So I was walking to work one day, and it was hot. It was 7AM, but it was hot. And after I got there, as the sun got even higher, just about noon they decided it was a great day for a fire drill.

Sigh.

So I got thinking about the heat - and this is what happened. As usual, I have no idea if it's erotic - that's for the reader to decide. Any faults are mine, any credit is to your imagination :-). So here it is - HEAT. Over to y'all...

Heat

Oh god, it's hot.

Outside the window, the cicadas are scraping like a thousand carpenters on speed. I swear, they stroke their legs much harder, they're gonna start sparking and burn to...

Fuck. 'Stroke their legs'. Stroke your leg. I pull my hand from where it's walked onto my thigh and slap it down on the mattress.

Shit, it's hot.

I lie on the bed. Moving is just too much like hard work - even if my hand thinks otherwise. I've thrown the sheet off, and I'm still pouring sweat like a monsoon in Mumbai. Not that I've ever been to India - I just like the alliteration. And I'm lying here naked, a wide open invitation to everyone who's not actually here to...

Fuck. Again. Wide open. My hand slaps down on the mattress, my thigh burning where my fingers touched. Of course, there's nobody here. Not yet. Not yet, because you - well. Not yet.

It is so fucking hot.

Outside the window, the moon's looking down like a one eyed peeping Tom. I'd tell it to go fuck itself, but it's too hot to get mad - too hot to whisper, never mind scream. So the moonlight drips onto my stomach, the sweat pooling and glistening as it softly rolls down - down to...

Fuck.

And it's hot. So fucking hot. And there's nobody here - not any of the people who've been here over the years while I tried to pretend they were you. And so I close my eyes. I close my eyes, and I let the years roll back - and I go swimming.

I open my eyes, my hair dripping as I brush it back over my head. The pool's nearly empty. The lifeguard should be on his ladder seat, but he's out at the front desk, trying to get into the girl on duty's pants. The two kids at the shallow end are pretending to be ducks, and their dad's hoping I look at him, so he can pretend I give a crap.

I don't.

It's hot. The fans on the ceiling are spinning their hearts out. For some reason, they sound like cicadas. Or maybe - for a moment, my eyes open - or maybe it's the other way round. But I close my eyes again, and the fans spin, and the water - well, it should be cool. But it's hot - so very hot. That's when I see you, coming out of the water at the deep end, climbing the ladder like Venus rising from the sea. Your hands grip the ladder arms, and your raised leg tenses - and you rise. The water slides off you in sheets, and your thigh tightens. And I wish I was a sculptor, with a magic chisel, that I could freeze the moment in time and stare at you forever. And, for the thousandth time, I decide guys just don't get it. I bet the guy at the end of the pool with his kids is wishing you were in a bikini. Fuck that. I have no idea what your one-piece is made of, but it's black, and it clings to you like I already wish I could cling to you, like a second skin. And whatever it is, there's a gleam to it, like a shifting, sliding skim of oil under the pool lights. A glinting gleam that slides over your body as you move, dragging my eyes with it all over you.

Not that they need any encouragement.

And you walk to the end of the pool, and every step is perfect, a lifted foot, a pointed to, a silent fall to the tiles, your thighs so soft and yet so firm as you walk. And you walk - no, you glide - to the end of the pool, to the edge. And your arms lift over your head, and you rise onto your toes, and the oil-shimmer of your suit slides over your breasts, and your knees bend just a little - and you dive. You dive, and time slows. You rise, and for a moment you fly - then you bend at the waist, to kick straight and arrow into the water. But for a moment you hang there, tight buttocks, so round, so firm - and I want to cry. Not because I'm sad, but because you are so fucking beautiful. And you cut into the water, without a splash, and I can see you under the surface, your arms stretched out as you glide. The back of your suit is cut low, and I imagine I can see each vertebra of your spine. I wish I could kiss them, each one, and taste the mix of pool water and you, and bite just enough to let you know I want to bite harder. But I can't. I can't, and I watch you glide - until you rise to the surface, and you begin to stroke.

Fuck. For a moment, my eyes open, and I pull my hand away from where it's headed. Not now - not yet. I grab the sheet under me and clench it in my fist.

Of course, you crawl. Not my clumsy, uncoordinated breast - a million miles away, and years ahead, my fist twists in the sheet under me - my breast stroke. You're elegant, and the water is like your lover, the lover I wish I was. It caresses you, and you caress it. You stroke, you glide - and too soon the length is swum. Your hand barely touches the wall, and you slide under the water, bending, twisting, curling in your turn - and I watch the length of you slide so brief and swift from the pool, and your turn lets my eyes touch every inch. Your arm, your shoulder, your arching back, the length of leg - so smoothly you flow. And you swim to the other end of the pool, and you grab the steps, and you rise again and for a moment, your head turns, and you smile. And I know it's not for me - perhaps the lifeguard's back, or maybe it's just the sun outside the glass windows of the pool. But I pretend, and for a moment it is for me, and I know that when we've done our swim, we'll go get changed, and we'll walk, just holding hands, and we'll talk, and share all the moments of our lives before we met. And then we'll go home, and then...

But the moment passes, and your smile is gone, and you walk to the edge of the pool. <

And this time, you turn your back. You turn your back, and your arms rise, and you jump. You jump, and your head drops back, and your whole body curves into the dive. You curve, and your breasts are so tight, so perfect, and even though it's not possible, I know I can see your nipples and they're hard. And you curve and it's like your feet are hard on my bed, and your head is back, and your back is arched, and your cunt is lifted, offered, ready for my lips, my tongue, and somehow the spinning fans I remember and the frantic cicadas are one, and I'm with you and I'm in my bed and you're with me, and it is so fucking hot, and my fists clench the sheets, and there's no way I'm letting go, because if I let them do what they want to do, you'll be gone again, and I can't let you go, not yet, and I'm crying and I'm gasping and the sheet between my wide open legs is soaked with more sweat than a river, and wetter still from the flood my cunt is flooding - and years ago, a hundred miles away, your head hits the water, and you slide into it. And I expect you to kick, to glide, to swim your length. But under the water, your body twists, it turns - and you glide over to me. You glide over to me, and you rise from the water like Venus, and your hand closes on my breast, so soft and gentle, and your lips brush mine, one lick of your burning tongue. And I reach for you, like I'm reaching now, and my nipples are like stone, like they're stone now, and for a moment you look sad - then you smile, and your lips brush mine again. Brush them, and leave as your back arches, and you slide into the water, the oil flicker of your suit dragging my eyes over you, over your arched stomach and down between your thighs. Thighs which part for a moment, just a moment - but one I know is no accident. One I know is just for me. Then your legs kick - and you glide to the edge of the pool. Glide, and grab the step - and you lift out, walk to the exit to the changing rooms - and you're gone. You're gone, and I know I'll never see you again. You're gone, but I know you'll never leave me.

And it's now, and the miles have rolled away like the spinning hands of a clock, and the days and years have passed like melted wax from a thousand candles. And you're gone, but you're here, and my nipples are hard, and I am so fucking wet, and I can feel my clit stiff-tight, and pounding like a hammer in my cunt, and my fists want to let go of the sheet, my fingers to dance over me, in me, but I don't want to lose you yet and it is so fucking hot and I grip the sheet and the cicadas chirp like fans spinning over an empty swimming pool and...

Oh god. It's hot.