Heat. That is all there is anymore. The sun batters down on us through the cloudless sky and even the nights are hot enough that I want nothing more than to rip off my clothes, fall to my knees and beg for a cool breeze. There’s no air conditioning anymore. Takes too much power, they said, and with the nuclear plants all on shutdown due to a lack of cooling water, it’s hard to argue against. So I’m sweating. Everybody’s sweating. All of the U.S. is sweating in that baking oven the whole continent has become. The tap water comes out almost warm enough to make tea, and it gets increasingly hard to remember a moment when I wasn’t sticky and hot.

Everybody hustles, too. Clothes cling wetly to people’s bodies, and they are angry and impatient, bumping and swearing all around me on the boiling hot sidewalk. The air I draw into my lungs feels like a sticky, acidic goo that is sprinkled with dust and grime. I stop for a moment next to Germaine’s Grocery’s entrance and take a breath, cursing at the time and fearful that I’m going to be late. Car horns sound not far away, and a look around reveals a heated dispute about a parking space in an almost empty lot.

I shake my head and take a step forward, only to feel a painful blow to my back that makes me stumble.

It’s probably the heat that makes me slow and awkward. I yelp, my foot catches on something, and a moment later I am on my knees, pain surging through the right one and driving tears into my eyes. “Fuck!” I shout, ending in a sob.

“Shit!” A deeper voice exclaims behind me at the same time. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

It’s not a question, and I should know better. All the pent-up aggression, the same helpless annoyance I was mentally condemning everyone else for only moments ago, wells up at once. “Asshole!” I shout back over my shoulder and climb to my feet, tears streaking down my face and mingling with the sweat. “Fucking ignorant asshole!” I shout to give my feelings emphasis.

Both of my ultra-thin, expensive black stockings are ripped, and small red trails run down my right knee. I bend over, look down at them and want to cry out in anguish. Nobody would care if I showed up to a job interview sweating, but looking like this… I’m tempted to kick the bastard in his designer suit, who is crouching down next to me, but the thought alone is too exhausting.

He’s picking up papers, nicely printed sheets on expensive office stationery, and he’s swearing under his breath. “Fuck,” he mutters, “fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I can’t help myself. To see him act as annoyed as I feel gives me a surge of gratification.

He looks up at me, panic in his eyes. “Well, won’t you help me?” he asks, outrage thick in his voice.

“Me?” I ask in disbelief, almost throwing back my head in mocking laughter. “Me help you?” As if I had been one bumping him! But he keeps up his demanding stare from under neat, sleek, yuppie-style black hair, kneeling there in designer clothes that probably cost more than my new job would net in a month, and my skin starts to prickle. Fresh rage grips me, boiling over, and in my sweetest voice and smile, I answer, “Why of course. Here, let me help you.”

For a moment, something soft seems to flutter over his strained face, but when I take a giggling step forward and set my foot down on a small stack of papers, he pales. When I put all my weight down and start to twist my foot left and right, hearing the paper crunch and rip under the sharp edge of my heel, his cheeks tremble and I’m convinced he’ll start crying any minute.

“Like this?” I ask airily and take a step back to admire the totally ruined sheets with their darkish stains and wrinkled holes.

“Fuck!” He jumps up, and before I know what is happening, my back bumps against the wall and his fingers dig into my shoulders. “Bloody bitch!” he shouts at me from only inches away.

Because I’m wearing high heels, we’re both on eye level. I can feel his body heat radiate and make the air around me even more unbearable. “Let go!” I demand and try to wiggle from his grasp, but his fingers only tighten more.

“Not so fast,” he growls, his almost handsome face sneering at me. “You ruined my work! You probably ruined my job!” Each word is underlined by painful digs of his fingernails.

“Good,” I purr back, “then we’re even, asshole. Now let me go.” I give him a strong shove and he takes a few steps back, giving me enough space to make my hurried escape.

“Hey!” I can hear him swear behind me, “Come back, bitch! I’m not fucking done with you!”

He doesn’t try to follow, though, and I wave a one-fingered goodbye. I don’t really know where I’m going. I should probably head back to the train station and go home, but that would mean that the fact that my job opportunity has just gone down the drain would become all too palpable. I’d have to confess to my neighbors, who are no doubt waiting with bated breath for my return, and I’m not up to facing their questions anytime soon. My steps echo on the asphalt and the heat creeps through the soles of my shoes. I need a place at least a little cooler.

