Learning to Love the HeatbyEverLux©
This is my entry for the 2016 Summer Lovin' Contest. I want to thank everyone who encouraged and supported me in writing a story that means a great deal to me. Big hugs to OliviaM, Carnal_Flower, and Lovecraft68.
I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. ~ Ever
* * * * *
It's midnight, and I'm lying on my bed wearing absolutely nothing. My sheet is a rumpled mess at my feet. Sweat dampens the hair at the back of my neck and glistens on my chest, between my breasts. My long legs are spread, letting warm air lick at my wet folds.
I wish I could say that all this is from being freshly fucked, but nope. It's just stupid hot in here.
The sun went down hours ago, but it's still ninety degrees outside. I don't keep a thermometer in my apartment, because I think I would cry every time I looked at it. My dehumidifier hums loudly in the corner, and the fan I've positioned right next to my bed blows warm air on my hot skin. My air conditioner— Oh wait, that's right. I don't have one of those.
This isn't working. The more I sweat, the more frustrated I become, and the more frustrated I become, the more I sweat. I turn onto my side to face the fan. My breasts press together, sharing and amplifying their heat and creating a perspiration trap. Oh god, that is so much worse.
Flipping onto my back again, I throw a full-on tantrum, pounding my fists into the mattress and kicking the sheet at my feet.
"Ugh! This sucks!" I shriek at the ceiling. My poor upstairs neighbors... Actually, you know what? Screw them. I've had to knock on their door more than a few times because I could hear their TV as clearly as if I were sitting right in front of it. Consequently, I know all about ten nineties stars and where they are now.
No, the annoying couple living above me can listen to my completely justified scream of total agony and get right over it.
When I moved into this place in June, I realized quickly that my basement apartment is not designed to accommodate any kind of air conditioner. But it's the perfect size, in the perfect neighborhood, and at the perfect price. Plus, I'd just left my boyfriend, Cameron, and the apartment I shared with him, so I needed to find a new roof to live under. It was either that or end up back at my mom's place. Love her to pieces, but she sucks as a roommate.
I'm a pale—no, porcelain, since it sounds prettier—redhead, so summer and I have never been the best of friends. This year, we're completely at war with each other, and summer is kicking my pasty white ass.
Fifty-eight days until fall... It may as well be forever.
Reaching into the drawer of my bedside table, I pull out my pink Pocket Rocket and my favorite dirty romance novel. I've dogeared this one scene where the guy (a college student) and girl (his young professor) have sex for the first time. They duck into a dark supply closet, and it's all "I need you, right now! Just put it in!" It never fails to get me off.
I turn my toy on full power. I usually like to start at a lower setting and work my way up, but there's no time for that. This won't be some four-hour tantric masturbation session. The goal is to get myself off quickly, so my body can relax and let me fall asleep.
Starting from the beginning of the scene, where he spins her around, picks her up, and presses her against a wall, I touch my vibrator to my clit. It feels like an electric shock, and my hips buck against my little plastic lover. The girl reaches down and undoes the guy's fly, and the guy pushes the crotch of her panties to the side. Then he's sliding into her, and I'm writhing on the bed.
I can feel the sheet dampening beneath me—not just from the wetness leaking out from between my legs, but also the sweat forming all down my back. In the heat of the moment—literally and figuratively—I can't bring myself to care that this is turning out to be a counterproductive endeavor. At least I won't last much longer. The climax of the scene is almost here.
The guy can't hold out any longer, and as he comes the girl comes right along with him. My womb starts contracting and my walls spasm. So close... And that's when they realize—oh, no!—they totally forgot he was fucking her without a condom, completely bare. His jizz is dripping out of her, and everything.
"Ahh!" I cry out as my orgasm gushes through me and out onto the bed. I come for at least a full minute, and aftershocks ripple through me for a while after that. I feel a strong urge to write Linda Kage a letter thanking her for the countless orgasms she's given me. That would be inappropriate, though... right? Yeah. Definitely inappropriate. Taking that one off my to-do list.
And now I'm completely drenched and lying on soaked sheets. Not to mention, I'm way more awake than I was before I came up with the brilliant idea to play with myself. So this will be a no-sleep night. At least tomorrow is Saturday, so I can be a useless zombie all I want, and no one will notice and call me into their office to discuss it. Not that that's happened... yet.
