Their Last Long Hot Summer

"Nobody's coming," she said. "Except you," she said, pointedly.

"Sorry, it was just a bit too much for me."

"Mmmm. Anyway, I can't go anywhere at the moment." She nodded down to that tiny thong, no protection at all - he'd be dribbling down her legs if they tried to walk off, and how would that look? "Your mess, your problem," she said, smirking, shuffling up towards his head.

"No, we've really got to go..." he said, smiling back. It was a fake refusal; they both knew how much he wanted to taste her, taste himself inside her. As she settled her pussy onto his waiting lips, he reached out eagerly with his surprisingly long tongue.

God, how she loved being eaten out after getting fucked; she was extra sensitive. Her exes had all flat-out refused to do this to her. Paul had no such hang-ups. And he was so good at it; the orgasm that had nearly slipped away started to build up again.

She looked round, saw he was still at full attention. "Looks like I'm not the only one who needs cleaning up," she noted, and swung her legs round so she was kneeling over his mouth, facing his feet. She leant forwards and took him between her lips, tasting the both of them on her tongue. Her nose filled with her own scent, driving her wild as Paul's tongue scooped her out and dragged over her hypersensitive clit.

Suddenly, a thought drifted through her mind: I wonder if Immy and Izzy taste the same as me? Then she was imagining being in a sixty-nine with her oldest and best friend, just as Paul gave her clit the final flick to tip her right over the edge. She came, devastatingly, choking herself on his cock to stop herself screaming to the skies and drawing a crowd. Paul drank her down, licking ever so gently as she convulsed over his tongue and lips.

Once she trusted her arms and legs to bear her weight again, she climbed back off him, leant back towards his face. "Swap?" she asked, and he snaked his arm round her neck, pulling her back down to him. She could taste herself, and him, on his lips. She'd never tire of that flavour, that aroma.

And as for that tantalising flash of unexpected Sapphic lust? She'd have to unpack those thoughts later, in her own time.

CHAPTER TWO - SCHOOL'S OUT

Monday morning was their Maths paper, the last exam for Izzy and Paul. The others, studying different subjects, had already finished. Why the exam board couldn't have shuffled this into the previous week, they had no idea. But instead, the students had the whole weekend ruined worrying about this final humiliation. At least they'd never have to come back in this building again - at least not to study; there was always the leaver's disco to look forward to.

They all sat at regimented desks, a regulated distance apart, and were tortured by calculus for two hours. The burning sun beat against the windows. Look how nice it is outside, it was saying. The sky had never been bluer or clearer. Wouldn't you rather be running across those playing fields, the sun called to them. The grass had browned in the heat, and insects danced through the thermals.

Paul scribbled through the paper, trying to stop his sweaty palms smudging his writing. Nearly there, just got to finish working out where this spinning drum comes to a rest at the bottom of the slope. And I should have plenty of time to re-check all my working.

Confident in his answers, he closed the paper, waiting those last few minutes until the bell. The windows called to him, ripe with daydreams. Exams had been hell in this heatwave which looked to be lasting all summer long. He was looking forward to going to the cinema with Samantha on Friday; the new Robin Hood film looked epic. Maybe, huddled in the darkness in their back row seats, they might even watch some of it.

The bell rang, accompanied by a heartfelt "Fuck's sake!" from someone at the back of the hall who'd clearly run out of time. Paul felt a little smug. Exams held no fear for him.

Their papers collected by the invigilators; the students filed out of the halls. For many of them, this was their last test, and so the last time they'd ever come into the school. Paul was glad; there were so many people here who he'd happily never see again. He watched as people hugged each other goodbye.

"Fuck man, what was that barrel question all about?" he heard someone asking.

"God knows. I couldn't work out the sliding bit, so I just mashed some equations together and hoped for the best," Andrew said.

Paul couldn't help himself. "Oh, it was easy, once you remembered the angular momentum from the spin when it gets dropped on the slope, then all you have to do is take the coefficient of friction into account, and it... OOOF!" he exclaimed, as Andrew threw his whole body weight behind a punch to Paul's stomach.

"Arrogant prick," Andrew muttered, wandering off, laughing with his friends. Simon had had the right idea at the Canadian prom.