* * * * *

A small café catches my eyes. It has that cozy, Italian flair with its dark wood and the airy rattan chairs and chrome tables outside. Soft bells chime when I push the wooden door open, and while the air inside isn’t any cooler than on the outside, at least it promises shadow. The waitress, a plump girl with wavy brown hair and wearing a thick cotton apron that has to be pure torture in this heat, is busy with the espresso machine and spares me no glance. I’m lucky that one table at the very back is unoccupied, and I head for it, allowing a relieved sigh to cross my lips when my backside touches the chair. My knee throbs by now, and I pull a handkerchief out of my purse and start dabbing away the blood.

There are a number of other patrons here, but they all appear apathetic. Not a single discussion is going on; everybody just stares into their cups, and the most movement I can see around me is the stirring of a spoon.

“You want?” The waitress startles me a little. She’s sweating like everyone else, locks of her wavy brunette hair are clinging to her forehead, and I can understand why she limits her words to the minimum.

I could use a bit of caffeine, but I need something cold even more. To hell with it, I decide, what I need most is something that takes away the edge. “A glass of white wine. Big. It’s chilled, isn’t it?”

“‘M sorry,” she declares with a shrug of her shoulders. “Closed the cold store, them. Can bring you ice, they left that running.”

A small groan escapes me, but I hurriedly put a smile on my lips. It’s not her fault. “‘Kay,” I answer with a nod, my emotions catching up with me and the exhaustion making me mimic her sparse way of speech.

“Back in a min'.”

I nod in return.

After multiple applications of spittle - which take some effort, I find out, when you’re parched like an old snake-skin - I’ve managed to to wipe away all the blood and dirt, and the scratch in my knee’s skin is really just that. It’s a bit swollen though, and I silently curse again, just in time for the waitress to hear it.

At the sight of the bottle that she puts down in front of me, I start to lift my hands in a defensive gesture, but she puts hers on mine and halts my protest.

“On the house. Going bad anyway.” She shrugs. “Rather someone drinks it. The ice is five dollars though.”

She glances at my knee and gives me a compassionate smile. Five dollars for a cup full of ice sound outrageous, but she sends me another smile, whispering, “Should take twenty, normally. You need it, though.” She ends her words with a conspiratorial wink and pats my shoulder.

She ambles back behind the counter, and I close my eyes and sigh. The world’s going crazy, but at least I’ve experienced one moment of compassion. I throw a handful of ice cubes into the wine glass, ignoring the other patrons’ startled and reproachful looks at the clinking sound, and pour a generous mouthful of wine over it. Impatient, I swirl the golden liquid a few times to make sure it has cooled down sufficiently before I take a sip.

Pleasure! The cool aroma of ripe grapes running over my taste buds and down my throat feels like the elixir of life, and I don’t care that my body reacts by sweating even more. Small drops trickle down over my burning skin, surprising me by not making sizzling noises and not turning into steam. I take another, this time bigger, gulp and sigh in delight. This wasn’t the cheap stuff.

My peace shatters when a male figure enters my line of sight. It’s him, and he stares at me while his strong hand pulls out the chair next to me. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he sits down, his chair slightly turned so he is partially facing me.

“Are you stalking me now?” I hiss at him, clutching the wine glass to my chest as if it could lend me the courage I don’t really have.

“Stalking? You?” He throws back his head and laughs, earning a multitude of evil looks. “You’ve got some opinion of yourself, I grant you that, bitch.”

“Asshole!”

“Idiotic slut.”

“Fuck you!” My chest heaves, and I notice belatedly that he has talked in a low voice while I’ve shared my accusations with the whole room. My cheeks explode.

“You’ve cost me my job.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “My company’s going to lose the one contract that we needed to get into the black because I couldn’t submit our offer on time.” His gaze moves up and to the side. The waitress is tottering from one foot to the other, holding her pad and pen in front of herself and looking at him impatiently.

The silence stretches. “I… What she’s having,” he finally growls.

She shrugs once more, sighs and scribbles it down.

“You know what,” I shoot back at him when I think she’s out of earshot. “I’ve lost mine too. I had a job interview, the only promising one in six months. Thanks to you,” I point at him, then at my knee that is slowly turning darker in color, “I’m still unemployed.”

“If you hadn’t walked into my path…”

“Arrogant asshole! You bumped into my back, so you…”

“I did no such…”

“Quiet!” The waitress’s shout from behind the counter makes us both hold our breaths. “If you need to have a lover’s quarrel, go outside!”

We both blush crimson red, but our hard glares tell that this isn’t over.

“You did,” I whisper vehemently. “Do I need to show you the bruise?”

