspenders, the narrow pale back with the dress up to her armpits and ribs heaving, he tangled mass of red curls hiding the buried face.

His hands reach, clutching at the cheeks, the thumbs run together up the cleft, tugging a little at the puckered arsehole as they pass. Another muffled squeak, another flinch.

He clambers on the bed jamming his knees between the thighs, shoving them apart and forcing a path to fuck. Spreads his arms, tries to pin her bucking arse with his weight, thrusting upwards between her cheeks.

'No. Front one'

He needs one hand to capture his cock, the other arm delving under her belly pulling her hips up to meet it, place it again at the soft hot opening of her, wriggle it home, animal now, animal further in, further in, knees between hers slipping in the tangled bed, faster faster off balance falling forward face in her hair - sweaty hair in his mouth - faster guts wringing tighter, tighter, can't bear it can't hold it pull her hips up get deeper must fill her sweat pouring can't breathe can't move bursting...bursting. Let go a flood. Another. Another. Freeze, driven deep home. Don't waste a drop. Another. Shuddering. Now. They are both breathing. Her: 'Fuck. Fuck.'

They fall sideways, he curls to stay inside her but starts to slip out, can feel the trickle running on to his thigh. One foot is helplessly trapped in the sheets. He's still got one shoe on, can't remember when the other one came off. Struggles free, sheds the shoe and the last trouser leg and feels her turn on her back beside him.

He kneels on all fours, wants to kiss. As he leans down for it, her voice, weirdly deep, says, 'Why the hell do I have to tear you off a strip to get a rise like this out of you?

Then comes the kiss - close, complete, thrilling; the sort of kiss that adds four inches to a man's height.

He runs a hand the length of her upper body. Every texture of every centimetre is sheer bliss. Again his fingers cannot resist the copper bush, the hot, slippery crotch. She clamps her legs on his hand, traps it. He can feel a tiny electric tremor in her thigh. That instant he wants her again, just to make love, just to have her fold him in and kiss, and slowly, slowly... reaches up his free hand to release her wrists, his cock hard and reaching again, swinging out as he stretches. But: 'FUCKING LEAVE THEM!'

She clamps her thighs hard on his trapped hand, draws her knees right up into a ball -'AH! Ah!' He feels his own spasms started again by hers, his cock quivers, strains, wrung dry , and now she whimpers almost silently, stays tense - curled until she cannot hold it a second longer, and collapses, limp and sweat-sodden, and releases him. They are done.