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NSFW Erotic Fiction

August Sweat

Much as I endeavour to bolster myself against occasional seizures of lust, instances arise when I must channel my prurient peculiarities into dalliances with a willing and eager partner.

Such is how I characterize my relationship with Camilla Louise Prendergast, daughter of Jedediah and Cordelia Prendergast, owner of the largest cotton gin in Southampton County, holder of the largest tobacco allotment in Southampton County, and clandestine owner of the largest illegal still in Southampton County.

Jedediah prided himself on maintaining this illicit enterprise undetected ever since he came back from France in 1919, only to see the Volstead Act deprive him of the only avocation he enjoyed more than shooting wild boar, or shagging whores, as he put it so colorfully.

He took a liking to me, partly because I could shoot as well as he did, I knew a lot of fellows who enjoyed the fine whiskey from his still as much as I did, and my father the doctor would treat his syphilis with Salversin and not report him to the Health Department. Daddy’s only stipulation would be that Jedediah tell him of the ladies with whom he had his, shall we say, rendezvous. He saw no reason why they should suffer too.

One Saturday, I was enjoying the pleasures of a glass of lemonade as I watched our church baseball team face off against the boys from the Methodist Church in Capron. It was awful hot, my shirt sticking to my back, and any breeze was as welcome as Jackson at The Seven Days.

At that time, as I bemoaned the agony of the Southern Summer, and could not imagine a more inhospitable climate, Camilla pulled up in her Studebaker coupe. I had known of her by reputation. She went to a boarding school in Richmond, then to Sarah Lawrence. She smoked in public. She also helped my father locate some of her father’s unfortunate partners, all of course, in strictest confidence.

I offered her a lemonade and something extra from the flask I kept in my hip pocket concealed by the linen jacket, whose sole purpose was to keep the flask out of scrutiny by the nosier Baptists in the bleachers.

“Thank you, Holmes.”

“My pleasure. Thank your Daddy too for hiring Custis to ply his trade.” Custis was the colored bootlegger who ostensibly tended her daddy’s hogs, but really ran the still.

She smiled knowingly. “An artist if ever there was one.”

“By the way, I’m going to watch the meteor showers tonight. Care to watch with me?”

“Are you asking me out after my curfew?” Camilla asked brusquely, the sarcasm obvious.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know what came over you. You wanted to spend some time with a woman your own age, who knows more than the names of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, who, as you well know, are scarcer than hen’s teeth around here.”

“Well will you? Can you?”

“I can and I will.”

Hot days in the South are the only thing worse than hot nights. And I sweated that Saturday. In preparation for tonight’s outing I took iced tea from the Frigidaire and the rest of the peach pie Mother made for Saturday supper. Mother and Daddy knew I was going out to a pasture to watch stars, only they thought Ruffin, my friend who studied engineering at VMI, would be watching with me. They didn’t know about Camilla, at least not formally. But they knew about the ways of youth and the unconventional ways of young ladies who go North to college.

With iced tea and pie in the hamper, I started my walk down to Billy Thomas’s pasture. My father was one of the few folks who spoke to him, even though his great-great Uncle George, the Yankee Traitor, had left the county long ago.

Around One AM, I heard Camilla’s car. “What have I missed?”

“Not much. Just lightning bugs.” She lay back on the blanket beside me. I could smell her perfume, and listened to her breathing. I knew she was there in a most powerful way.

“Timeless.”

“Yes.”

“Ever stop to think that Caesar and Cleopatra could see the same sky?” she observed.

“No. But you’re right. Or David and Bathshebah.”

“Not only can you get Biblical with me Hunter Holmes McGuire Davenport, but you just so happen to mention the most infamous of all the Israelite adulterers and fornicators. How dare you offend the ears of a Southern Lady!”

Just as soon as I thought I had offended the genteel sensitibilities of Southern womanhood, she broke her air of mock outrage with a laugh.

“Gotcha!”

“Yes you did.” It was then that we both knew that pretence of star gazing had served its purpose. I kissed her. She kissed back. We fumbled with the wrinkled, sweaty clothes of an August night. We welcomed the nakedness and how the breeze dried the sweat and cooled us. All the while, we maintained the frenzy that kept the sweat coming.

“Did you bring anything Hunter?”

I knew what she meant and I hadn’t.

“You got any ideas, Cammie?”

“Just what do they teach you at The College of William and Mary?”

It’s time you had a lesson in practical anatomy.” With that, she straddled my face with her vulva aligned with my mouth. I learned that night what women smelled like, how soft those other lips were, how her hairs tickled my nose. And that two people could make time stand still.

And she devoted her attention to me.

We made a lot of noise that we hoped wouldn’t carry too far. And we suddenly had an idea of what fun was that we hadn’t learned at Bible School or from the radio. Maybe the kind Caesar and Cleopatra had, or more likely, Abelard and Heloise.

We did see enough meteors to construct an alibi. And I did get to Ruffin in time to cover for me should the need arise.

And the South and her Summer ground on, till I finally crossed the James on the ferry. And Dante´, Chaucer, and Shakespeare reclaimed my attention.