Something changes. His expression shifts to an intensity that gives me goosebumps. “What? Do you want to strip for me?”

“Fuck you!”

“You know, you’re saying that an awful lot.”

I’m boiling over again. Not only that the asshole had to follow me, now he also makes sexual suggestions! I part my lips, but I close them again, unable to find the right words in the gooey swamp that my mind has been turned into by the constant heat. Yet my rage won’t be quenched, and when he quirks up an eyebrow and smirks in that self-assured, mocking male way, I explode into motion.

Satisfaction runs over me like a river, just like the wine spills over his head. His eyes widen into two comical orbs, accompanied by the clinking sound of ice cubes scuttling away on tiles, and I start laughing so hard that my own eyes water and my tummy ripples with painful contractions.

Childishly, I stick out my tongue while I sit down and place the empty glass back on the table. He stares at me through one eye, the other blinking away the liquid that has dripped into it. Dark blotches are all over his suit, and most hilarious of all, a big one has spread at the front of his trousers. This time it’s me who smiles smugly, while I can see him tremble with rage. I only have the tiniest part of a second to realize that something is wrong when his eyes widen and his expression softens.

Splash! The feeling of liquid on my head that follows that moment is unmistakable. It’s wet and warm and sticky, and it runs over my face and all the way down my front. But how…? I wipe my face and look hesitantly up and behind me, careful that the wine dripping from my hair doesn’t end up my eyes.

It’s the waitress, and she gifts me with an annoyed look. “Told you to stop it, didn’t I?” she asks and sets the half-empty bottle down next to mine with a forceful clunk.

“Shit!” I mumble, turning away from her and staring hard at my stalker. So much for new friendship.

“Oh, don’t play coy,” he tells me with a lopsided grin. “Your motives are quite…” He pauses, waggling his eyebrows. “...transparent.”

It takes me a few moments to understand the bad pun. I slowly and rather unwillingly lower my eyes, and when my gaze encounters my chest, my breath gets stuck in my throat.

Like in those pictures of spring-break contests, my whole upper body is drenched with wetness and both my blouse and bra form one single, almost completely see-through, shape-hugging layer. My areolas and nipples leave nothing hidden! My gaze drifts higher again, and Mr. Stalker is staring at them with hungry fascination.

“Oh no,” I mumble with a shaking voice, then louder, “Stop staring, sicko!”

His answer is even more breathless than my words have been. “How can I?” His voice is soft, full of wonder. “It’s the first good thing that has happened to me all week.”

I want to tell him that I don’t care. Instead, he whispers, “Thank you!”

I don’t want to feel something positive for him, but can feel the sincerity in it. Something shifts. My mouth acts without caring for my thoughts. “I’m Jenna.”

He chuckles quietly, his eyes never straying from my chest, and I can suddenly feel his gaze physically on my nipples. “John,” he replies. “I’m John. Jenna and John. J and J, huh!”

The urge to fight drains out of me as if somebody has pulled the plug. I slump against the backrest and sigh. “You know,” I tell him matter-of-factly, “the situation’s rather unfair right now.”

“Uh-uh,” he confirms, and with a bit of effort, he draws his eyes away from my tits.

Finally, when our gazes meet, the first true smile pulls up the corners of his mouth, and he looks rather striking. He’s got a bit of a boyish appearance when he’s relaxed, but his body is far from that of a boy, that’s evident even through the suit. And another thing is obvious.

“Is that,” I question and nod towards the bulge at the front of his trousers, suddenly feeling light-headed, “as big as it appears?”

He shrugs. “Want to find out?”

“I’m not a slut!” I protest, the words easily flowing from my lips. Practice makes perfect. But then the whole situation closes in on me again, and against all the downs I’ve had recently, a good fuck looks more and more intriguing. I hastily backtrack. “Just want you to know that. Do you live nearby?”

“No. Unfortunately not.” There’s a hint of dejection in his voice.

“Me neither.” My shoulders slump.

A loud clacking sound has us both look for its origin, and the other patrons shift in their seat as well. It’s the waitress, and she has apparently just locked the door. I look at John and he at me, and we both lift an eyebrow, probably wondering to ourselves in near identical words what is going on.

When she struts to our table and comes to stand right in front of us, she’s sweating like mad.

“What…?” I start to ask.

“Uhm,” John stammers even less articulate than I.

“For heaven’s sake,” the young woman hisses exasperatedly, “we’re all adults here. Nobody’s going to come in. Just get it on!”

Now we both look like deer caught in the headlights, and the temperature in the room rises at least another ten degrees. “What?” I ask incredulously.