I can't breathe, Paul realised. The punch hurt, but he was used to that. He was more worried about the void opening in his chest. He could feel the absence of something. He was waiting for his diaphragm to flex, to take his next breath, but it didn't seem to be co-operating. "Help..." he whimpered, so weakly nobody could hear; all he achieved was to waste precious air. He stumbled to the wall, desperately trying to draw a breath, but his body refused to comply.

Panic started to set in. So this is how I die, he thought. Me and my stupid mouth. You didn't learn anything from Canada, did you. The honeycomb darkness started boiling in from the edge of his vision. I don't want to die, he thought. But thank God I found Samantha before I did. At least I won't die a virgin.

"Hey, you okay?" A hand on his arm. Izzy's hand. All he could do was shake his head, unable to speak. She guided him to a chair. "Here, sit down, catch your breath."

She'd seen the whole thing from across the corridor. My Paul! How fucking dare they hurt him, needing to restore their egos and sense of superiority following their humiliation in the exam. As she saw him fold up, struggling for breath, her heart went to him. Teasing him was her job; nobody else gets to do that to a guy I care about. Righteous rage burning inside, she stormed over.

"Hey, arseholes, what the fuck are you doing attacking my bandmate?"

"Oh look, he's such a sadsack he needs to be defended by a girl!" Andrew taunted.

"I'm no girl," Izzy said, aiming a perfect karate kick straight to his groin. "I'm a motherfucking bitch, and don't you shitting well forget it."

Paul watched, enraptured, as the hot twin in the short summer dress felled the scumbag with a single well-placed foot. The diaphanous material clung to her in a most appealing way, and she probably didn't realise she'd flashed the class as the fabric billowed up from her shapely arse with the kick. Paul managed to drag a ragged breath down his disinterested windpipe, and the clouds in his head started to clear.

Izzy shouted at Andrew's cronies, who looked like they were spoiling for a fight. "Anyone else want some?" There were no takers. None of them wanted to embarrass themselves by getting beaten up by the waif of a girl.

Izzy returned her attention to Paul. "Can you walk?"

"Gimme a minute," he said.

"Ignore those fuckers," she said. "They're just jealous you get to hang out with us four hot chicks." She glanced at her watch. "Speaking of which, we need to get to rehearsals." She held out her arm and helped him up. They shuffled out of the school together for the final time, arm in arm.

///

It was as hot and sticky as Satan's armpit in the recording studio. They'd dialled the ancient air conditioner up to 11 but it was still struggling to cope, rattling like a bag of nails on a loose drum in a railway carriage. The soundproofing was proving an excellent insulator, keeping the hot air trapped inside. And all the time, the racks of amps and soundboards and other electronic equipment were busy pumping more heat into the space.

Paul looked round at his wilting bandmates. Immy had been drumming like a demon, sweat pouring from her as she worked out. He could see beads of moisture running down her cleavage, tantalisingly presented in the string bikini top - it was just too hot to wear anything over the top of it. As she drummed, her breasts bounced; Paul had missed his cue once already, so distracted was he by the way her boobs moved. Her shorts were sweat-stained, too. All of their clothes were. Emma was glowing, fanning herself with the score, flapping her top and flashing her well-filled bra.

He continued his appreciative gaze around the room. Izzy's summer dress was damp, clinging to her every curve. She saw him looking at her, and smiled, seemingly pleased to have caught him gawping at her body. Was that a blush, or was she just flushed from the heat? She held his eyes, wouldn't look away. Paul wasn't entirely sure he liked that somewhat predatory look that came into those pale baby blues, and he had to break the stare.

Izzy had been right about that one thing, at least, Paul thought; how lucky am I to get to spend time with all these hot babes? Hot in both senses, that is. His concentration was really starting to suffer, surrounded as he was by sweaty nubile female forms. Dedicated though he was to Samantha, he wasn't blind, and everywhere he looked there was a heaving rack or a peachy arse or a long, long leg, each slick with perspiration. They'd be so slippery to touch, he knew...

"I gotta take 5," he said, eventually. His hard-on was getting too obvious, and too distracting. He needed to, ahem, take matters into his own hands for a moment. A quick wank would slay the beast, and he could get back to rehearsing. He rushed out, heading for the toilets.

Samantha caught him just as he was heading into the Gents'. "I need to..." he said, nodding his head to the door.

