Alone at Home, the Heat Woke Up All My Fantasies

I wake with a jolt. Two oh five in the morning. Heat, a thick heat that clings to my skin. I’m uncovered, not a stitch on me, and even so my body is sweating all over. The windows have been open since the afternoon and they do nothing: the air outside is as hot as the air inside, as if the whole house were breathing fever.

I get up half asleep and head for the kitchen. I need water, anything cold.

Fuck. I realize I’m hard. And I need to piss, but there’s no way I can do it like this. I rub myself with my hand and feel a pull low in my belly. My body is asking for trouble. Last night I didn’t touch myself, and the day before I couldn’t either. Work eats up whole days of mine; I get home late, wrecked, and fall into bed with no desire for anything. Same old story, what happens to so many of us.

On top of that, I’m alone. My wife and the two kids have run off to the beach with their grandparents. Good for them: the heat wave was coming no matter what, and at least they’re taking it with a sea breeze. Let me be the one to suffer. Though right now I’d give anything to have her body near me, to be able to press against her back and put my hand where it doesn’t belong.

Jesus, it’s hot. I can feel sweat running down my neck. There are corners of the house that feel like an oven, and the kitchen is one of them. I take the jug out of the fridge and drink. One glass, two. I press the third against my cock, to see if I can get the erection to go down already. My bladder is demanding relief and, hard as I am, I can’t take care of it. After a while sliding the cold glass along my crotch, the stiffness finally gives, and I hurry to the bathroom.

I sit on the toilet and, as I piss, my whole body relaxes all at once. Last night, to fight the heat, I downed half a dozen ice-cold beers. At the time it seemed like a brilliant idea: barley at fridge temperature would cool me off, and the alcohol would help me fall asleep. Now, in this darkness broken by the streetlights outside, I can feel my blood circulating overheated from the booze, suffocating me even more.

I go into the living room. I lean out the open window. As I feared, there isn’t a trace of a breeze. The air outside is exactly the same as inside. I don’t know what the temperature is, but it’s surely over thirty degrees, too much for someone like me, who enjoys the cold.

I stand there for a couple of minutes. I don’t think anyone can see me naked from the street, though part of me gets turned on by imagining some neighbor, from her dark balcony, watching me in silence. A lone car goes by, not a soul walking. Far off I hear some music, maybe an open bar sheltering the ones who stayed in the city, with no vacation other than softened asphalt.

Jesus, it’s hot.

The time at the window doesn’t do me much good. Only enough for the erection to wake up again with that stupid idea that someone might be looking at me.

***

I go back to bed. I pull the crumpled sheet aside and smooth out the fitted sheet so I can lie down more comfortably. It’s absurd: I’m melting from the heat and still my body wants something to cover it. Force of habit, I guess. It spends the whole year under blankets and duvets, and now it finds it strange to be left out in the open, even in air this heavy, air that doesn’t even let you fill your lungs properly.

I roll over to one side. Then the other. I turn across the double bed to the side my wife occupies. If she were here, I’d kick her away: this heat makes cuddling unbearable. Though I’m sure she wouldn’t turn down a good pussy lick; she loves the way I do it, slowly, until her thighs go taut.

I look again at the alarm clock on the nightstand. I can’t believe it: only ten minutes have passed since I got back on the mattress. It feels eternal. And sleep still isn’t showing up.

What does show up again is the erection. The heat, the rubbing of the fabric, the memory of my wife’s sex, her taste, her smell… all of it makes my cock demand the attention I stole from it before so I could piss.

I bring down one hand and run it all over myself. It’s hard again. What can I do. It’s not porn-star size, and I don’t need it to be; normal size, normal thickness, but it works and it can take what it gets, so I’m more than happy with what I’ve got.

And now it wants some action.

Something occurs to me. On the nightstand on the other side there’s a jar of moisturizing cream my wife uses before bed. I open it and take some with my fingers. I spread it along the full length. I like that slippery feeling, like being inside somewhere well lubricated.

The hand goes up and down. And my mind drifts away, lost in memories.

***

The first one that comes, one of the ones I keep most close: Lucía. Her short hair, that wicked smile she used to make when she already knew what was going to happen, her small firm tits. All the times we tangled up in secret, stolen kisses tasting of alcohol, sometimes with our partners in the next room, talking about bullshit while we were eating each other’s mouths in the hallway.