Isn't it funny how getting one hour of sleep is worse than getting no sleep at all? Actually, no. It's the unfunniest thing ever.
Ok, now I'm just being cranky. I really need to find a way to get cool today, or I'm going to end up in jail for aggravated assault on pretty much everybody.
I could go to the movies; theaters are reliably freezing. On second thought, it's still a full week until payday, and I need to make my remaining $100 last. There's also the cafe down the street. I often bring my laptop there with me to get a little writing in, but they don't let me stay long without buying more than just a bottle of water. Greedy, gluten-free bastards.
I splurged this week and got a transpass, so I guess I could ride the bus all day long. Or until I get sick of the sweaty summer-body smell. Honestly? It doesn't matter. Anything is an improvement on being cooped up at home.
I throw on my royal blue, relatively-modest bikini and a simple, shapeless white sundress. It's not the most flattering item of clothing I own, but it's flowy and lets all the breezes hit my skin. There'd better be breezes.
Once I've packed my tote with a couple paperbacks, SPF 80, a huge bottle of water, a snack, and an old blanket, I grab my keys and head out.
The hot sun hits me the second I step outside. What the hell? It's only eight o'clock. It should be illegal for the sun to be so strong this early in the day. I'm supposed to have at least a couple more hours of ginger-friendly daylight. Current tally: summer, one; Claire, zero.
There's no shade at the bus stop, and the bus is running late—because, of course. After a brutal fifteen minutes, the Route 42 pulls up, and I climb aboard, excited to finally feel glorious, chilly— Oh, come on! Where's the air conditioning? This was supposed to be my salvation—my white knight bus driver upon his massive, metal steed. Is what it is, I guess. It's only a ten minute ride to the park, and I'm a big girl. I'll survive.
This early in the day, Rittenhouse Square is still relatively free of people, so I have my pick of lawn space. There's a large maple calling my name with its big, leafy branches and ample shade. I spread my blanket out and get comfy against the trunk. Because of the layout of the city, wind tends to funnel through the streets and right into the park, so I am definitely feeling it. Summer and I are now in a dead heat. That's unfortunate wording, but you get me.
I pull out one of the books and my water, take a few big gulps, and settle in for a long, lovely day in the park.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Andy's talking to me. At least, I think he is. There are sounds coming from his general direction that might be words, but I'm not focused on him enough to confirm that. I'm focused on her.
There was a flash of bright white in the corner of my eye, so I turned my head to check it out. That's when I saw her. Her pale skin glows, even in the shade, making her look like some supernatural creature—an angel, maybe, or an alien. She's definitely the hottest alien I've ever seen.
Her skin is what caught my attention, but when I saw the bright red hair piled on top of her head, I knew I was a goner. There's something about a gorgeous redhead that makes you want to find out if she's as feral and dangerous as she looks. And hope like hell that she is.
This redhead camped out under a tree, reading a book. The hem of her short dress is pooled at her hips, putting her long legs on full display. It's impossible not to picture them wrapped around my hips or her creamy thighs trapping my face between them.
I can't tear my eyes from her... until Andy smacks the back of my head. He can be such an asshole.
"What the fuck, man?" I shout at him. "Was that necessary?" My friend tosses the frisbee for his pit bull, Cannoli—so named for his tan fur and white chest—and the gentle beast takes off across the park to catch it. He trots back with the frisbee locked between his jaws, looking like he knows he's the shit. Like father, like son.
"Well, considerin' I just told you I let a dude fuck me in the ass, and you didn't even blink, yeah," he tells me in his South Philly accent. It has to be one of the ugliest accents in the entire US, sounding like the bastard child of Baltimore and New York, but women are really into it. That could also have something to do with his cocky, Italian charisma, but they do love to hear him talk. I don't get it.
"So you dig dick now. Am I supposed to be surprised?" I say to mess with him. This earns me another smack to the head. Andy tries to collect the frisbee from Cannoli's powerful mouth but ends up in a tug of war with an animal bred for tugging.
"Fuck you," he says, giving up the fight. "You spaced out. You see somethin' you like?" When I point to the angel-alien, he contemplates her for a second, then gives his unsolicited assessment. "She's cute, but she needs a fuckin' tan. She should get outta the shade. Get some sun."
