Anything For Him (2 page)

I settled my fingertips over the keyboard and nibbled on my bottom lip as I wondered what to write. Nothing too crude, but something a little edgy. Eventually I settled on, ‘Next I want you to pretend my mouth is your hand. Do what you did to yourself in the picture.’

‘You mean jerk into you hard and fast. I don’t wank like a delicate little flower, you know.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘I’d back you up against a wall and hold your head tight. Forge in and out without a thought for your breathing. After all, my hand doesn’t need to breathe, does it?’

My heart raced. ‘What else?’

‘I wouldn’t give a shit about whether or not your gag reflex was killing you. I’d ram down your throat, enjoying the wet tightness. And I’d shout at you too.’

My fingers shook as I typed. ‘What would you shout?’

Lust screeched around my system.

‘That you had to suck harder, open wider, then when I was about to come I would shout at you to swallow, to keep swallowing until I told you to stop. I would keep ramming into you until my bollocks were drained and my cock started to soften.’

I stroked my clit through the gusset of my leggings and gave in to a few deep rotations. I knew I would have to masturbate soon. The need was building, a carnal pressure that would soon require release. One-handedly I replied, ‘OK.’

There was long pause, which allowed me to fret myself to an ass-clenching state of arousal; then he answered, ‘We should definitely meet.’

I’d sneaked my devilish fingers into my panties now, and the glossy pea that was my clitoris took a hard and fast beating. Once again, I typed ‘OK’ then, as I hit send, I arched my back, reared my hips off the seat and allowed a sharp climax to take control. I panted through the waves of pleasure. I squeezed my eyes shut and once again visualised Liuz before me, thrusting his dick into my mouth, over and over and over.

Our meeting couldn’t come soon enough.

Four days later Liuz hadn’t sent any emails with a fixed meeting date. I found myself getting anxious. I wanted – no,
needed
– to meet him sooner rather than later. My lust for him was growing by the second, and any further delay would likely send me into a tailspin.

On a day when I had absolutely nothing planned, my mind as equally idle as my computer, I wondered why Liuz hadn’t contacted me at all that morning. I usually had correspondence from him to wake up to every day, and this was the first time my in-box only displayed spam for penis enlargement and breast augmentation. It got me to thinking about cocks and tits, then Liuz and me. By mid-afternoon a thought came to mind – a totally irrational and insane thought.

I would go to Brixton.

Such was my obsession with him that, as I dressed, I dallied with the idea that fate had made us meet; therefore, fate would direct me to his neighbourhood and we would know one another as soon as we made eye contact. I knew it wasn’t normal behaviour, to indulge in such fancies and even believe they could possibly be true, but that was obsession for you. It drove a person to entertain the ludicrous, to imagine the impossible.

I called in a couple of favours from fellow journalists with connections who could do a quick check on names and addresses. I’d wondered if his name was really Liuz; after all, he could have made that up for the purposes of using the internet anonymously, but somehow I didn’t think he had. He’d always been honest, blunt a lot of the time, and him being so self-assured made me think he’d be comfortable enough to use his real name. Without a surname to go on, though, the results of the check might have been fruitless, but hey, I’d got lucky. And don’t forget, fate was my friend.

Armed with my notebook containing three possible addresses of men named Liuz in Brixton, picked out of the database using God knew what search words – and I didn’t want to know – I boarded a bus. Seated next to the window, with my bag on the chair beside me to prevent anyone sitting there, I gazed out at the passing scenery – houses, the odd open space here and there with scant trees, people out and about – seeing them as a blur, focusing my mind on other things.

Like Liuz’s picture. Our email conversations. The way he made me come with his dirty words.

I imagined he’d be so pleased to see me when we finally did meet face to face. But what if he wasn’t? Yes, I was intrepid online – wasn’t everyone, hiding behind a façade of brimming self-confidence and ultra-awareness of how alluring they were to the recipient of their emails? Now, I allowed myself to wallow in insecurity and doubts, nearly biting one of my long, beautifully manicured nails in the process before I stopped myself. I wouldn’t want him seeing me with ugly hands. Along with my tongue, pussy, ass and mouth, they were the tools I’d use to seduce him.

