Anything For Him

Table of Contents

I stared at the photograph he’d emailed me. He’d promised he would and, finally, it had arrived.

It wasn’t what I’d expected; not that I thought for a minute he’d send me a copy of his passport photo; but this, this had really taken me by surprise. The odd angle of the camera lens and the overwhelming suggestiveness shocked me. It was deeply personal, completely voyeuristic and undoubtedly the most erotic image I had ever laid eyes on.

But it gave nothing away of the face I longed to see; yet, it told me so much about the man I’d been obsessing about for weeks. I reached over and clicked the printer to life. As it clanked through the setting-up motions, I leaned closer to my computer screen and allowed him to fill my vision.

His long, pale, black-hair-coated shin was in the forefront of the picture. The knee flopped wantonly towards the camera, making the patella the largest thing in the frame. His foot was out of shot. Beyond his leg, I could make out the right side of his torso – just – a small amount of lean waist, a hint at a taut set of ribs and a balled shoulder leading to what looked like a busy hand. I say busy, because he appeared to be jerking off, but of course, that could just be my filthy imagination.

His head was thrown back, his chin jutted upwards, his prominent Adam’s apple in profile against the bottle-green wall behind him. Other than his chin, not one facial feature could be identified, but what I saw of his chin, chiselled and dented at the centre, led me to believe the rest of his face would be angular and long.

Seedy shadows doused the whole image, the covers on the bed dusky green, almost brown, and the lighting, maybe shining through a cheap drawn curtain, was dim.

He seemed completely uninhibited despite the camera, which I guessed was on a timer. I gulped down a bite of bile as a sudden wave of regret at the photo I’d sent him rolled through me. I’d thought I was being sassy, original, beating him at his own game. But it was clear now that I played with someone who knew how to think out of the box, stay a step ahead, out-manoeuvre me without even needing to try.

The printer creaked to readiness and I hit the print button. I had to have his image in my hands, laser scanned, details ripe for scrutiny. As it whirred and heaved and slowly spat out the paper, I paced my office-cum-artist studio, frantically scratching the tops of my arms with my nails.

Damn that picture of my right areola. Not that it was a bad areola or a bad picture, it wasn’t. I was perfectly pert and the pixel count excellent. I had even rubbed an ice cube around my tight nub, before pulling it to a painful point, then, as a final creative flair, shined a spotlight on it. The dark room and bright light had made my wet skin golden, my nipple a rosy pink. The round-tipped point was blood-filled, the flesh leading to it wrinkled in an ordered, twisted way, as it strained to seek out more stimulation.

Damn that picture. His wasn’t exactly classy, but it was artistic, unique, risqué. Mine was just a token rude shot, though at least I’d resisted a shot of my newly shaved pussy. I would be in cringing hell right now if I’d followed through with that plan.

The next question was, of course, would we meet? We’d had a deal – if we liked the look of one another we would make arrangements for a date, a face-to-face encounter. Although, judging by the dirty routes our conversations had taken lately, I reckoned there would be considerably more than just our faces meeting. At least that was what I hoped.

So, my answer to ‘should we meet’ was a happy-dancing ‘yes’, my panties wet just from the sight of that bony shin and jauntily jutted head. The image of him alone, masturbating, thinking of me, possibly, had me so turned on my clit bobbed and my nipples were as tight as when they’d been treated to that ice cube.

But what about him? Would he think me unimaginative, boring, dull? The trouble was with Liuz, he was so articulate, so self-assured, and despite his first language being Polish, his mastery of English was excellent. Not that mine isn’t too. I’m a journalist, studied at Canterbury, and I’m also an artist, but somehow he always seemed to second guess what I was saying, or going to say, in my emails.

I held the newly printed-out photo in the air, the paper warm on my fingertips. I enjoyed having it A4 size, and peered closely.

I could make out the dark shafts of his leg hairs winding out of his skin, the creases on the sheet below his body wrinkled like ripples in water. Perhaps, also, I could make out a burn of black-fuzzed hair coming down in front of his ear, but I couldn’t be sure. It could be more of the stubble that coated his neck.

After retrieving a couple of drawing pins from a purple, sparkly pot on my desk, I hung Liuz’s image on my pin board, right in front of my desk. Where I could gorge on it; for when I looked at him, a fraction of the need, the burning want inside me, was sated.

Taking a deep breath, I did what I had to do next – check my in-box. We’re in the same time zone now that I’m back from my business trip to the United States, so he could have possibly seen it already. Plus, as a general rule he was at his computer. I wasn’t sure exactly what he did, but he worked from home. Marketing he’d said, something about buying and selling stock.

In-box. One new message.

From him.

I sucked in a breath and opened it. Those few seconds it took to process were absolute agony.

‘Your picture arrived.’

A rippling tightness in my guts had my belly tensing. Did he like it? Did he think I’d cheated by sending him so little to go on when he’d offered up so much? Given me such an honest picture that showed him vulnerable, a label I never would have given Liuz.

