It’s an unusually hot day in the middle of summer. The blistering heat and still, sticky air have got you working up a sweat just sitting in your living room, mindlessly flipping through the channels on TV. You’ve had to open all the windows and you have multiple fans on high just to make it bearable.
You periodically dab your forehead with a cloth to prevent the accumulation of sweat; you’re just about going mad with the heat. You’ve resorted to wearing nothing but a pair of pink panties and a loose fitting crop top with no bra underneath, as you wait for your boyfriend John to return from the store. He went out a few minutes ago to pick up some snacks for the two of you to pig out on while you watch TV and enjoy the time you both have off.
Suddenly you hear a knock at the door. You hesitate for a moment, confused. “He must have locked it behind him by accident,” you think to yourself out loud. You hop up off the couch, walking over to the door excitedly, hoping to find your boyfriend with an armful of snacks and junk food. As you swing the door open, your face flushes red as you realize the man standing at the door is not John, and you’re standing there in your panties. It’s Dan, and he looks as overheated as you, and in distress.
“Oh shit, Dan.” you stutter, “I thought you were John, I… sorry, I would’ve put some clothes on if I’d known it was you.”
He seems taken aback by your skimpy outfit, as if he’d suddenly forgot why he knocked on your door in the first place. “That’s, uh…” he begins, “That’s alright, Anna. I don’t mind. Look, can you help me with my car? I broke down on the road right outside.”
“Oh, sorry,” you explain, “I’m no help with that sort of thing. But if you want, John should be home soon. He can help you out. Here, come in,” you offer, ushering him in.
“Thanks,” he says, sauntering into your living room, kicking his shoes off behind him. He politely sits on the couch. He’s wearing a thin white tank top that accentuates his arm muscles and tight jeans that are doing nothing to hide his natural bulge. He pulls his top away from his torso for a moment to cool himself off, giving you a brief glance at his lightly defined pecs. Meanwhile, his hand runs through his hair, tousling his smooth locks, before wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.
You bite your lip unconsciously, suddenly feeling even hotter than before. Maybe the heat has really driven you crazy, because you’re suddenly feeling the overwhelming urge to let the man sitting on your couch fuck your brains out. But it would have to be quick; John will be back before long. On the other hand, you fear if you show your hand right away you might scare him off and blow your chance instead of blowing him. You’d really rather do the latter of the two.