"I know what you need," she said, pushing him into a cubicle and kneeling in front of him as he sat on the pedestal. She needed to remind him who he belonged to. Within moments his shorts were round his ankles and his dick was in the back of her throat.

"Jesus, Samantha, slow down..."

"Nuh-huh, we gotta get back to the girls. Do you have any idea how much this place costs by the minute?"

Then I'd better hurry up, he thought. Not a problem. Samantha was an expert cocksucker and knew exactly how to bring him off.

"You like ogling my friends, don't you?" she teased.

Paul had the good sense not to try to deny it.

"I can't blame you," she continued, licking and kissing over his hard member as she spoke. "They're all dead sexy. You're a man, you can't help gawping at my super-hot friends in their bikinis and short shorts. I'd be worried about you if you didn't, frankly."

It's like permission, he thought, closing his eyes, imagining the others were forming a queue behind her, looking to take their turn...

"I don't mind you looking," she said, slurping him back down, licking the precum from his tip, smacking her lips. "But, just so we're clear, the only girl you're allowed to touch is me." She plunged her head down, taking him all the way into her throat, gagging as she reached between her own legs, unable to resist the urge any further.

///

Izzy stood in the doorway, unseen, her hand up under her thin cotton dress, stroking herself as she watched her best friend deepthroating the love of her life. That should be me, she thought. I should be on my knees in front of him, taking that length into my throat, swallowing his load.

How dare she steal him from me. I've wanted him since... since before I knew what sex even was. But no matter how much I flirted, teased, drew attention to myself, he never responded. Never came back on to me. He only had eyes for you, bitch. You and your fat titties. You ignored all his pathetic weak advances, never even looked at him twice, not until that fucking school trip when he found someone else, and you suddenly got all interested.

Well, I'm sick of this shit. We're all off to Uni in a few weeks, and I'm not going without having slept with him. Now is the time to do something about it. If I can split them up, I can finally get him all to myself. I just need to pick the right moment, the perfect opportunity. Then he'll be mine.

As she watched Paul unload between her best friend's willing lips, imagining it was her swallowing his seed, she stroked herself to her own orgasm - vowing that she'd fuck him if it was the last thing she did.

///

Paul looked around the tired community hall. Yellowing paint peeled from walls and pipework. The lino-tiled floor was criss-crossed with black scuff marks from years of chairs and tables being dragged across it. The tattered remains of vertical blinds flapped uselessly in the cracked safety-glass windows. What am I doing here, he wondered, standing with a bunch of people in their pyjamas and dressing gowns?

"They're not pyjamas! It's called a gi," Izzy had told him, when she was trying to persuade him to come. "Look, Paul, you're lovely, but you're such a wuss. That's twice now you've been sucker-punched by guys at school. You need to learn how to defend yourself." And in the course of a twenty minute conversation, while walking to rehearsals after their maths exam, she'd persuaded him to come to her karate class.

"So I get to chop at their necks and watch them collapse, like when Spock pinches you on the shoulder?"

Izzy shook her head, sadly, but smiling. "It's a defensive art," she said. "Maybe sometimes offense is the best defence, but only ever as a last resort. It's about using your opponent against themselves."

"Hmmm. Is that why you kicked Andrew in the nuts?"

"Mate, if I'd wanted to, I could have kicked his dick and balls clean off."

So here he was, in a room full of strangers, desperately uncomfortable. He was glad when Izzy appeared, bowed to her sensei, then made her way over to him. She looked a sight, in her white outfit with that black belt. "Fourth Dan," she explained, as if that should mean something to him.

"So you're a black belt?" he said, doing a terrible Jackie Chan impression with his hands.

She rolled her eyes. Don't embarrass me, please, she thought. "Uh-huh. But that's not the pinnacle you think it is. That first black, the first dan, It's just the start of a long journey." She had explained how their mother had enrolled the twins when they were much younger, wanting them to be able to defend themselves against any unwanted attention in the future. Immy had given it up, eventually, but Izzy had kept on going. She now taught here at the local dojo.

They stood at opposite ends of a crash mat. She beckoned him over. "Come on then, attack me."

"I'm not going to attack you," he said. Partly because it wasn't not in his nature, but mostly he was scared of how hard and thoroughly she could kick his arse.

"Oh for god's sake. Do you want to learn, or not?"