I dug into my bag and brought out my compact mirror, flipping it open to take a good look at myself and see what someone saw when they met me for the first time. I wasn’t bad-looking, but I wasn’t exactly drop-dead gorgeous either. But then, hadn’t Liuz been able to come with just my words, sight unseen?

It would be OK, I was sure of it.

And then another thought arrived, fresh from its swift entrance into my mind, all blustery and full of importance.

What if I don’t fancy him?

I’d imagined him to be so sexy, so handsome, that I hadn’t entertained the idea he might not be to my tastes visually. His words had been enough, hot and lurid, straight to the damn point, but would they be enough once I’d set eyes on him for real? I wasn’t a fool; I knew appearances mattered. I’m not shallow, honestly I’m not, but a girl’s got to find
something
about the outer package in order to have a connection.

I huffed out a breath and slipped the compact back into my bag, terrorising myself about him not living up to my expectations and me not living up to his. I succumbed, putting one fingernail in my mouth and lightly running the tip across my teeth, then snatching it away, chewing the inside of my cheek instead. What if it all went wrong? Would it be better to just keep it as an online thing?

I tried to envisage never meeting him, never having his hands on my skin, his breaths tickling the back of my neck, his cock inside me. I couldn’t do it. I
had
to meet him and, like we’d said, if we didn’t like the look of one another then there wouldn’t even
be
a meeting – not one that went anywhere anyway.

It’ll be all right. Honestly, it’ll be fine
.

The bus lurched to a stop, the movement shunting me forward, and I flung my hand up to grab the back rail of the seat in front. A middle-aged man got off, stepping down onto a residential street strewn with litter that had undoubtedly been jostled by the wind from an untied refuse sack. As he walked off up the road, a white paper napkin chased him, winding around his ankles like a starving cat unwilling to be ignored. He stopped walking, bent down to catch a hold of it, then balled it into a meaty fist. As the bus started up again, I stared across the bus and out the opposite windows at him, wishing he’d see me so I could gauge his reaction to my looks.

Since when had I become so in need of assurance?

Since I knew damn well this wasn’t a game any more. Since I realised he was serious in wanting to meet.

I was serious too, but deep inside, even though I’d gone along with it, even though I’d told myself we’d be meeting, I hadn’t
quite
believed it. Easy to be swept along, just like those pieces of litter, and easy to convince myself I could do this thing. And here I was, taking the initiative, a step outside what we’d agreed. Why? Because I wanted to gain the advantage, of seeing him before he saw me. Perhaps, if I did manage to catch a glimpse of him today, and liked what I saw, it would give me the courage to go home and press for a real meet. The problem was, Liuz tended to call the shots. Even though I played the game too, gave the right answers, behaved as though I had all the confidence in the world, it was clear he was the more dominant one.

But wasn’t that what I liked so much about him?

Absolutely, and the idea of him being so dominant in person, in bed, had me squirming in my seat. My face flushed at the images flickering through my mind, of our sex-sweat bodies, hands slippery from that and my juices, his cum. Of my hair, lank and damp from exertion, held tight in his steel fist. Of his lips, barely touching my earlobe, filthy words spilling from his mouth in a torrent. Filthy enough to make me come without him touching me.

The bus bell, loud and abrasive, jerked me from my reverie, and I looked about, feeling foolish for having indulged in fantasies when I was supposed to be watching out for the first of my stops. Relieved to see I hadn’t missed it, I paid attention to the streets outside, swallowing to combat the sudden dryness in my throat. Another stop and it would be time for me to get off.

That stop came all too quickly, but conversely, not soon enough. I was a tangle of emotions, the threads of them writhing inside me to form several knots that rested hard and dull in my stomach. I wanted to spy on him and I didn’t. I wanted to spot him and I didn’t. I wanted – God, I wanted far too much. He’d made it that way too, with his dirty emails that set me on fire and gave me a taste for needing more out of sex than a quick fuck that always left me feeling like something was missing. As though what had happened hadn’t quite been enough. I wanted more than five minutes of fumbling foreplay, a few sloppy kisses and a cock only sliding in and out enough times so the man could come. I wanted to be lavished with attention, used in ways I’d only ever dreamed about – and left so spent I couldn’t walk without my legs almost giving way.

