Heat Lightning

We were outside, chastely dressed in bathing costumes because it wasn't our house. Sure, there was no one else around to see, but we had been told that under no circumstances were we to be naked, because there wasn't a fence like at our house and who knew who was watching? Never mind why we were there; that doesn't really matter much.

He was going through a phase where he liked to keep his hand inside his pants; it got to the point where Mom told him to cut it out, not because she wanted to stunt his sexual growth, just because she was sick of him wandering around with his hand in his pants. But that was later. Right now we were lying in the shade and he had his hand down there like a security blanket. The difference was that he was lazily moving it up and down, so I knew he was jacking off.

The air was oppressive, weighing down on us like there was more water than air in the atmosphere. The kind of day when being indoors wasn't an option, but being outdoors was a chore. The sprinkler on the lawn even seemed to move more slowly, as if it had caught the laziness, the inertia, of summer, and wanted nothing more than to droop and never rise again.

The shade was preferable to indoors because the air was moving, but only just, and sweat poured off of me and puddled in warm, moist pools between my breasts and legs and buttocks. My bikini wasn't modest, but it still felt like yards of fabric to soak up and store all the humidity. The lawn chair's plastic stuck to my skin every time I shifted, which wasn't often. And watching Mike slowly stroke his cock inside his shorts did nothing to help, it elevated the temperature and produced further moisture between my legs. I wished, for so many reasons, that I could tear off my bikini and find some snow, possibly with an interlude in between for mischief.

In the end, the water of the sprinkler seemed better than the slowly stagnating pools of sweat, and we moved closer to it until it was playing over us, first one then the other. Mike was still slowly masturbating, contemplatively, as if for no reason other than that it was there. I reached down and pulled my waistline away from my stomach to allow airflow beneath, which had the unforeseen (or perhaps only subconsciously-admitted) side effect of pulling the seams at the crotch tight against me, sending a message to my brain that my cunt was in need of attention. My brain replied that my cunt should shut the fuck up, because it was too damn hot to do anything like that.

"Are you as horny as I am?" I asked him, idly, in no hurry.

"Yeah, probably." We'd had each other once, quickly, before coming out earlier; quickly because the heat indoors had made it almost painful to press skin to skin.

"We could find a tree..."

"Nah, too hot for that." But the intensity of his strokes inside his pants increased slightly. I reached into my own bottoms and stroked a little too. If there had been someone watching, they would have been in no doubt as to what was going on. "We could do it in the sprinkler."

He had a point. I got up and directed the sprinkler so it was falling solely on him, its labors now ended save for the arcing of the water. Then I sat in his lap, both of us still small enough to fit in one chair. I felt his erection on my hip through the slick fabric of his swimsuit.

We couldn't get naked, but we could shift and pull things aside until his cock was pressing into me from behind, not deep because of the somewhat awkward position, but deep enough. It was too hot to fuck; we just shifted in and out, slowly, lazily, until between his penetrations and my own rubbing I came, and then he followed. Then we sat there, spent, roasting, flushed, as the water fell on us and the sun, lazy as the rest of the overheated world, sank slowly, darkness bringing no cool, only mosquitoes.