Sensual Erotica
"It’s Not the Heat" a sex story by Lenny Woodson
The first condom had been well-used. The second, the last he had with him, ripped while she tried feverishly to yank it down over his freshly blown erection.
It had all been feverish, the company picnic, the humidity, the stifling closeness of the air; the wrestling match removing sweat-laden clothing, the tangling of limbs, the mashing of lips, tongues tasting of salt.
“Glove compartment,” she panted.
He reached between the bucket seats and rummaged around until he retrieved a packet the right size.
“Yuck,” he muttered, tossing the package over his shoulder. “Those antacid tablets you thought you had. They fizzled.”
“Hey, I haven’t come yet,” she breathed, propping herself on her elbows. “And you better not fizzle.”
He was already retrieving another packet from the small compartment. The lights from the landing by the river helped him read: “Warming pleasures.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a sweatier forearm. “I’m glad it has that.”
She blew him until he got hard again. This condom held up to a more careful unfurling, but the pleasure of its warmth was lost on their sweltering bodies.
The whole thing had seemed innocent enough. After the fried chicken, potato salad, and cold drinks, a lazy boredom had set in, trapped by the thick afternoon haze. No one could believe it was only April, even April in Mississippi.
The walk by the river. She’d taken his hand. Cooler by the water, she’d said.
“I’ve seen you watching me.”
“Not me,” he said, defensively. “Must have been someone else.”
“You’re not very subtle,” she said. “It’s something in the eyes.” She tilted her head, pondering. “An intensity, maybe.” She laughed. “It’s flattering, I think, but it’s a little creepy.”
“I’ve noticed you, sure. You’re a very attractive woman.”
And he had noticed her in the hallways, in the cafeteria, always dressed to show off her figure. Their first time had been more of a tussle than an erotic tour of her geography, but he recalled handfuls of conical breasts, fingers dug into a fine ass, and smooth strong thighs around his.
“You should talk to a woman if you find her attractive.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “Out of the blue, talk to a beautiful woman.” He shook his head. “Even if I had the nerve, I’d get slapped...or fired.”
They stopped to skip stones, talking mostly about the heat. He told her the boyhood story of the perfect, smooth, oval rock, just big enough to fit between his thumb and forefinger, which he’d skipped all the way to the far bank. She yawned only once.
On the way back, the walk had become a contact sport. Bumping hips, trading sweat every other step. Her breast against his arm, the hardening nipple poking through the saturated tank top and flimsy bra, rubbing from his elbow to his shoulder.
She drove them to the boat landing, parking in the old gravel lot where there were no boat trailers and no other cars.
“I’m burning up,” she moaned. “On the inside and the outside.” She settled back onto the clammy backseat. It was her convertible, red with white interior. On a different day, it might have been cool.
He had wanted to get her off with his fingers and tongue, but the car was cramped. She was beyond impatient. He had tried mirroring his own passion with the tenor and frequency of her moans, but her mountain was higher than his. Try as he might with his remaining hardness to keep pumping, she never made the peak.
Now, she was lost somewhere halfway down. As he’d searched for the condom, he had noticed her hand dipping occasionally between her legs to saw and swirl a finger.
“I was so close,” she said, pulling him down onto her, into her.
The easy glide of their bodies bathed in sweat was sensuous, but made increasing the friction impossible. The seat itself had become slick under them, and he couldn’t gain any traction. His leg slipped off the seat and his toes dug into the damp carpet. She slid with him and he held her there, perched precariously on the edge of the slippery seat.
“Glory,” she exhaled. “That’s it.”
The seat edge raised her midsection, opening her to him. With his new foothold, he thrust into her. His hand flat against the door, he could shove back until the last instant when he rode up into her again and again, grinding their matted pubic regions together.
He squinted to see her face through the misty darkness. Droplets floated in the air like tiny bubbles. A cool breeze grazed the back of his neck. Lost in the saturated sounds of their bodies slapping together was a recurrent roll of thunder.
Lightning illuminated the carnal beauty of her taut pale breasts, aroused nipples, and lustful, alarmed eyes. Her hands raked his ass as she angled her crotch up to meet him on every stroke.
Thunder rumbled over them, cracking like a whip. He upped the tempo, rotating his hips, forcing his weight down onto her. Jagged veins of lightning crossed the dark sky, flickering on her face, now a contorted mask of blissful torture.
“Coming!” she cried, lost in a thunderclap which shook the ground beneath them.
His glutes contracted. His back arched violently, and he erupted like a geyser into the boiling condom.
She sighed, slapping his butt. “You were right. Talking is not your best skill with women.”
His eyes, wet with sweat, burned into hers as he undulated his lingering hardness inside her one last time.
The first raindrop landed on her forehead like a water balloon splashing icy water on both of them. They shivered together.
Massive raindrops smacked the gravel, but it was a chilly gust which rousted them to action. She started the car. They gathered sodden clothing, piling it under them as the roof closed. She sped away with both of them stark naked in the front seats.
Originally published March 2011