Liuz would give that to me. He’d told me he would.

He’d promised.

A church spire in the near distance caught my attention, its bricks ancient, that dirty grey only old buildings can wear and still look good. Clouds hung around the stone cross on top, their bellies almost black, distended with rain that would pelt down sometime soon. I quickly checked in my bag, cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella. With no time to chastise myself any longer, I reached up to press the bell then gripped the blue metal pole until the bus stopped once again.

I stepped onto the pavement, its surface ravaged by cracked tarmac, and thanked my lucky stars I hadn’t opted to wear heels. I couldn’t cope with them on a day like today, where I’d possibly be doing a lot of walking and standing around. With the knots in my belly tightening, I made for the church.

The first address was quite close to it, and I arrived in short time. I stared at the house, one that didn’t fit my image of Liuz at all. It was clearly owned by someone well-to-do, all mullioned windows and a nicely tended front garden that spoke of the owner having fingers even greener than the short-clipped lawn and the animal-shaped bushes. He couldn’t live here, could he? He’d mentioned a bedsit not a home like this. Unless he’d been lying?

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the white-painted gate and walked up the short gravel path to a front door that came straight out of a magazine I’d written an article for entitled
Perfect Homes
. It was a double effort, the glass panels diamond-leaded and coloured in transparent hues of red, blue and green. I reached the three steps in front of it and went up, nerves thrumming, my mind screaming that I could do this, that I could pull it off. I was a journalist, for God’s sake! I couldn’t begin to count the times I’d knocked on someone’s door in the hope they’d give me the information I sought.

But I hadn’t wanted to fuck those people. I hadn’t said rude things to them, exposed my disgusting desires. Exposed my nipple in a picture.

Biting my lower lip, I raised my hand and, before I could talk myself out of it, pressed the brass bell button. The chimes rang out inside, a melody only the rich could get away with without coming across as crass; the echo of each note indicating the house either didn’t hold much furniture or it stretched back quite a way, bigger than it appeared from outside.

A blur of movement behind the glass from the far reaches, and then a figure appeared, a slim female if I wasn’t mistaken.

Shit. What if he’s married?

The door swung open on silent hinges, and I saw I
had
been mistaken. A slight male, maybe mid-twenties, stood on the threshold, hair immaculate in a swept-back style that oozed hair gel and the obvious half hour it must have taken to achieve that look. His nose bordered on being too thin, and I quickly gave him the once over, noting he wore shorts that showed off a knobbly knee that was nothing like the one in Liuz’s picture.

‘Yes?’ he said, tilting his head.

‘Liuz?’

‘Yes?’ He frowned, his expression that of someone wondering how the hell I knew his name – puzzled confusion, lips slightly parted, tongue darting out just that little bit to wet the seam of his lips.

I hadn’t thought this through properly and had no idea what to say next. My mouth worked, no words of explanation as to why I was there emerging.

A surname. I needed a surname.

I eyed the brass doorbell. ‘Liuz Brass?’

‘Uh, no. I think you have the wrong person.’ He pursed his lips, cocking one hip to rest it against the door edge, his frown deepening.

‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry!’

Before he could ask me what I wanted with Liuz Brass and how I’d come to be at his house, I dashed down the steps and path, the gravel crunching obscenely loudly. The gate closed behind me with all the finality of a don’t-return-here-anytime-soon snap, and I ran down the street towards the bus stop. I only allowed myself to breathe once I got there, plonking my ass down on the seat beneath the rain shelter.

What the hell was I thinking?

I didn’t know. What I did know was that obsession drove me, obsession was my master, and that I’d get on the bus when it arrived and continue to my next stop. Although that first encounter had been a mountain-sized cockup, it could only get better from here on out. Right?

The bus came, and I perched on the seat nearest the door, determined to keep my attention on the road and not what lay ahead. I told myself off for losing my cool, for forgetting my journalism training. I was supposed to be fearless, able to work under pressure, and get any and all information needed for a story.