41°C

The curtains and shades are drawn. Dazzling bands of white sunlight mark each glass and metal perimeter. The blades are spinning, loudly whirring, the electronic whirlwind whipping at my curls and the near nakedness reclining languidly, somewhat listlessly, on the plush, chocolate sofa.

This heat. This heat. This heat.

These are the only two words my mind can rationally exclaim, the only two circulating round and round as my supine fairness simmers, as the sheen prickling my skin glows then instantly evaporates in the dim.

This heat. This heat. This heat.

It is the kind that melts bitumen, dissolves asphalt, liquefies tar. It is the kind that threatens to overtake, to destroy with a mere thoughtless spark. It is the kind that begins with the blazing sun and the winds from the west, transforming the open air into a charred and unholy inferno.

This heat. This heat. This heat.

It compares little to the one rising up inside me, the one that has me yearning for searing flesh, the meat of man, your thick hardening cock. Even as I lie here spent and overcome, I hunger for your kiss, your sweat, your fiery libations; I ache to see and feel your imposing body hovering above me, your hands travelling up from ankles to calves to thighs, spreading me open, splaying me wide as you position my foot on the wall, the other on the coffee table, your fingers digging into the yielding softness of hips and buttocks petite, cupping the mons, the flower blossoming with your touch.

This heat. This heat. My heat.

You mould me, take hold of me, owning me as few have done before, your fingers, their tips tracing the terrain of my torso, the swell of my breasts, brushing the pale silken peaks, your mouth, ravenous, voracious following suit, tasting, licking, gulping at the curves, the firm mounds of excited flesh. And as our eyes meet, our combined gaze piercing the low afternoon light, you glide your eager shaft along my cleft, coating yourself in my warmth, my glisten, until it is too much to bear, until the pleading moans escaping these lips leave you no other choice than to part the bright shiny folds, than to feed your glans into my sweet little cunt, than to stretch and fill and fulfil the velvet heat that will envelop and shroud you, that will clutch and grasp and milk you once your head touches my womb, once your cock captures my lust.

This heat. My heat. Your heat.

But I know with a certainty I can not explain, that the beast within you will show his face here on this day, that this season, this time, this molten awakening will see him screaming through the façade of polish and refinement, through your skin and your flesh and the sensual man, to fuck me and mark me, to rouse the unspeakable carnality within the woman before you. I know he will come to me, come for me, carrying me roughly to the white expanse begging to be soiled, pushing my face into the bed as he growls his commands, his possession, wrenching me up on hands and on knees, a rag doll for his bidding. As he enters me with a fury that takes me prematurely to the brink, as my body welcomes him like a lover foreign and beloved, as he strokes and you thrust, as your sweat pools in my back, as your hand grips these fair hips, as your hand yanks at my locks, my mouth suckling your thumb, as you fuck me and pound me toward the white blinding light, as you fill me with the come I crave through the day and the night, as the water we shed and the cries we exhale fuse our bodies in this moment of passion, of fervour, abandon, I know with a certainty I can not explain, I know with a desire I can not contain that this heat, my heat, your heat, our heat is all I will ever require.