Heat-Stroke

Outside a little dusk. The breeze through the window is cold, but they need it. Neither can think of anything to say. The alarm clock by the bed shows some time before quarter to eight.

There are feet on the stairs, and Molly shouting: 'No, that's fine you guys, it's time I was up. I'll shut the front door on my way out shall I?' They stifle their giggles until the door is safely slammed.

Evie gets her breath back first: 'Actually, you'd better untie me, I need a piss'.

He toys for a moment with the thought of saying no, of torturing her, but decides not to risk spoiling the moment. She gives another little low grunt as the scarves give way. At first she doesn't move, and then slowly, mopping herself with the sheet, climbs off the end of the bed, overbalances a moment against the window, then against the wall, and pads away leaving sweaty handprints as she goes. He rolls onto his side, and dimly registers a pale pink smear in the bed. He is still vaguely trying to decipher it when she traipses back into the room, sits unsteadily beside him and begins to peel her left stocking off - carefully, where it's torn at the heel.

'Are you alright?' he asks.'Eh? Of course I am, you berk.' she says. Then, she rolls him over on his back, sees the pink stain, and guesses what he meant. 'Yeah, nothing major. I think you just need to cut your nails, you slob.'

A stomach rumble rattles the silence.

'There's no food in, by the way.' Well, that's OK ...'Where 'dya fancy?' he says, expansively. Just stops himself suggesting pizza.

'Bugger that, I'm in no state to go anywhere. If it's your treat, ape-man, just go down to the corner and see if you can pick up some sort of pasta and bits, we'll busk something.' She rolls onto her front and lolls against him, head across his chest. Trying not to disturb her, he shifts and tries to slip his thigh between hers, feel if her legs are still shaking.

Another stomach rumble. 'FOOOOOOD' she intones.

He swings himself onto all fours, across her, grins down at her still prone on the edge of the bed. His cock starts to harden again. Might she? Not sure. Wants her though...

'FOOOOD'

Very close to her ear now: 'If that is as her Highness truly wills it...' Her reply comes in her comedy Ikkle Girl voice: 'Too FUCKING wight, Vicar!'

He rolls on to the floor with more of a crash than he intended, and crawls haphazardly to the foot of the bed. He's not really that shagged out, but it's fun to cod it on. Finds trousers, one sock, sees his shirt in the far corner. The other sock, of course, he still has on. Perched on the corner of the bed pulling his clothes on by fits and starts, he is reluctant to look back but he holds in his stomach, in case she's watching him. Turning to unearth one of his shoes from the bed, he finds that she is watching, sidelong, one eye closed, through her damp fringe of curls, her face unreadable. As soon as their eyes meet she breaks the contact - rolls back onto her belly and stretches like a cat. He stands up to pull his trousers up, notices his cock is sticky, wishes he'd brought boxers, and starts to hunt for the other shoe.

'FOOOOOOD!' 'Yehyehyeh alright...'

At the bottom of the stairs, his bag has been moved to one side. His toothbrush, wallet and book are still in it, but the wine is not. Instead there is a piece of paper scribbled with the words

'In the Fucking Fridge. M.

PS have a lovely QUIET evening'

At the shop, aware of the fresh tear in his shirt over his very sweaty armpit, and the likely damp patch over the end of his still occasionally rebellious cock, he sidles about selecting ingredients and a second bottle, red this time, just in case.

By the time gets back Evie is drifting round the kitchen, barefoot except for a skew-whiff plaster on her left heel. She has thrown on a hip-length Mothers Of Invention t-shirt, apparently no bra and an elastic-waisted ankle length skirt faded from black to dark grey. It makes her look shapeless. Her hair is dragged back into a disorderly springy bunch and she is wearing thick tortoiseshell -frame glasses. He had no idea she wore glasses.

He loves her so much he is afraid of crying, and can hardly stand. she turns to him wrestling with escaping hair, to catch him staring. 'You like? I call it my debauched librarian look. Lost a fucking contact lens somewhere'. She takes off the glasses. 'Oh, yes love, blind as a bat without 'em.'

They fold into long, deep, full-body-contact kiss. He runs a hand round her backside, detects a lack of knickers, begins to bunch her skirt up gently, then more quickly, dropping to his knees in front of her, hoisting the hem with both hands kisses a thigh as it is uncovered, and up and up to flick the russet triangle with his tongue. She starts back as if in shock, crams the glasses back on and blinks theatrically. The Ikkle Girl voice squeaks 'Fuck me, you're NOT the vicar! Oy fink oo'd better go!' Hysteria sets in.

His haul from the corner shop amounts to: one packet of out of date pasta, a cellophane packet of what he hopes is dried oregano, two sprouting onions, a dusty tin of plum tomatoes and another of 'beef mince in gravy' (with, as it turns out, more onion). By the time they have concocted these into what they call spaghetti bolognaise the kitchen is in chaos.

Pots boil over and onions burn as they stop for wobbly kisses of varying length and intensity. Twice Evie gets as far as hoisting herself onto a rickety formica table edge, skirt up round her hips, and ankles crossed behind him. Once, she watches her reflection in the kitchen window behind him as she slides her hands into the rear waistband of his trousers, cupping his arse. But somehow long, sighing kisses now feel wickeder than a frantic fuck.

As they 'cook' they open the red, because the white won't be cold enough yet. The red is vile. A game starts in which they each have to make the other drink it. One way is to pass wine from mouth to mouth under cover of a kiss. They are not so very clumsy, but fleetingly it occurs to him that he has not been wise to wear white, and that he has no clean shirt to go home in tomorrow.