"You're shitting me, right? Look at her. She's an angel." If this guy weren't my best friend, I'd be shaking my head and walking away right now. "Oh, that's right. You only do women with fake tans and fake tits."
"I like a girl who takes care of herself. Ain't nothin' wrong with that."
I let it go and return to staring at my girl. At some point, I'm going to grow balls and talk to her. Looking away from perfection for a moment, I snap my finger at Cannoli and point to the ground. He drops the frisbee at my feet. "Good dog!" I tell the happy pup, scratching between his ears.
"Damn..." I hear Andy say. Looking up, I see him staring in the direction of the prettiest thing I've ever seen, and I can't help but stare, too.
She's standing now. No, that's too tame a word for what's she's doing. She's stretching her long body from her toes to her fingertips, elongating her limbs and making herself appear even more unreal than before. With her arms over her head, the bottom of her dress rides up, showing off her upper thighs and, where they meet, a small triangle of her bright blue bikini. It's a shocking color against her white skin, and I can't help picturing the other shocking color hiding behind the fabric.
There's a strong breeze that causes her gauzy dress to hug the side of her body and put her curves on display. Those are unexpected. Watching her as she sat against her tree, it was obvious she's thin, though in that position her legs reminded me of those vintage pin-ups with their irresistible contours. But this girl has hips and breasts I'd be willing to commit almost any crime to get my hands on.
As if her body weren't enough to make a grown man salivate like a Saint Bernard, she goes and undoes the messy-but-sexy bun at the top of her head, letting her fiery red hair spill down around her shoulders. It's like it's seeking out the breeze to dance with it. Like it's alive and has a mind of its own. I don't know anything about her, but she doesn't strike me as the showy, obvious type—the type Andy goes for. With hair like that, she doesn't need to be.
Shit. She's taking off her dress. She grabs onto the hem and starts revealing her half-naked body to the entire city.
Does she have slow-motion superpowers? She can't really be undressing as slowly as she is in my head. That would be too provocative in a park full of little kids and old people. Then again, I wouldn't complain if this lasted forever.
Then the dress off, and she's standing there in just her bathing suit. I've seen gorgeous women wearing nothing more than a few tiny scraps of fabric barely secured with string. I'm a man, so I'm not going to try to lie and say they weren't hot or that I haven't slept with some of them. But I can say with one hundred percent honesty that this woman puts them to shame. Granted, the suit looks sinfully good on her. The halter top supports her full breasts and flaunts some ample cleavage, and the bottom rides low on her hips and accentuates the width of them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice plenty of other men appreciating her just as much as I am. Do I look like a lecherous pervert, too? Mercifully, she lies down on her blanket then, fanning her hair around her, and goes back to her book. Show's over. I can look away now.
"If you're not gonna man up, mind if I take a shot?" Andy asks. Oh, yeah, Andy's still here. Wait—what the hell?
"I thought you said she needs a tan," I say, defensively. I need to remind him that he didn't see the appeal before, or he really will go after her. Once Andy sees a woman he wants, he oozes charm all over her until she's his. He is not allowed to get within oozing distance of this one. "She's not your type, man. Look—she doesn't even have makeup on." Not that she needs it.
"A body like that is every man's type. Plus, I've never had a real redhead before, and that one looks like a ripe fuckin' peach I've just gotta sink my teeth into." He sinks them into his fist, instead, like he just has to bite something right now.
When he starts stripping off his shirt, I know he's serious about making a move. A panting Cannoli sits patiently at our feet, watching our conversation with one of those big pit bull grins on his face.
"I'll talk to her," I say, staking my claim and shoving at his shoulder. "Just give me a second—and stay away from her. Got it?"
Andy laughs as he steps back and holds his hands up. "She's all yours, man. Take all the time you need," he tells me, but he's got one of those wicked, arrogant smiles on his face that I've learned not to trust.
He picks the frisbee up from where his dog dropped it on the grass and aims at an empty area of the lawn. I crouch down to grab my water and steel my nerves. When I look up, Cannoli is chasing the neon disc in the direction of my redhead.
"Fuck!" I yell as I jump up. "You're an asshole, you know that?" I bark in Andy's direction before taking off to try and prevent a disaster.
A high pitched scream has me picking up speed. When I get close, I see that Cannoli has abandoned his prey and gone after the girl. He's got his mouth at her neck.
