by Elizabeth Vongvisith
(01/31/07)

It's too hot in my parents' old farmhouse. There are fans going in the kitchen and the living room. The windows are all open; flies drone lazily against the screens as the sun sets and you and I are slumped in separate chairs, watching the overly chatty weatherman on Channel 8 describe four more days of this. My mom is puttering around, gathering her purse and other assorted items while my dad gets the car backed out of the garage. They're going to play bingo, which they do every Saturday night, and they've invited us to join them but neither of us feels like moving. We're not used to the heat -- or at least I'm not used to it anymore. It's been years since I've lived down South. At home now, we have cool, rainy summers and air conditioning.

"There's still banana cream pie left, if you want it. Help yourselves to anything in the icebox," Mom tells us, and then she and Dad leave, after our feeble attempts to rouse ourselves from our heat-induced stupor and say goodbye and have a nice time and all that.

The TV flickers over our sweaty faces.

You turn to me with wide eyes, mopping your face with a bandanna. "God, how did you ever stand the summers, growing up here?"

"I don't know." I am fanning myself with the TV channel listings from the local paper, its pages heavy and limp in the damp air. "I guess I was used to it then." We stagger to our feet, fetch beer from the icebox, and sit on the porch swing outside. I take a swig of beer and give you an arch smile. "I used to sit out here with my high school boyfriends sometimes, you know."

"Doing what?"

"What teenagers do. Sitting. Talking. Trying to feel each other up..." I stop there and smile enigmatically, looking sidewise from under my eyelashes.

"In this kind of weather? That must have been uncomfortable. All that groping around must have made you awfully hot and sweaty." You lower your voice, and I can see sparks dancing behind your eyes.

"I don't remember it being too unbearable," I say demurely. "I was...preoccupied."

The air is only mildly less oppressive out on the porch than inside, but I feel your hand touch my knee, then boldly settle at mid-thigh with your mischievous look as if you're doing something really naughty. I try to suppress a smile. It feels like someone has set a warm iron on my leg, but I don't move your hand away.

"Wanna make out while your parents aren't home to catch us?" you ask, a touch huskily, and even though I still feel as if I'm sitting in an oven, I have to put the warming beer bottle down and turn to you. Laughing, with the porch swing rocking erratically, we start a silly game of fondling and poking each other while you try to kiss me and I insist I'm not that kind of girl. "Oh yes, you are!" you protest as I wriggle away. The backs of my thighs are sticking to the seat and my hair straggles damply around my face. I was feeling tired after a long day of eating and visiting assorted relatives, but suddenly I'm not tired anymore.

"Feeling preoccupied yet?" you smirk at me. I watch a bead of sweat roll past the line of your jaw and down your throat and I swallow involuntarily. I'm backed against the arm of the swing with you leaning over me. You kiss me, awkwardly because of the position we're in, as if we really were teenagers making out for the first time.

"Dude, that's my arm!" I complain as you inadvertently pin it against the back of the swing.

"Sorry." You move slightly. "Got carried away." But now I'm pressed up against your chest and my hips are locked to yours. The next time you kiss me it's less awkward and more like the kind of kisses I wanted the boys to give me when my parents were pretending not to pay attention to us inside the house. Which is actually empty for the first time since we've been here, we both realize at the same time. The look on your face makes me forget it's still the wrong side of ninety degrees out here. I swallow again, feeling you stirring behind your cut-offs.

"Come on." I stand up and pull you through the back door and the kitchen and the front room. You tuck my hand under your arm as we go up the stairs to the nearest bedroom, the one I used to share with my sister, not the one we've been staying in down at the far end of the hall. This one has become a home for my mom's craft supplies, stacks of magazines and my parents' old double bed (they have a king-sized model now) which is crammed into a corner, looking forlorn. Neither of us turns on the light. There is no fan but the window is open here too, and I wonder briefly if anybody walking up the road might hear us as we tumble onto the musty old bed.

"I hope your parents stay for the extra bonus rounds," you murmur, and then you're kissing me again. Your lips take their time with mine in that measured, serious way that always starts my juices flowing. It's even hotter in the upper portion of the house, but that doesn't matter -- neither of us cares about the oppressively sticky air surrounding us; that almost makes it better, in some perverse way. You bend over me and all I can see is your shadow and a gleam that might be your eyes, reflecting the weak light from outside.

