I gaped at him. “Are you serious?”
The dimple appeared in his cheek. “Why not? Ever since that designer told me what he did, I’ve had a fantasy about posing for some sexy photographs. This seems like the perfect chance.”
If he was up for it, who was I to argue? I had been bemoaning the lack of suitable models less than an hour earlier, and now one had pitched up in my living room. “I’ll need a couple of minutes to set things up. There’s another can in the fridge if you want it,” I told him. My camera was sitting in the spare bedroom, which I had converted into my darkroom when I’d bought the flat. I went to hunt it out, together with a couple of lamps which would create the dramatic lighting I needed for the shots I had in mind.
The bedroom was less messy than it could have been, considering; having set up the lights to my satisfaction, I bundled up the duvet and shoved it out of the way beneath the bed, replacing it with a freshly laundered white bedsheet. I was moving various personal items off the bedside table when I became aware of a shadow behind me, and realized my model had come into the room. I hoped he hadn’t seen me bundling the slim, white vibrator which had passed for my sex life since Tim had left into the drawer.
If he had, he said nothing, just glanced round the impromptu set I’d created. “So how do you want me?” he asked.
So badly my pussy is throbbing just thinking about it, I thought, but I was determined to keep this professional. “Take your trousers off,” I said matter-of-factly. “I’ll start with some of you in just your T-shirt and underwear. I take it you are wearing underwear?” When he just looked at me, I continued, “You wouldn’t be the first who wasn’t …”
He was, as I discovered when he casually slipped off his trainers, socks and combat pants: little black briefs that clung to the contours of his cock and balls. I picked up my light meter and took a reading, then ordered him on to the bed. “Right, lie on your back,” I told him. “Raise one knee and let your legs fall apart slightly. That’s great …”
When sportsmen have a great match, they talk about being in “the zone”; that moment when they can’t fail to hit the ball, when they feel almost incapable of making a mistake. Sometimes when I’m wielding the camera, it’s just the same, and it felt that way now. My instincts had been right; he was a natural model, with no shyness or inhibition. When I asked him to cradle himself through his underwear, he did it without embarrassment, and I could have sworn he was giving himself a couple of sly rubs through the fabric, helping to raise his cock from its slumbers.
The camera clicked away as he stripped out of his T-shirt, displaying a chest that was firm and hairless. His nipples were hard, and I wondered just how much of a kick he was getting out of posing for me. I would know soon enough.
“Okay, let’s get you out of those pants,” I said. “Peel them down very slowly, like you’re teasing me. I just want to see a glimpse of your pubes.”
He did as I asked, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pulling them away from his hipbones. When he finally eased them down and off on my request, it was to reveal a half-hard cock, thick and already impressive. Even though the bedroom window was open, letting in the traffic noises which reminded me the everyday world was still moving past outside, it suddenly felt stiflingly warm in the room. Not only that, but my jeans seemed to be a size too tight, the seam pressing into the crease between my legs so that every movement I made put a subtle, aching pressure on my clitoris.
“Let’s do a few with the sheet round you,” I suggested. “Just drape it over your legs, like you’ve kicked it off in your sleep.”
He wrapped the sheet loosely around the lower half of his body, and then I arranged it to my satisfaction, pulling it away so it was barely covering his muscular left thigh. My fingers brushed his warm flesh as I did, and I shivered slightly at the contact. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had affected me so powerfully.
I grabbed my camera again, and directed him through the sequence of shots I wanted, taking some close-ups of the sheet where it was molded to the outline of his cock, then finally asking him to pull the sheet away entirely so I could photograph him naked. He was completely uninhibited as he grasped his hardening dick and played with it languidly till it stiffened fully, rising up towards his belly button. These were shots the magazines in Britain could never use, but I was no longer thinking about a potential market for these photos. Now, it was all about having a beautiful man lying on my bed, erect and unmistakably ready for sex. My pussy was hot, the pulse between my legs beating too hard for me to ignore. And then the roll of film ran out.
“Okay, all done,” I said. “You can get dressed now, if you want.”
“I don’t want,” he said, catching hold of my arm and guiding me to sit on the bed beside him. “I mean, what I am going to do about this?” He gestured to his cock, still hard and bobbing slightly as he moved.
“Well, if it’s a problem, normally the model goes into the bathroom and sorts himself out,” I replied, trying to sound as though this happened all the time. Usually, they just collected their fee and left.
“Doesn’t the photographer ever give them a hand?” he asked with what I could have sworn was a hopeful tone in his voice.
“Not if they don’t want to get a reputation for being unprofessional,” I told him.
“Not even if the model were to ask nicely?” He looked at me with such a devilish expression in those blue eyes that my pussy clenched in a powerful spasm.
I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, that it went against the professionalism which was such an important part of my job, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and circled his cock with my fingers, feeling the hot, hard length of him. His sigh of pleasure was barely audible as I stroked him gently.