Paul shrugged, then made a move to grab at her sleeve. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back on the floor. She was leaning over him, arm outstretched. He couldn't help but notice the nicely filled white sports bra she wore under the gi as she leant forwards. He reached up to her outstretched arm.

"Grab the wrist, not the hand," she said. "It's a better grip and you won't damage the bones in your hand or crush a finger." She helped him back to his feet. "Again," she insisted.

Paul was a little more wary the second time, so it was almost five seconds before he was back lying on the mat.

"See how I'm using your momentum against you? It's important for you to maintain your own balance," she said. "Be aware of your body, how it moves, how it feels. Over the coming weeks, we'll teach you some kata; that should help you learn your posture and positioning."

They continued to spar. Paul started getting wise to her, becoming less wild in his movements. "Good," she said, as he learned to parry her attack, to brush an arm aside. All it meant for now was that he'd get grabbed by the next, having only deflected the feint, but he was learning.

A little later, he managed to grab at her as they fell, pulled her down on top of him. She slammed onto his body as they hit the mat, faces ending up an inch apart. He saw the sweat trickling down her nose, watched her pupils flare as his breath played over her face. It took a moment for her to gather herself back together. "You're a quick learner," she said, slapped the mat and got back to her feet.

Don't let your guard down, she chided herself. Not in here. Did he really get you, or did you just want him to bring you down on top of him? Did you want to press yourself against him, squash your tits against his chest and wrap your legs together? Lying there, it had been all she could do to stop herself kissing him. Come on girl, control. Remember your mental exercises. Why does that all go to hell where Paul was concerned? Why couldn't she control her emotions around him?

Paul stood, bouncing a little on his feet, smiling. Fucks sake, who do you think you are, she thought, Ken from Street Fighter? She beckoned him, felled him with a simple foot swipe, and laughed as his arse hit the floor.

"Ouch," he said. "What was that for?"

"It's not supposed to be easy," she said. "Back on your feet, and let's see how well you can use your legs."

By the time the ninety minutes were over, Paul had learned a little more about his balance, and how not to get so easily suckered into being attacked. There was a long road to go, though.

Izzy had managed to avoid the two of them falling to the floor together for the remainder of the evening. But back at home, in the silence and privacy of her bed, she couldn't stop thinking about his face so close to hers, their sweaty bodies pressed together. She played with her pussy, furiously fingering herself with one hand and flicking her clit with the other, as she imagined him grappling with her, forcing her to the ground, pinning her down. Of his hands tearing at the gi, pulling off her belt and using it to bind her hands over her head, his mouth devouring her bare breasts before he plunged his thick cock deep inside her eager cunt. The strength and suddenness of the orgasm caught her by surprise, splashing her pleasure all over the sheets as her thighs trembled with the intensity of the shockwaves tearing through her.

CHAPTER THREE - THE SHOW MUST GO ON

The Fox and Feathers was rammed on this warm summer's evening. Crowds spilled out into the beer garden, laughing and joking and talking. Trays laden with pints of warm lager were carried head-high through the crowds.

Mick sat on a rickety wooden stool at the bar, one leg worn short by overuse so it rocked as he shifted his weight. He deadened the effect by leaning an arm against a relatively dry part of the bar, the other hand holding the latest in a long succession of beers. It had been a shitty day at work, and all he'd wanted was a quiet pint. He'd chosen the wrong night; seems they had some kind of open mic band thing going on. He'd been just about to walk out, go to the Black Horse on the other side of the common, when he noticed the next band members talking the stage, and decided to stay after all. A bunch of girls slutting it up in pornified school uniforms. Maybe he'd forget that other dive after all, since this place was looking up all of a sudden.

He watched them tuning up. A hot redhead off to the side had dragged some big upright violin thing onto the stage, for fuck's sake. But the blonde twins either side of her sure looked hot as hell, so he gave that a pass. The last girl, a curvy brunette, was kneeling on the floor at the front of the stage, plugging into the pedal kits and monitor amps, helped by a scrawny tech support dude, some clumsy awkward weakling. These girls needed a proper roadie, a real man to do a man's job. Maybe he'd go up and offer his services. And after he'd fucked the lot of them and they'd cleaned him off with their tongues, maybe he'd carry some kit around for them too.