I nudge you to turn over and watch your eyes change as my hand slides down past the waistband of your shorts, popping the button and unzipping so that I can reach in and grasp your cock, which is even hotter than the rest of your body, and already hard. I squeeze, gently at first, then more firmly. You clench your teeth and a strangled, inarticulate noise comes out of you, and then you're hitching the straps of my tank top off my shoulders, pushing it down as I stroke you in my clenched fist, eliciting more groans. When your tongue grazes my nipple, suddenly it's me who can't keep quiet.

You're licking long, slow circles and I'm lost in feeling you pulse and throb in my hand when the sound of a car engine halts us both mid-stroke. A door slams, then the back door opens and we hear footsteps. Someone calls my name.

"It's just me, I forgot the bingo daubers." It's my mom. The back door swings shut and we hear my mother's voice again, more faintly, "...probably went out for a walk, or maybe they went to bed. They sure seemed wiped out." My dad's voice, unintelligible, answering her. The car door slams again, and there's the sound of the engine disappearing back into the night.

All this time we have been stock-still, my hand in your pants and your mouth open, tongue spread against my bare skin, and after they've gone we look at each other and I crack up, giggling wildly. "Good thing we took it upstairs instead of staying on that swing!"

"No shit." When you stop laughing, one corner of your mouth stays curled up in a lazy smile. You sit up and take me on your lap. My mouth closes onto yours, deep and hungry, and our tongues swirl and dance together. I grind my body right where that hot hard length presses into me, and you moan into my mouth. I tug your T-shirt off because my hands want to touch your slick skin, moving up and down your back while I buck against you. You utter a low snarl when I clench your ass in my hands, then in one motion, you reach down and strip off my tank top.

Now you're laying me down and unfastening my shorts, tugging my panties away with them and throwing the whole bundle onto the floor with the rest of our clothes. You scoot half off the bed and wrap your arms around my thighs, pulling me toward your mouth. I wait, quivering in the heavy darkness.

"I bet your high school boyfriends never did this." You smirk, and then your head is between my thighs and you're licking, moving over my folds, tonguing me feverishly. I arch convulsively, my ass pressed tight into the mattress. I'm making little cries as you lap at me. My hands clutch blindly at the embroidered shams under my head. I can smell the dust and the summer night, and myself, and you.

"Come here," I say when I can't stand it anymore, and when you climb back onto the bed beside me, I push your shorts down and you kick them off onto the floor. Your naked cock rubs against my thigh. I reach down to play with it but you mutter that you're too close, and then your hands go around my waist, turning me over, facing me away from you. I know what you want, and I get onto my knees and spread my legs, push my ass toward you, wanting it too.

Across the room I catch a glimpse of us for the first time in my parents' huge old dressing-table mirror leaning up against the wall. All I can see is the faint ghost shape of you from the waist down, and my own faceless body propped on hands and knees, but it's enough.

I moan when you grab my hips. I push back as you're sliding into me. It feels as if we'll melt from the inside out. A drop of your sweat falls on my back and I almost believe I hear it sizzle. I shove my ass back into you again, and again, and the room is ablaze around us. I know my body's going to dissolve into steam, droplets of me condensing and running down your body and legs, down the walls and the window panes.

I don't care who hears us now.

You drag me roughly to you, one hand clutching my left breast, the other feeling your way down my belly and over my mound until your middle finger comes to rest right on my throbbing clit, pressing rhythmically. I squeal and we fall back, you half-leaning against the wall and still inside me as I straddle your lap. The mirror shows us glistening in the faint light coming through the window, intertwined like the erotic figures on an Indian temple. I can see your cock pumping in and out of me, faster and faster. The slick, wet noises, and the sight and sound of us fucking are too much. My shriek rises to the ceiling like a burst from a geyser.

Your hands dig hard into my hips. Then comes the hot spurt of you inside me and your hoarse cries while I ride desperately up and down, slow, then stop as we gasp for breath. The bed beneath us is soaked. I climb off you and we collapse together onto the sodden quilt. You reach for me and your hand slides off my shoulder at first because I'm so sweaty, but then I turn over and we go into each other's arms. No matter that it's really too hot to be pressed together like this.

We lie panting in the thick air, the sounds of the mid-August night soft and regular outside after the tempest of the last few minutes. I feel strangely energized; my lethargy has vanished. You touch my bedraggled hair, bemused, and the sparks are back behind your eyes again. "Does it feel cooler in here now, or is it just me?"

"Just you."

Stray thoughts begin to steal into my head. I remember the remnants of banana cream pie in the icebox downstairs. I smile, imagining its cool sweetness mingling with the aftertaste of you on my tongue. The slow, hot breeze wafting through the window mixes our scents, dissolves us into each other.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories