Well, sports fans, I’ve moved! Darling DPR and I have barely spent a night apart and we now live a bare 2 miles from each other. She has written an amazing recap of the last several weeks, while both of us were on hiatus as it were, and you can read that HERE. My own article for Our Big Gayborhood, details the move as well, and you can catch that HERE. While I wait to start my new job, I seem to have a bit of time on my hands and plan to catch up on some writing, as well as those long overdue reviews. In the meantime, although a day late, here is this week’s MFM. Ang, our dear Sweltering Celt, has assigned us the sweltering theme of Sweat. How apropos!
No breeze stirs the curtains in front of the open windows. The air is still and humid and beyond hot. Cardboard boxes—some filled, some empty, some in progress—crowd every room. I have been fretting about the amount of packing left to be done but your reassurances are optimistic and often. It is late in the afternoon. Sunlight creates long shadows across dusty floors, laid bare, the rugs rolled up against the walls.
I look up from the books I’ve been sorting as you enter the room with two water bottles in hand. Sweat drips from cold, clear plastic. It is too hot to be so close to another human being and yet you reach out with one finger and move a strand of hair from my eye. I wince against the saltiness and hold the bottle to my forehead. Your finger trails down the side of my face, following the condensation. A single drop moves down my cheek, my neck, my collarbone…and gets lost between my breasts.
I follow your gaze and you sigh and lean forward to place your lips gently against my cleavage. I begin to protest but you immediately hush me with a kiss. Our bodies melt together like candles left too long in the heat. Pliable. You draw the straps of my tank down over my upper arms and I reach up to peel it off, mindless of the windows already stripped bare in my office—exposing us both to any neighbors through the floor to ceiling glass.
I tug at your beater, soaking wet, and you pull it over your head. Our torsos join together again as our arms twist and tangle everywhere at once. The temperature creates an almost other-worldly feeling. My senses are heightened. Every touch feels electric. When you drop to your knees, slide my jean shorts to the floor so that I can step out of them, and place your mouth firmly upon my clit, I moan and grab handfuls of your thick crop of hair. I push you harder into me, your hands sliding on my ass, slick with perspiration. I give up all pretense, glad for the excuse to put off packing, and collapse to the floor—the carpet rough beneath me. You hold steadfast to the task at hand and for one hour in a very long hot day, my existence becomes your mouth, my cunt, your fingers, my pussy, your cock, and me.