I jump to another: Marina, an internet friend, hotter than the hell I’ll probably end up burning in. Her slanted eyes, and how they looked up at me just a month ago while I was going down on her in the only time we met, in a shopping center near her city, in Seville. How much I enjoyed that day. And she enjoyed me too. We were left wanting a repeat. I fantasize about our paths crossing in Barcelona, maybe in autumn, maybe in winter. We’ll work it out, we’ll find the excuses. For now my imagination settles for her huge ass and the heat of her cunt, a memory too recent and too tempting.

Just thinking about them makes it grow more, reaching full hardness. The skin on the glans pulls back and the head peeks out. I keep playing with my hand coated in cream. It feels soft, slippery, almost as if it weren’t mine. It could be Lucía’s, with those fine fingers she had and that horny whore’s voice that got me hard as a rock with two words.

I almost forget the heat, but this little effort is enough to make my chest and forehead bead with sweat. I feel the drops sliding between my pecs, wetting the hair that covers them. I like shaven women, but I’m too lazy to do it myself. Maybe I’m a hypocrite, or maybe it’s just a matter of taste.

I sweat as pleasure spreads through my whole body. I’m really enjoying this wank. I savor every thought, every memory, every one of my girls. I still have a ways to go before the orgasm. And though the alarm will go off at five thirty sharp, I couldn’t give a fuck: it’s been a long time since I enjoyed myself this much alone. Most of the time it’s almost a formality, a way to ease the lack of sex with my wife, who’s too hooked on porn on a screen. These days I rarely get to play with imagination alone, like when I was a kid. This is one of those times.

Not using porn has one advantage: my other hand is free. So I bring it in to lend a hand, if you’ll pardon the expression. I put it on my balls. They feel swollen, the skin taut, sensitive to the slightest touch. I massage them carefully, unhurriedly, and I like it.

***

Another one comes to my brain: Carla, my lifelong friend, my confidante for nearly thirty years. I never got to fuck her, a shame. I fantasized about her ass for years; it was gorgeous. Some time ago, after several rounds of beer, she confessed that she’d taken a liking to anal sex, and that under different circumstances she’d have let me try it, but never with a married man. Well, another story that will stay in my fantasies.

I imagine her on all fours on her bed, opening her ass for me, letting me break her in from behind. I speed up the pace of my hand. The image of Carla offering me that entrance and letting herself be penetrated is brutal, it drives me crazy. I lift my ass off the mattress and tense my legs, as if I were really fucking her. And I pant, softly. I like to pant when I fuck, and it usually turns them on. Even in the most submissive positions they feel powerful, able to handle me however they want.

I go back to my position. It keeps getting better and better. The head of my cock is already fully out of its sheath of skin. How I’d love my wife to be here, horny. She’d be sucking me off right now. She’s an excellent cocksucker when she gets turned on: she plays with the glans, licks it like an ice cream, enjoys feeling me pour into her tongue. She gets herself right to the edge, ready to come with a couple of thrusts. What a pity she doesn’t do it more often.

The fantasies take over me. They know I’m almost ready to cum. Women I once wanted badly flash through my head, but they pass quickly, too quickly. It’s hard to focus on just one.

Then an idea hits me: what if my two lovers met each other. Marina and Lucía, together, with me. I see them tangled in a long, filthy kiss, their tongues seeking each other. I speed up my hand. Thinking of my two hotties putting on a lesbian show for my pleasure, while also satisfying their own hidden fantasies, is devastating. I linger on the details: how they’d rub their nipples, how they’d knead each other’s breasts, both of them shining with oil.

The next image is the two of them in sixty-nine. They eat each other’s pussy, mixing their gasps with the wet sound of tongues. And then I come in and start putting it in: in the mouth, in the cunt, in the ass. I touch them, I caress them, and they come for me. The three of us come at once.

***

The room smells of sweat and freshly released cum. The fitted sheet is out of place again, rumpled, soaked through. I hope the moan that slipped out when I came didn’t wake any neighbors. The release shot up from my belly to my chest, hot, and now it’s dripping between my fingers. I was too turned on to try to hold it in, and honestly I didn’t want to. I stretch out my cleaner hand, grab a piece of my pajama lying in a corner, and clean myself up as best I can.

It’s ridiculously late. I’m beat, but satisfied as rarely before. I don’t even want to look at the clock. I just want to relax, let my body sink into the mattress. Sleep. And dream, until the alarm goes off, of each one of my girls.