“I’ve got enough of dreary faces!” she shouts, and if there were a few paler spots left on her face, there aren’t anymore. “From the moment I open the goddamn café until I close it, everybody’s complaining about the heat and the prices! Then people are either dumbly staring holes into the air as if they had a lobotomy or arguing about every little thing. I’m! Fed! Up! I want to see one good thing happen today, just one, even if it's someone else fucking their brains out!” She’s close to tears and her lips tremble. Probably not far from a nervous breakdown. Those happen a lot recently.

“You can’t…” My protest dies in my throat when I see all the patrons shift and suddenly look awake. Twenty pairs of eyes judge every little reaction I show. Twenty pairs of eyes, I realize with a dizzy feeling and almost painful twinges between my thighs, are staring at my exposed nipples and plainly visible tits.

I can’t consider this, not really. But when I see John fidget on the chair, his face flickering back and forth between nervous and hopeful, I re-evaluate my outlook on life. No job. No money. Sometime soon, if there isn’t a miracle about to happen, no house. No boyfriend either, but the longer I look at John, the more handsome he becomes. We both stink of sweat like everybody else, but that can’t be a hard criterion nowadays.

The waitress seems to know my decision before I do myself, because she’s already taking away our glasses and bottles. John sends me a somewhat incredulous stare which I answer with a shrug and a muttered, “She’s right, somehow.” My pussy has started getting wet when I thought about the whole room full of people watching me fucking, and moisture is becoming far too valuable to waste it without a reward, I rationalize.

Then there are hands encircling me from behind. “Let me help you,” the waitress whispers into my ear before the surprise can overcome my lingering lethargy. Even while goosebumps race up my spine, her fingers are already busy undoing the buttons of my blouse. A strange feeling, a lot like an ultrasonic massage must feel like, grips my body, and the heat grows to an intensity that takes my breath away.

John’s eyes turn dark with hunger. “You too!” I manage to growl, and true enough, his fingers start to unbutton his shirt while all his attention keeps focused on me.

There goes my blouse, a bit awkwardly pulled down my arms, but I shift to help her get it off. In the blink of an eye, my bra follows. “Stand up,” she whispers, helping me to get upright.

John’s chest is muscular, not really body-builder like but fit enough to look yummy. His fingers unbuckle the belt impatiently, and when his trousers slide down his legs, my skirt mimics its motion. His bulge appears even bigger now, and I can see it twitch under the black fabric of his boxer briefs.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, his throat sounding raw. “Fuck that. You’re beautiful!”

“You’re handsome like hell,” I whisper back and moan in embarrassed arousal when my panties are pushed down my legs by the soft, hot, sweaty fingers of the waitress, whose name I don’t even know.

He bites his lip, but he doesn’t hesitate and pushes down his own undergarment. “Shit!” I exclaim and press a hand over my mouth. He is - all breath leaves my lungs - huge. And completely shaven. Perhaps that is also a part of its imposing appearance, but I don’t care right now. I almost drool when I look at the huge sac dangling between his legs and the thick, fleshy rod with its almost purple head that stands almost perfectly upright.

I let the waitress help me get up on the table. She positions me sideways to the rest of the room, and once I lie there in just my torn stockings and high heels and see all the aroused stares directed at me, my earlier words come back to haunt me. Not a slut? I pull up my legs as high and wide as I can, deciding that if I’m to be a slut today, I’ll go all the way.

The waitress - I can’t believe that she does that and even less that he lets her - grips John’s cock like a handle and pulls him around the chairs and between my thighs. My hand roams down to my pussy and starts to stroke up and down, finding a wellspring of moisture already awaiting it. I moan; it’s a loud and long sound that seems to start directly inside my creaming snatch.

My fingers are pushed away, though. The waitress’ own fingers, nails done with slightly scratched but still shiny purple polish, skillfully guide John’s cock to the entrance of my snatch, and the smooth, hot touch of its head gives me the most wonderful tingly feelings.

“Fuck me,” I whisper, and I can see him twitch, but the waitress holds his cock in place so it’s touching me just enough to tease me.

“Fuck me,” I tell him louder, but she only rubs it up and down my slit with gentle pressure. I start sweating like I’ve never sweated before, and the desire that wells up in me wants to consume me.

“Fuck me!” I shout in despair. “Fuck me, please! Stick that huge cock inside my cunt!” I’m almost sobbing with desire, and I don’t care about the needy spectacle I’m making of myself.

John and I are both surprised when the waitress lets go of his stiff appendage and gives him a shove. In an instant, his whole length is buried inside me and stretching my pussy wider than it has ever been stretched before.