He rolled back, pulling me on to the mattress with him, and we began to kiss, his mouth soft and tasting faintly of spearmint. It felt strange to be still fully dressed while he was naked, but if I thought that gave me the upper hand in matters, I was proved wrong. Suddenly, he climbed over me, and the weight of his body pressed me down as he straddled my chest. My hand barely broke its rhythm on his shaft, even when he pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans and started cupping and squeezing my breasts through my bra. I wriggled beneath him, using the seam of my jeans to give my overheating pussy the stimulation it craved.
Now it was his mouth that explored my tits, his tongue dampening the nylon of my bra and flicking over my nipples. “Take it off,” I urged him, wanting to feel his lips against my bare skin.
My T-shirt and bra were stripped off me without ceremony and, as he suckled my bare breasts, my hand continued to wank his cock. We were both panting heavily by now, and drops of sweat glistened on his torso.
I guided his hand down to the fly of my jeans, hoping he would take the hint. I was pretty sure he knew exactly what I wanted, but he seemed determined to make me beg. “Please …” I murmured, pressing my crotch against his fingers, and I was rewarded with the rasp of my zip being pulled down.
Between us, we started hauling my jeans and panties down, but when they reached my ankles he pushed me back to the mattress, leaving me effectively hobbled by the tangle of denim and white cotton. It felt strange to have my movements restrained as his fingers began to explore the soft, wet flesh of my sex, but I gave myself up to the feeling. I had let go of his cock and lay submissively as he circled my clit with a lazy fingertip. I was blossoming, opening up under his touch, readying myself for the moment when the thick head of his cock breached the entrance to my pussy, and yet somewhere at the back of my brain a little voice nagged at me.
“Condoms,” I muttered. “In the bedside cabinet.” If he found the vibrator now, I didn’t really care. An image flashed through my mind of him using it on me, sliding its buzzing length deep into my cunt, or even using it to explore my tight, virgin arse.
He was straddling me now, his dick sheathed in translucent latex, and I parted my legs as widely as the knot of clothing around my ankles wo
uld let me. Slowly, he nudged into me, and I moaned as the thickness of him stretched me wide. And then he was moving, rocking his hips back and forth, and I was moving with him, finding his rhythm and matching it with one of my own. If the traffic was still moving on the road outside, or the breeze still stirring the curtains, I was no longer aware of it: the world had shrunk to the size of this bed, and the only noises I heard were those we were making as we hurried towards our orgasm, our breathing fast and ragged, our sweat-slick bodies sliding together.
His mouth met mine again, and we were still kissing fiercely as I began to come, the blood singing in my ears and my pussy clutching at his hot, solid cock. He groaned, low in his throat, and, with one last thrust, harder than anything which had gone before, he, too, climaxed. He held still for a moment, and then he slumped against me, spent.
We rolled apart, so he could peel off the condom and I could finally free myself from my tangled-up jeans, and then he wrapped his arms around me and I cuddled against him, still not quite able to believe what I’d just done. I didn’t fuck men I’d only met a couple of hours earlier; it was so out of character for me.
Of course, when I told Frances what had happened, she would put it all down to her stupid Feng Shui ducks, but I knew things didn’t work out like that in real life. Far Eastern superstition hadn’t brought this man into my life; if anything had, it was Izzy Russell’s overspending.
“By the way,” I said, “this is going to sound stupid, but Izzy didn’t actually tell me your name.”
“It’s Aiden,” he told me, that sexy smile dimpling his cheek again. “Aiden Drake.”
A Cruel Heartless Bitch
Severin Rossetti
The cruel heartless bitch, she fucked the arse off him, she tore at his flesh as she used him and left him a dry husk of a person, like an empty purse without so much as a penny in it, a body without a soul, a man without an aim.
He should have heeded the warning, read the portents, seen the signs. But then yes … he did see the signs.
The bar was in that “city” part of the city where Brian had business, a place where men such as himself, in sober suits and with busy schedules, went for lunch or for a couple of quick drinks after work before catching their trains back out to the suburbs. Its ceilings were low, there were just two rooms decorated with much dark wood and polished brass, and squeezed as it was between two banks, with floor upon floor of offices bearing down on it, it seemed like an afterthought, like a vestige of some past time when commerce was a less hectic thing.
Though it was barely midday Brian had already had two lengthy meetings, was left with an hour to kill before the next one, so thought he would call in for a drink and a sandwich.
The place had the beery smell he expected, of hops and polish, maybe faint traces of the previous night’s excesses, and the gleaming pumps offered an interesting selection of ales. Any sampling of them would have to wait until he had conducted the last of his meetings, though, he was far too professional to meet a client with beer on his breath, and so he took his place at the bar, waited while the only other customer was served, then asked for a tonic water.
“Ice and lemon?”
She was at the far end of the bar, where her other customer was slouched silently on a stool, and as she turned to face Brian the first thing he noted was her lack of make-up, quickly followed by the realization that she had no need of any. In the tawny light of that bar, where brass and glass and polished wood cast so many reflections, her pale complexion seemed as perfect as well-worn marble, as if she was a sculpture which had been caressed by legions of admirers. She was as soberly dressed as any of the pub’s clientele might be, wore a dark pin-striped jacket and trousers which were sharply creased, a grey silk polo neck beneath against which hung a slender string of black pearls which glinted as they caught the light, drawing the eye to her full breasts.