"Cannoli! No!" I shout at him, but he doesn't budge. As soon as I go to grab his collar, the girl bursts into laughter. It's not cute, girly laughter, either. It's loud and unrestrained, and I want to cover her mouth with mine and swallow it all down. She's squirming, too, which... yeah, let's not go there.
When she pushes the seventy pound beast off her and sits up, I see a large area of shiny dog slobber on her neck. Instead of wiping it off right away, she gives Cannoli a good scritch and kiss on the forehead.
Is this girl even real? If Andy—and the rest of the straight men in the park—hadn't seen her, too, I'd think I just imagined her and have officially lost it.
"You're name's Cannoli, huh?" she asks the thoroughly pleased dog. He wags his tail, like her talking to him is the greatest thing ever. Now I'm jealous of a damn dog. "You look like a cannoli. I could just eat you up!"
As much as I hate my best friend right now, he did give me the perfect opening. He'd never let me hear the end of it if I didn't take it.
"Hi. I'm Ben."
* * * * *
I look up from my new buddy to see a man standing next to him. He's not as cute as his dog, but definitely on the sexy side of life. I'm only seeing him in silhouette, though, because the bright sun is directly behind his head, blinding my poor, sensitive eyes. I slip on my sunglasses, but they're not much help.
"Shit, sorry," he says and steps further into the shade. Good boy.
He holds his hand out to me, and I eye it up before reluctantly shaking it. "Claire. Nice to meet you."
Now that I'm getting a good look at his features, I'd like to amend my original statement and say that he just might have his dog beat. And Cannoli is one of the cutest things I've ever seen, so that's saying a lot.
I'm tall, but Ben is taller, probably by a good half foot, so I'm really testing the limits of my neck's bendiness to look up at him. His short sleeved, white linen shirt is unbuttoned and hanging open, giving me an unobstructed view of his lightly tanned skin and toned stomach. He's not wearing a belt, so his cargo shorts hang low on his hips. He's way too delicious, and it's making me uncomfortable.
Ben kicks off his sandals and sits down a couple feet from me. Well, that's very bold of him.
"I don't remember inviting you onto my blanket," I say, feigning indignation.
"No, and I didn't think you were going to, so I figured I'd have to invite myself," he tells me, as if that's perfectly acceptable reasoning.
"Uh huh..." I'm not sure what to say next, because his beautiful smile knocks me off-kilter. It accentuates the finely etched lines at the corners of his moss green eyes. They lead me to guess that he's at least in his mid-thirties, about a decade older than me. His light brown hair is tied up in a man-bun—something I find incredibly sexy. Don't tell anyone I said that, though. It's one of my greatest shames.
"Your dog is adorable," I say to fill the silence I just made awkward by blatantly checking him out. I rest my hand on Cannoli, who's now lying between us, providing a convenient barrier between me and his enticing owner.
"Ah, I wish he were mine, but no. He belongs to my friend, Andy." Ben nods in the direction of a tall, dark, and heavily-muscled half-naked guy. Andy, who's apparently been watching his friend's attempt to mack on me, flashes a kilowatt smile and waves at us. I give him a weak wave and half-smile back.
"Andy's a lucky guy, then. Cannoli's pretty awesome." I give the relaxed pup another scritch.
"Don't let Andy hear you say that. His philosophy is, 'Luck is for the lazy.' One day he decided he wanted a dog, so he went to a shelter and got the best one he could find."
Just then, Andy whistles, causing Cannoli to perk up and run to his owner. I frown at the loss of my furry friend and physical buffer.
"And what about you," I ask. "What's your philosophy?"
"I don't know," he answers. He strokes the stubble on his chin, playing at being deep in thought. "Nah. Everything I think of just sounds corny and platitudinous." He says this in all seriousness, but I can't help laughing at him.
"Did you just use 'platitudinous' in a sentence, in casual conversation? What kind of freak are you?" I try to keep the smile off my face to make my disgust more believable, but the darn thing just won't budge.
My neck feels extra hot all of a sudden, so I grab my clip and pile my hair back on my head, tucking my sunglasses up there, too. The breeze cools my damp skin, and I close my eyes in sweet relief. When I open them again, Ben is watching me with slightly parted lips.
I scoot back a few inches, needing the extra distance. This snaps him out of his trance, and he effortlessly refocuses.