The red runs out before they have eaten quite as much spag bol as they can bear, so the white gets opened. Minutes later the meal is abandoned and a retreat is beaten to the sofa. The evening's TV is not absorbing, and half a glass later he slides to his knees on the floor in front of her and stalks slowly up the inside of her skirt, the insides of her legs, inch by inch, kiss by kiss.

She gently grasps his hair, and draws his head between her thighs and starts to groan as he mumbles first one lip and then the other, then the mound, and runs his tongue teasing over her. She holds his head still with shaking hands, shudders, and gives a little cry of 'Gently!'

Shortly she pulls upwards on his hair. He follows the pull, wangling down his trousers as he goes, straining with his mouth for hers. She reaches down to his prick, whispering, 'Jesus! You randy little sod!'

She guides him towards her, wrapping her legs round his bare arse: 'Gently, all right? Gently, you...' and leads him inside her, wraps everything tight round him, holds him clenched, still. Cries out again, almost sobs

.

He means to makes himself wait, but in just an instant he furtively begins to rock back and forth. She has her face buried in his neck now , squeaking faster and faster, fists clenched in his hair, rocking her crotch back at him suddenly much faster than he is thrusting, desperately racing. Her whimpers run together into one thin rising note until she runs out of breath and breaks into ragged panting sounds. He scrabbles her shirt up to see her breasts shuddering. Without warning he feels himself wrack inside her, the second spasm driving the breath out of him. He is frozen with the sheer strength of it. Again she wraps him tight to her until her sobbing runs down, then flops weakly away. He pulls out, as slowly as his quivering arms and back will let him, tries to kneel astride her to kiss her properly, finds his trousers tangled, and falls sideways. They are just about laughing.

She smoothes her skirt down, and eventually he kicks his shoes and trousers off altogether. She gets up and closes the curtains. It is sometime about ten o'clock. She comes back to the sofa and snuggles peacefully beside him, accepts a hand inside her t-shirt and curls up.

He now feels slightly absurd being naked from the waist down. He even feels embarrassed when the occasional erection stirs, aching uncomfortably, but Evie giggles, and strokes the strained cock with silky lightness murmuring, 'What are you on, you animal?' 'You,' he is inspired to say after the tiniest moment.

She slides to her knees, fastidiously holding the tip of him still with the tips of one forefinger and thumb, delicately lays the tip of her tongue at the base of him, and runs it lightly, slowly, upwards. Slides her lips just over the top. Tightens, loosens, tightens, tongues and loosens... He can feel the end of his cock swelling tighter and tighter, as if the skin might split. God, he wishes he could cum again; his legs are stretched far apart, his knees bunched, straining for the release, arms braced back against the sofa. His breath is held, he cannot move, he can't stay quiet. A groan of uncontrollable agony starts, she quickens, and quickens, and without once taking her lips from him she starts to gasp aloud, rising, rising. His final, violent wrenching climax takes its cue from her. Only when he finally has no more to go, she lets his drained prick slip out of her mouth, it capsizes against his belly and she smothers it with her weight and grins up. Again that incredibly deep giggle and she hauls herself to sit astride his knees. There's a sticky damp print of the end his cock on the t-shirt. She leans forward and kisses him, full on, 'What do you taste like to yourself?' she says, smirking. 'God knows,' is all he can get out.

He sits up for another kiss, reaches his hands forward, round the bare cheeks under her skirt. They stay like that, until she sighs, lifts her head away, pats his face gently, and with a stifled cry of, 'OO! God! My hip!' she dismounts and flops beside him.

The second bottle empties much more slowly than the first. When it is gone, Evie totters off for a leak, at which point he reckons he can put his trousers back on without giving offence. When she comes back to the sofa she does not curl up again, just leans over him, the breasts swaying under the stained t-shirt and says

'That kitchen's a fucking midden. I'll do it in the morning, I'm off up.'

He follows as soon as he thinks it looks about right. By the time he gets to bed she is asleep.

Evie is woken at just before 8 on Sunday morning by the returning Molly's reaction to the state of the kitchen.

Half an hour later he wakes, and finding he is alone, nurses his head-ache until a nearby church clock strikes nine, then stumbles bare-chested down to the kitchen, where Evie is washing up with her back to him dressed in nothing but another t-shirt, this one down to her knees. The sun through the kitchen window silhouettes her nakedness through the white cotton. She has flung it on back to front, so that he is greeted by the legend 'Frankie Says Fuck Off'.

It's vast. It must have been left by some gargantuan previous boyfriend. The armholes gape to the bottom of her ribs. His cock balloons. He's behind her in three steps, one hand searching up a sleeve for a breast, the other lifting the hem to her waist.

'Guys, guys, bit post-watershed, guys,' groans Molly, nursing a cup of tea behind the kitchen door.

Evie turns to him. The belly of the shirt is wet through.

She starts, clutches his face and shrieks 'Don't bloody move!', then strips off one rubber glove and with enormous gentleness disentangles her errant contact lens from his hair, and dashes off up stairs.

By the time she comes back down again she is fully dressed though still be-spectacled. When she asks what time he needs to be home, he wonders if in fact she wants him gone. Embarrassed.

He can hardly bear the thought of the journey home on the sweltering tube, probably too late to get to cricket, his empty flat with Monday looming. In desperation, he seizes on the idea of the boating lake in the park. Molly, on her way to the stairs, calls back over her shoulder, 'Fresh air - do the pair of you some bloody good!'

So, though neither of them wants to, that is what they do.