The heat is beginning to get to us. It’s inescapable without the refuge of air conditioned shopping malls or movie theatres, but gone are the carefree days of milling around indoors when the summer heat spikes. The heat is insufferable and we eat our words, taking back every muttered curse aimed at a rainy spring or a long, cold winter. The weather is like a fever, so hot it makes you feel a bit crazed, disoriented, overwhelmed. Just like a fever, we wait for the heatwave to break, wait for a cool evening, wait for room to breathe. I know he’s especially frustrated with the unseasonably high temperatures, masked and sweating, with no good reason for not still working at home. A sweaty selfie, mid afternoon, belies how sweltering the space is. He’s so handsome I can’t help but smile at my phone when his message comes through. He’s drenched in sweat and pulling a silly face to convey the lunacy of his workday predicament. Almost done, the text reads. Home by 6. Love you xx. Neither of us will be hungry until later, the heat zaps the appetite and dries up all motivation to cook. Cheese and cold vegetables, good bread, lemonade for him and red wine, with an ice cube, for me; a sacrilege that can’t be helped when the mercury climbs this high. We’ll eat on the balcony, praying for a breeze, wearing almost nothing as the sun goes down.

But before that simple alfresco supper, he comes home wet with sweat, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, an inviting sight, and buttons undone to mid chest. He is a touch grumpy, but not with me, and I want to smother him with kisses but we’d both be so damp and cross that a quick kiss and a cool shower is a better plan. I start the shower as he sits at the foot on the bed and undresses in front of the fan, flopping back on the neatly made bed, the hair of his chest and stomach and thighs stirring in the artificial wind. I undress and step under the lukewarm water and let it run over my head and face, eyes closed. When I open them, he is there, splashed but not yet wet, ready to take a turn under the shower head before wrapping me up in his arms and kissing me deeply.

There it is, the hello that the close, still air outside the shower will not permit. It’s unbearable not to hold him and be held, impossible not to show each other with lips and low voices, just how long the day felt without the other.

His hand is on my throat as we kiss, not tight, just firm, reassuring. His other hand is on my hip, fingertips digging in. He walks me back a few steps so I am out from under the rain of the shower and my back presses into the cold tile. The cool ceramic is glorious and cold enough to make my breath catch in my throat – or is that from his touch? – and my knees bend as he pushes me down, sliding me down the wall until I’m on my knees at his feet.

The water is falling between us, striking his chest and rolling down his stomach and thighs in fast rivulets. I want to lick the river of cool water that careens through the hair on his stomach, pooling in his perfect navel, rushing through the gorge that cleaves his pelvis and his thigh. He smiles and pets my face, his other hand slowly pumping his cock, pulling it and rubbing it to life in the cool water. He’s hard and his eyes are determined. He arches an eyebrow in silent question, I smile and nod and I feel his palm caress the curve of my skull, gallantly protecting my head from the wall behind me.

The first thrust always feels the best; tongue out, feeling the length of him slide against it, the tip of his cock leaving a salty streak of anticipation along the roof of my mouth. He fills my throat greedily and I gag. He doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. This is for him, this is how we both want it to be. He leans over me, one hand still behind my head, the other against the tile, elbow locked, pivoting at the hips, fucking my face with the same stoic patience that he always has. He takes his time, but he doesn’t tease. This isn’t about getting me wound up, it’s about him taking what he needs after a long, hot day of nonsense, it’s about him letting go of the day and coming back into the present, into his body, into his power. He presses himself into the back of my throat and holds there, watching me gag. He will tell me later that he likes the way my throat clenches on his dick when I gag, and how I look so pretty with streaks of black mascara staining my cheeks. But for now, he’s taking what is his, what he wants and needs and I am in heaven as I give it to him.

There is no warning before he finishes, nothing but the subtle flex of his thighs and the tiny strip of pink tongue between his teeth as he groans. This time he pulls out, leaving me gasping, looking up as he aims his cock towards my cheek and unloads a day’s worth of heat and frustration onto my face. The hot come feels so erotic in contrast to the cool water of the shower and it’s only when he grunts and shakes the last globules of semen onto my chin that I notice I’m shivering. He pulls me up to standing and leans me back into his chest so I’m facing the water. He turns the tap and it runs just a bit warmer, still not hot, but less icy, and gently wipes the thickening come from my face. He lets me suck it from his fingers and he washes my face, my neck, my breasts, all of me. I’m slick with soap and I let him take the time to lather and rinse me lovingly, a silent thank you for my worshipful mouth. He hands me the soap and I take my turn washing him. We rinse again and step out to air dry in front of the fan before we take our cheese and crackers dinner outside, suddenly ravenous, and watch the heat rise off the city as the last of the day’s sun slips away.


The Blog Days of Summer

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.