Today I made eye contact with the guy who’s moved into the house across the road from me.

I waved at him, signalling that it was hot.

It was a mistake.

He immediately waved back, put his hand on his forehead to show he too was hot, then rushed over to discuss the weather.

Forty degrees, we decided. Impossible to do anything.

He told me he had a hammock strung up in his garden.

I told him I had a daybed under the trees.

He told me the heat makes him crazy.

I nodded in agreement.

I didn’t tell him that the heat makes me crazy in a different way and all I want to do is get hotter and sweatier and have wild crazy sex.

I didn’t tell him that I didn’t feel like discussing the weather and really I just wanted to drag him into my bedroom and be on top and have sweat dripping down my neck, down my cleavage and my stomach and down and everywhere and just come and come and come.

I held it together. We chatted. About the dire water situation, the electricity cuts and our incompetent Government.

He couldn’t see my nipples straining against my dress or that I was clenching my thighs together.

He promised to come back for tea.

And then he introduced himself.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ he shook my hand. ‘My name is Desire.’

He looked me straight in the eye.

And I knew he could see me straining.

30 thoughts on “Heatwave

      1. Lol, Violet. You may be right about that. But whatever it takes to work up a very good sweat… i’m all for it. 😉


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