My fingers have spent the last week itching to write again, and so even though my projects aren’t quite finished yet I’m indulging myself by writing a some smut. The weather over the weekend was glorious and I tried to spend as much time outside as possible. It was wonderful, but did make me wonder about what happens when it’s too hot to fuck.
It’s too hot to fuck – it’s too hot to even touch. I wear short denim shorts and they perv on my arse as I walk ahead of them. They roll up the sleeves on their t-shirt and I lust over their arms, imagining them pinning me down. We eat ice cream and watch each other pornographically lick melted drops off our fingers, but we don’t fuck – or at least not in our usual ways. It’s too hot.
We walk side-by-side and I don’t hold their hand. We flop down on the grass and breathe in the freshly-cut-warmth smell, but they don’t want to touch me. We are sticky and sweaty enough without the other’s hands all over our bodies. Our usual sex involves groping and smacking and them holding me down while I struggle and beg for them to fuck me. Our usual sex is enthusiastic and active and forceful and leaves us panting – it is far too hot to fuck like that.
I lie on my side in the shade of the tree and watch them grow aroused as I whisper filthy words to them. I love how the little twitches of their body give them away, and I love how I know that all those signs mean that they’re getting turned on. I talk about all the ways we could be fucking, if it wasn’t so hot. I describe how I would top them with my strap-on, fucking them until they’re begging me to let them come; how they could take me from behind, wrapping their arms around me for an energetic struggle fuck; how they could beat me until they’re sweating and I’m squirming and my arse is red and smarting. I make them moan softly at these filthy ideas, without even touching them, and then roll on to my back and bask in the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the leaves.
We shower together, because it’s only under the cold water that we can bear to be close enough to kiss. We lean against the wet tiles and watch each other wank: the aim is not to get off but to enjoy touching ourselves without the oppressive heat. We drink gallons of cold water to stay hydrated. They use their dominant voice and tell me to finish my glass, my bottle, or they’ll come over their and pinch my nose and tip it down my throat themselves. I shiver, not with cold but with anticipation of a really hot idea – even if it’s something I know they’ll never do.
They tell me to bend over the arm of the sofa and hold still. Their hours of practice mean that they can wield the evil, swishy cane with little exertion on their part. It’s too hot to bury my face in a pillow so they get to hear me squeal and tell me how much they get off on my noises of pain. The caning releases my frustration with the too-warm weather. It can leave me as relaxed as I would be after a good, hard fuck, except I haven’t had to endure their hands on me. Somehow the stinging bite is more palatable in the stifling warmth.
I don’t want them to touch me, even when we collapse on the bed in our cool, dark bedroom in the evening. I’ll cover my hands in lube and jerk them off, but when it’s too hot to fuck I don’t want orgasms, no matter how worked up I am. They come with a delicious grunt of satisfaction, and while they clean themselves up I lie on top of crisp sheets and close my eyes. I am aware of the air against my skin, and then aware that they’re on the bed next to me again. They tell me a dirty story as I drift off to sleep and never complain when they wake up to find that I’ve burrowed under the covers and curled into them.
That’s how we fuck when it’s too hot to fuck.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.