Our eyes meet and the world crumbles away around us. He pulls out slowly, only to ram back home with full force, unable to restrain himself. The pure wantonness in his eyes makes me feel both powerful and like a toy, and we kiss each other, our lips clinging to one another like drowning people to a plank of wood. We’re openly fucking in a café full of people and we don’t give a damn!

The walls of my pussy stretch around his cock with silken wetness, and it feels oh so good. I shout my jubilations to the world, encourage him with moans and whimpers and squeeze my tits, which bounce with every thrust. We shag like rabbits; his pupils dilate into needle points and his eyelids droop from lust. We’re one sweaty, wet, burning hot mess of sexual energy, and all the annoyance and rage from earlier on gets poured into our heated sex and makes this the best, most intense fuck of my life.

I feel something wet on my nipple and gasp. The waitress, now completely nude and showing off creamy-white, incredibly huge tits with the pinkest nipples I’ve ever seen, is bent over the table and covers my boob with kisses, while someone is drilling into her cunt from behind. I can feel the thrusts shake her, and she suddenly clamps down her teeth on my nipple just when John spears me with another thrust.

I disintegrate. All my lust seems to focus into a single, unimaginably hot point between my thighs and then explodes outwards in wave after wave of orgasmic bliss. I can only see spots, and I hear my voice make strange, groaning noises while my body shakes and writhes.

I feel his cock throb and spurt inside me, and the knowledge that his seed is filling me lifts me even higher. I fly; my mind soars above all the heat on wings of pure pleasure, and I never want to come down.

I do, though, but if it’s minutes or seconds later, I can’t tell. John is leaning against the wall and catching his breath, his cock now soft and shiny with our juices. He looks absolutely adorable with that soft, blissful look in his eyes, and I wink at him, a soft, satisfied smile tugging up the corners of my mouth until it hurts.

A gruff voice breaks our wordless conversation. “Would you mind…?”

‘What kind of question is that?’ I think while I stare at the dark-skinned hunk who’s standing between my legs with a boner just as big as John’s. It’s crazy. Do I mind? Do I mind that this stranger wants to stick his swollen penis in my freshly fucked vagina? A few short looks travel back and forth between John’s eyes and mine, and when he winks at me without a hint of jealousy, my grin threatens to reach all around my head.

“What are you waiting for?” I tease the stranger. “Stick that boner in my snatch before it gets cooked in the heat!”

And just like that, I’m fucking another stranger. It feels good, but he doesn’t last long; he’s obviously gotten too aroused by all the debauchery going on. When I look around, there’s not a single clothed soul left and everybody’s shagging like it’s the end of the world. Moans, whimpers and orgasmic cries fill the air. A younger guy takes Dark Hunk’s place and drills me with the frantic energy that only eighteen-year-olds possess. It’s just what I need. My pussy gets sore, but I come once more in ultimate bliss, moaning and giggling at the boy’s startled look when I cover his lower body with copious spurts of pussy juice.

Hours later, everybody is dressed again. Clothes cling even tighter to their owner’s bodies, but nobody cares. Sometime in the middle of the craziness, I’ve had two cocks at once inside my snatch, one of them John’s, and while it was slightly painful at first, it turned into the most rewarding sex of my life once my box got accustomed to it.

The waitress, Meredith as we learned somewhere through the orgy, managed to dig out chilled water for everyone from somewhere. I’m pretty sure we would've had casualties otherwise. John and I finally give up the hope that we might find my missing panties and sneak out the backdoor on wobbly legs. It’s getting dark, and although the stones and concrete still radiate the heat they have been infused with all day, a small breeze makes being outside almost bearable.

“What now?” I ask, my voice scratchy from all the moaning and shouting. A trail of jizz trickles down my thigh and makes me blush.

“Well,” he answers a bit sheepishly, scratching behind his ear and looking absolutely adorable, “my house belongs to the company and so does the furniture. I’ve got a car and about twenty grand stashed away for hard times. How does fucking our way all across the country sound?”

“You’re a pervert,” I tell him and slap his shoulder, but then I bite my lip. He doesn’t look as if he’s joking. “It sounds… intriguing. And,” I whisper into his ear with a mischievous grin while my hand kneads the part of him I have so recently come to love, “I’m pretty sure we’re facing very, very hard times.” I can already feel the confirmation of my words. We chuckle about the bad pun.

I hook my elbow with his and wipe a bead of sweat from above his eyebrow with my thumb. “Where’s your car? Let’s go!”