“Well? Ice and lemon with the tonic?”
She had moved the length of the bar, set Brian’s drink before him, he had not been aware of the staccato tap of her heels approaching so nodded quickly, said, “Yes please. And maybe a sandwich?”
“We have ham and cheese or cheese and ham,” she told him, dropping a slice of lemon and a cube of ice into his glass.
“That will be fine, thanks.”
“Which?” she asked, and when he looked into her eyes, expecting to find some trace of humour, he saw none, just her cold unsmiling gaze.
“Ham and cheese will be okay,” he hurriedly said.
He was served, he paid, and she retreated to her station at the far end of the bar. As he chewed on his sandwich Brian noticed the brass plaques which were fixed above the bar, the sort that were common to many pubs, each bearing some motto or legend. He scanned them distractedly, expecting them to be of the usual “you don’t have to be crazy to work here” kind, but instead he saw them to be refreshingly more original.
“I take my desires for reality because I believe in the reality of my desires,” read one.
“To make a fetish potent outside its cult is precisely the function of the aesthetic,” said another.
And perhaps most amusing of all: “I may be a cruel heartless bitch … but at least I’m good at it.”
Amusing? Perhaps that was the wrong choice of word, for he had yet to recognize any humour in his hostess, either in her manner or the set of her lips. She went efficiently about her business but he had yet to see her smile or have anything pleasant to say to any of her customers.
Perhaps he was intrigued then, rather than amused, as he read the motto again: “I may be a cruel heartless bitch … but at least I’m good at it.”
“Pretentious piffle,” Brian heard, the words spoken in slurred tones, and turned to see the pub’s first customer at his shoulder. “Pay no heed, take no notice, it’s all a load of bullshit and will fuck up your mind.”
And with that he was gone, lurching towards the door, shoulders hunched and shuffling, as if his feet were shackled together or his nuts were in a knot. Brian watched him leave, then turned to the landlady with a wry smile on his face, expecting her to share his amusement and maybe give some explanation of the man’s eccentricity.
She was dealing with another customer though, serving him with what Brian now took to be her customary cold and efficient way.
She may well have been the “cruel heartless bitch” of the legend above the bar.
Other meetings were conducted, Brian’s afternoon was busy, but as well as he had planned his visit there were still matters left pending. Fortunately he had anticipated this, that nothing ever goes to plan, had had the foresight to pack an overnight bag and so checked into a hotel.
It was one of those Travelodges which could have been anywhere, clean and comfortable enough but each room the same and totally devoid of character. He showered then, changed, went back out but found himself in a city which was much like any other.
There was the drawback of travelling so much, of conducting business in so many different places, that ultimately everywhere seemed much like everywhere else.
But then he remembered the tiny little pub which seemed somehow apart from the world around it, found it easily and entered.
“A pint of ‘Speckled Hen’ please,” he said, as casually as if he were a regular in the place.
“Ice and lemon in that?”
It was the same woman as before, dressed as before, as if still expecting her sober suited clientele though it was now a little too late for them.
“No ice or lemon thanks, I’ll just take it as it comes,” Brian said, a grin on his face as he realized that she remembered him, thinking that now that the business of the day had finished – the place was as empty as it had been before, just two other customers in opposite corners of the room – she might be a little more forthcoming in her conversation.
“No ice or lemon then,” was all she said, though, pulling his pint and setting it before him, then going to the far end of the bar where there was no one to d
istract her.
He sipped his beer and then drank more deeply, ordered another when he had drained that first one, and then a third.
Perhaps it was the beer that had him grinning when she came to serve him, and she found his smile engaging, or perhaps it was the slackness of the custom which had her bored. Whatever the reason, this time she did not return to her usual spot at the far end of the bar but stood almost facing Brian, just a little to one side.
“A nice place,” he said of the pub, to make conversation. “There’s just you works here?”
“I have staff when there’s a need,” she replied. “Lunchtime through to early evening. Times like this, and when you were here before, I can cope alone.”
So the pub was hers, she was employer rather than employee, and already his mind was working, running through a number of scenarios.
“And later on?” he ventured.
“There is no ‘later on’, there isn’t the custom to keep the place open once the office workers have gone home.”
“So then it’s home for you too?” he supposed. “And where might that be?”
“Why do you ask?” she wanted to know.
“No special reason.” He shrugged. “Just … You know …”
Just thinking that she might like to go for a meal … and … you know …
“I have a house, a home,” she told him. “And there’s a small flat in the basement for those times when I need to stay over.”
“In that case, I wonder if—?” Brian began, but before he could make his suggestion one of the other two customers was leaving, bidding her goodbye, and the second was at the far end of the bar, wanting her attention.
Cursing inwardly as she walked away, Brian swallowed a mouthful of beer, leaving just an inch in the bottom of his glass, and crossed the room to the “gents”.
As he emptied his bladder of the beer he had drunk he felt his cock heavy in his hand, not erect but getting there. When he washed his hands beneath the tap he felt his cheeks burning, saw in the mirror how flushed they were and splashed them with cold water.
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