Quickly, I typed a response. Typical me, I avoided the pressing point. ‘So did yours.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I think you look like you are enjoying yourself.’

‘Mmm, enjoying or just taking care of an urge? A necessary task, if you like.’

‘So which was it?’

‘Which would you rather it was?’

I hesitated for a moment, then decided to risk a knock-back. ‘I hope you were enjoying yourself. I hope you were thinking of me, imagining you were fucking me.’ I hit send and waited for a response.

Nothing.

One minute stretched into two.

I stood and flung open the window to the autumn morning. Immediately, sounds of the city filtered up. Car horns, bus engines, the shouts of the workmen several buildings down.

Another message. About bloody time.

‘I was thinking of you, but not about fucking you.’

‘What then?’

‘Ah, that’s for me to know and you to find out, Aniolku.’

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth in frustration. He often did this, refused to answer something or turned it around on me. Also, if he knew he was playing coy, or being shifty, he’d nearly always add on ‘
Aniolku
’ at the end. I’d asked him what it meant a few weeks ago. He’d told me it was ‘angel’ in Polish. I’d laughed and said that surely by now he knew I was no angel. His reply was that was what made it such a perfect endearment for me.

‘Is that your bedroom?’ I asked, desperate to know more about the picture, and in turn, learn more about Liuz.

‘No, it’s my mate’s bedsit.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really.’

‘Did he take the picture?’

‘LOL, no, I was alone there. He just happens to have a nice camera.’

‘Wouldn’t he mind you spunking out on his sheets?’

‘I’m a big boy, I can control where I come. I’ve also heard of tissues.’

A rise of heat flushed over my chest, and I squirmed on the seat. Just the image of long, pearly jets of cum, spurting out onto that lean torso and dribbling into dark body hair, turned me on ridiculously. I could only imagine how his groans of pleasure would sound, how ragged his breaths would become, and what his sex-sweat would smell like, taste like.

I wanted to know all of these things for real. I wanted to know every tiny morsel of information about Liuz more than anything else I’d ever wanted to know.

There was an extended pause, then he typed, ‘Yours didn’t reveal much.’

‘I thought the idea was not to give too much away.’

‘You mean you were playing a game with me, and here was I thinking that we were just swapping honest photos of one another.’

‘Yours is hardly a mantelpiece portrait.’

‘Depends what else is on the mantelpiece.’

An image of his home came to my mind, created entirely in my imagination. He’d told me nothing other than that he lived in a mate’s bedsit in Brixton. Sharing or not, I wasn’t sure. But now, after seeing the photograph of his friend’s place, I visualised something painted in muted colours; moss green and muddy-puddle brown. Sparsely furnished with daylight penetrating curtains, bare bulbs. I don’t know why, but this image thrilled me so much more than the thought of a living space neat and ordered, pristine and thought-out. Liuz spent his time immersed in his work, head in his computer – well, either his work or indulging in teasing, flirting and sometimes downright rude talk with me – so I imagined his place would be functional rather than decorative.

‘OK, I should have given you more to go on,’ I typed back.

‘No worries, you have a nice tit. I can tell it would be a good handful and your nipple is perfectly suckable.’

I read that last line twice, and my areolas tingled deliciously at the thought of his mouth on me. Blood rushed to my entire breast, and my nipples pressed into my thin cotton bra. I circled my right nipple, the one on the photograph, over my clothes and allowed the stiffening sensation to bloom.

‘Would you like that?’ he replied before I could respond to his last email.

‘Yes.’

‘What else would you like,
Aniolku
?’

‘What else would you do?’

‘You mean after I curled my tongue around your nipples, stroked my hands over your breasts and fed you deep into my mouth, pulling you in, devouring you, making you moan for more?’

‘Yes, what else would you do?’

I had my hand inside my bra now, plucking and pulling at my nipple. I wished it was his hot mouth, hard and urgent, not gentle – rough and demanding was what I wanted, what I yearned for.

‘What would you want me to do?’ he asked.

Damn him always throwing questions back at me. I closed my eyes. I had to write something. I knew him well enough by now to know he wouldn’t respond until I did.

Once again an image flooded my mind. It was a lewd, sordid image of me, on my knees. A threadbare carpet beneath me and a bare light bulb above. I was naked, naked and submissive. Before me stood Liuz, tall, lean, golden-skinned, holding his cock towards my face. A beautiful cock, fat and generous in length, the glans engorged and the cleft below the head deep. I could see a drop of pre-cum nestled in the slit, and I could hear him telling me, ‘Lick it off, whore. Lick me, suck me. Do as I say.’

These images were new to me, sinfully wicked, and generated a well of guilt at what they suggested I really wanted, deep in my soul. But I couldn’t ignore them. Something about Liuz and the way he was with me had drawn rank thoughts and lusty needs to the surface; allowed them out to play, if only in my mind. It seemed they had moved in, for a while at least, and I couldn’t ignore them.