I check my phone.
03:11
Fri, 07 Aug
☁️ 37℃ (99℉)
It’s been 37℃ since the sun went down.
My sheets are wet. My hair is wet. My armpits are wet. There is nowhere on my body that is not, in some small, humiliating way, glistening.
I get up.
I pull on my thinnest, baggiest t-shirt, not bothering with a bra. I step into an equally loose pair of running shorts because the hallway has a camera and I still have some limits. My gym bag is already packed. It’s been packed since Tuesday. Water bottle. Small towel. The dildo and a new bottle of lube, wrapped in the small towel, because… I honestly don’t know why. It felt less pervy that way, I guess.
The service stairwell smells like someone’s cat and wet concrete. Six flights. Sweat trickles down my back before soaking into my shorts. There’s a damp band that stretches across my waist by the time I reach the landing below the rooftop. I stop and listen—nothing, just the apartment building sighing softly—then I lean my shoulder into the heavy fire door as I press the crash bar. The chunk sound startles me, even though I’m expecting it, and I stop again.
Silence.
I’m good.
The roof is dark. The sky is a featureless black dome. The city is orange all around and below.
I’m alone.
I’m sure I’m alone.
The sky goes white in the distance for a second and I jump. Heat lightning. It’s nothing.
I set my bag beside the plastic recliner I dragged up here in June and never took back down, and for a moment I stand there in my sweat-damp t-shirt and my shorts and my running shoes. This is the part where I’ll lose my nerve, if I’m going to lose it at all.
I don’t lose it.
I sit on the chair and the plastic weave is somehow both hot and cold against the backs of my thighs, and that’s such a stupid, strange sensation that I laugh—a nervous, giddy squeal that I clap my hand over immediately. The city doesn’t answer. A car horn, blocks away. A bass line from somebody’s window, muffled to a heartbeat.
I unlace nothing. My shoes stay. I like the shoes. I need to keep them on, or I won’t be able to do this at all.
The shorts come off first. I fold them carefully and set them on the concrete beside the chair like I’m at a doctor’s appointment. The panties—plain, grey, ruined by sweat—I fold those too, and tuck them inside the shorts, because apparently even in the middle of a private crime I have some modesty.
And then, there I am, sitting on a rooftop in August in nothing but a soaked white t-shirt and my running shoes. A breeze puffs by, caressing my short-trimmed pubic hair and my mound. It’s thrilling, and I gasp softly.
I open my bag. Set the water bottle beside the chair, then nervously unwrap the dildo.
It’s laughable. The silicone is an ugly marble of red, brown, and yellow. It reminds me of those super bouncy balls. Along the underside are ridged plates like scales. The head is uncut and not fully exposed, with a curve at the tip that I remember thinking, in the store, that’s going to be a problem and then, two nights later, Oh! Oh, that’s not a problem at all.
I won’t need the lube. I check anyway, two fingers between my legs, separate my outer lips while my middle finger slides between them. I am soaked—have been soaked since the stairwell, maybe since I packed the bag knowing I would do this.
I glide the tip over my dark-brown pussy lips. I breathe out. I push.
The head goes in easily but as the first bumpy nodules around the shaft enter me I sob like I’d been gut-punched. I freeze. I listen. A pigeon, behind me. A distant siren.
Still alone.
I ease the dragon-cock the rest of the way in, whimpering as each ridge pushes down on my entrance. My pussy relaxes once the ‘plate’ is fully inside, and the next begins opening me once more. As the weird tip finds my swollen little spot, I think: Okay. Okay.
The heat isn’t just around me anymore; it’s inside me, a liquid weight pushing against my ribs. I can’t breathe. Every lungful of air is heavy and wet. I shift my hold on the dildo and I pull it out. I gasp again—be quiet!—and grind the slippery underside over my clit. My toes curl inside my shoes, then I jam the toy back inside. Hard.
Flash.
My heart skips a beat, a frantic, fluttering thing in my throat, and my knees slam together. Did someone… the balcony across the street…? I imagine a thousand eyes, a thousand tiny glass circles, watching the way my thighs are trembling, watching the way I’m sweating through this stupid, thin t-shirt.
Heat lightning. That’s all.
I start fucking like I’m trying to punish myself. The rhythm is wrong, it’s too fast, it’s desperate, my hips are slamming against the flimsy chair with an uneven thud-thud-thud that seems loud enough to wake the whole city. Sweat traces the underslope of my breasts and pools beneath me. The smell—roofing tar still cooling from the heat of the day, the city, and my own body—makes my head swim.
Flash.
Someone caught me! No, it’s just in my head. A click! I don’t care, I hammer my pussy even harder with my ridiculous dildo.
Nobody’s watching. I’m alone.
I’m exposed. I’m naked and sweating and being watched by the dark. The schlick-schlick-schlick of the cock pounding my hole horrifies me. It’s too loud! It’s gross!
It’s hot!
I bite my wrist, digging my teeth into my skin, trying to muffle my small, needy whimpers, but it’s no use. The bumpy, ridged tip is hitting that perfect spot and it’s sending jolts of electricity straight to my brain.
I’m spiralling. My thoughts won’t make sense. I’m just nerve endings and heat and paranoia. My eyes go wide, staring at a neighbouring building, and I see them—the lenses. They’re everywhere. In the windows. In the shadows. They’re waiting for me to break.
Flash.
“Oh fuck!” I wail; pathetic and broken and still powerful. I don’t care who hears me. I want them to hear. I need them to watch. I’m giving them a gift! I want them to see me becoming my orgasm. The build is a crushing weight pressing down on my belly, and I’m clawing at the moulded armrest with my free hand, my knuckles white, my breath coming in jagged, hitching gasps.
It’s coming. It’s too big! It’s too much! I can’t hold it—
I scream! A raw, animal howl that tears out of my throat and thunders into the night. My whole body thrashes. My legs kick uselessly against the air. My head snaps back so hard I fear I’ll break my neck. My cunt squeezes and squirts, and my hand is drenched, and I can’t hold on to the monstrous dildo anymore, and it bounces to the rooftop, and the world is gone.
I check my phone.
04:44
Fri, 07 Aug
🌙 27℃ (81℉)
It feels much cooler now. I repack my bag and dress. My panties feel cold, still sweat-damp but no longer body-warm.
I take a breath, hope I won’t bump into anyone in the hall, and open the fire door.
