Hot 1/1
“Record temperatures today,” the weatherwoman said. “Make sure to wear your sunscreen and wear light clothing.” Her voice was annoyingly chipper, as if her tone alone could breeze through the monitor’s screen and cool the weather, not that either of you were listening.
Chansung was blowing wisps of air as he trailed up your stomach, cooling the sheen of moisture that sat on your skin. The television droned quietly in the background of the dim, room. It sat humming in unison with the fan, as the two of you moved atop sheets you’d soaked in sweat and water. He pulled another piece of half-melted ice from the bedside container; next to it, an empty bottle of wine. You remember emptying it hastily, but now it was only touched every so often, a hand blindly bumping it in its search for ice as the voices in the television continued to speak. You lay there, hair beginning to fluff and chest heaving and bare, begging to be touched, as he brought the ice to your nipple.
You hissed then, feeling the sting of cold along with the delicate touch of his fingers behind it. The melting trails of water fell to the side of your breast and back down your stomach. He let go and brought his hand up, holding the edge of your face before he kissed you. The taste of his lips was sweet but pungent. You devoured the remnants of alcohol that warmed his mouth, savoring the taste of him on your tongue. His back hunched over your form as the ice moved at a snail’s pace on your skin. It continued to melt as he let his hands slide back down, gripping your hips as he began to angle himself. You hissed again as the disappearing piece followed its trail of drops toward your neck, and he edged in.
He was tauntingly slow, though the moment you rolled your hips, he fully glided his shaft into you. It was hot, contesting its pulsing heat with that emanating outside and around you. His hand slid up your thigh so that you could fully brace his movement, and the sheen of sweat on your skin thickened. His arms moved them, caging themselves around you. They stood tight on each side of you as he thrust; deeper and harder with each succession. Lines of sweat emulated the play of ice before, running down the flexed muscles of his upper arms. You slid your hands around to his back but the only grip you could find were within the sharp musculature of his upper body. Nothing could be held easily, but you wanted to keep touching him.
Heat spread through him and channeled itself into you, raising your body temperature as each pound pushed you further and further toward the wiry headboard. As he sped up, the bed post clanging the wall and your hands finding their way to sheets so you could hold on, you began to scream. Your head was thrown back, exposing your stretched neck to him as your eyes fluttered open and shut. You don’t remember when your thighs began clutching him so tightly, only that they spread slightly when he started to thrust up. Your back curved and your body shook. Both of you were drenched in sweat by the time you’d come. It took all of his being to hold on and make sure you finished, but you felt fully satiated as he filled you up. He would have come twice had he known you’d be so wanton and open and loud and wet. So deliciously wet.
He pulls out and leaves you cooling as your core begins to leak with your combined ejaculate. It feels dirty but you want more. You suddenly miss the heat that came with the rock of your bodies. He falls off and attempts to catch his breath, but only has a moment. You’re atop him. Now straddled and still very wet, you feel his manhood come back to life.
You’d been so close to leaving the room. He’d fumbled with his collared shirt, delaying putting it on so he could stay cooler for just a bit longer, but all the layers of dress led to wants of undress. It was too warm and by the time you’d helped him fix his tie, he’d begun to stroke your hair. The afternoon was lost afterwards.
Chansung was blowing wisps of air as he trailed up your stomach, cooling the sheen of moisture that sat on your skin. The television droned quietly in the background of the dim, room. It sat humming in unison with the fan, as the two of you moved atop sheets you’d soaked in sweat and water. He pulled another piece of half-melted ice from the bedside container; next to it, an empty bottle of wine. You remember emptying it hastily, but now it was only touched every so often, a hand blindly bumping it in its search for ice as the voices in the television continued to speak. You lay there, hair beginning to fluff and chest heaving and bare, begging to be touched, as he brought the ice to your nipple.
You hissed then, feeling the sting of cold along with the delicate touch of his fingers behind it. The melting trails of water fell to the side of your breast and back down your stomach. He let go and brought his hand up, holding the edge of your face before he kissed you. The taste of his lips was sweet but pungent. You devoured the remnants of alcohol that warmed his mouth, savoring the taste of him on your tongue. His back hunched over your form as the ice moved at a snail’s pace on your skin. It continued to melt as he let his hands slide back down, gripping your hips as he began to angle himself. You hissed again as the disappearing piece followed its trail of drops toward your neck, and he edged in.
He was tauntingly slow, though the moment you rolled your hips, he fully glided his shaft into you. It was hot, contesting its pulsing heat with that emanating outside and around you. His hand slid up your thigh so that you could fully brace his movement, and the sheen of sweat on your skin thickened. His arms moved them, caging themselves around you. They stood tight on each side of you as he thrust; deeper and harder with each succession. Lines of sweat emulated the play of ice before, running down the flexed muscles of his upper arms. You slid your hands around to his back but the only grip you could find were within the sharp musculature of his upper body. Nothing could be held easily, but you wanted to keep touching him.
Heat spread through him and channeled itself into you, raising your body temperature as each pound pushed you further and further toward the wiry headboard. As he sped up, the bed post clanging the wall and your hands finding their way to sheets so you could hold on, you began to scream. Your head was thrown back, exposing your stretched neck to him as your eyes fluttered open and shut. You don’t remember when your thighs began clutching him so tightly, only that they spread slightly when he started to thrust up. Your back curved and your body shook. Both of you were drenched in sweat by the time you’d come. It took all of his being to hold on and make sure you finished, but you felt fully satiated as he filled you up. He would have come twice had he known you’d be so wanton and open and loud and wet. So deliciously wet.
He pulls out and leaves you cooling as your core begins to leak with your combined ejaculate. It feels dirty but you want more. You suddenly miss the heat that came with the rock of your bodies. He falls off and attempts to catch his breath, but only has a moment. You’re atop him. Now straddled and still very wet, you feel his manhood come back to life.
You’d been so close to leaving the room. He’d fumbled with his collared shirt, delaying putting it on so he could stay cooler for just a bit longer, but all the layers of dress led to wants of undress. It was too warm and by the time you’d helped him fix his tie, he’d begun to stroke your hair. The afternoon was lost afterwards.