I tried to submit this concept last year but repeated issues with the way it displayed after publication ultimately led me to withdraw it. I used the time for a significant rework and, hopefully, improved it.
It was slightly cooler than the day, but still miserably unpleasant. That summer was unrelentingly, oppressively hot. The landlord's empty promises meant the building AC remained out. The tenants were edgy. Tempers short. A break from the heat was desperately needed.
I slept fitfully. Alone until my mattress shifted unexpectedly. Bewildered, I opened my eyes to a woman's slender, faintly backlit silhouette. I inhaled her scent. Floral, hints of spice. I started to speak; a gentle fingertip on my lips silenced me.
'No,' said an unfamiliar whisper, barely audible above the ticking ceiling fan. I tried again to question her, but she shook her head. 'Shush,' she whispered firmly.
Her hand pulled mine to a bare breast, oddly cool to the touch. Small, firm, yet supple. The nipple was hard, erect in the sticky night air. She leaned over me. Silky hair tickled my face. Soft lips grazed my neck. Her fingers tangled in my chest hair. Another caressed my shaft. I felt myself harden. My involuntary response was welcome. A long, painful, and debilitating illness had stolen the loving touch of my late wife.
I twisted, shifting my body to free both arms as she moved to lie next to me. We explored each other hesitantly. Teasing out responses to feed the hunger we both felt. Her knee moved invitingly onto my hip. I grazed my finger lightly across her clit, then between the warm, slick folds of her labia. She inhaled a sharp, ragged breath. Her teeth nibbled my neck. She nipped harder when my finger effortlessly slid into her.
The hand caressing my shaft held me firmly, moving up and down urgently. I was rigidly hard, relishing the sensations her clutching hand roused. I slid two fingers in and out of her hot, slippery core, coordinating my movements with hers. Hot breath, soft sighs, and kisses on my neck raised goosebumps.
Her free hand pressed against my shoulder, prompting me to roll onto my back. She followed, straddling my hips. Rubber soles scraped my thighs. She tore a packet open and deftly rolled a condom onto me. Probing herself with my head, she guided me inside. She sighed contentedly as she slowly lowered onto me. I slid easily into warm, silky depths. She stilled when her buttocks rested against me. She grasped my hands, pressing them to her breasts.
She began moving slowly up and down my length. Her hands kneaded mine against her breasts, encouraging me to explore, fondle, and pinch. She released my hands, leaning into them to support herself. Gentle hands squeezed my pectorals to gain purchase. Her hips moved purposefully but leisurely. Steadily up and down. Warm, slippery fluids flowed freely, coating my scrotum.
Her breathing quickened with her movements. She softly whimpered each time she fell against me. The bedsprings creaked apace. Her whimpering grew to a wanton moan as she moved up and down my shaft. Her fingernails dug into my pectorals; her grip tightened as her arousal intensified. Her pace grew rapid, frenetic, breathing labored. The headboard banged against the wall several times. She adjusted her motion slightly. The knock ceased. She moaned loudly. Her sneakers squeezed my thighs. I felt her shiver through an orgasm. She fell onto my chest, shaking, twitching, tensing involuntarily until inevitably her body calmed.
It was my turn. I held her narrow waist, damp and slippery from her exertions, and began thrusting. She sighed at each incursion, squeezing my shoulders tightly. Riding the wave under her. With one last thrust, my body tingled, then exploded. Her vagina spasmed, more fluids coated my scrotum. She shook uncontrollably again.
Once our breathing slowed, she wordlessly got out of bed and silently left. I tried to follow but slipped on something, falling hard. I followed but slipped on something, falling hard. I checked the condom. Broken. My shaft dripping. She'd leaked ejaculate onto the floor. I tried to catch up, but she was gone. Out the open kitchen window. I leaned out to check the fire escape. She had already vanished. Mystified but sated, I returned to bed and sleep.
I collected my mail in the lobby after work the next afternoon, suffering yet another sweltering day. The elevator opened and someone passed behind me as I checked my mail. The door to the street opened and closed. A moment later, I caught the scent of her perfume. I rushed outside, only to vainly search the multitudes on the blistering, crowded city street.
Identity still a puzzle. A sultry silhouette on one hot summer night.
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