Pete plummeted into her, and she cried out, meeting his thrusts as he fucked her harder, faster, deeper. His hand snaked up and twisted into the purple strands against her cheek, and the way he grunted made her not even mind that he wasn’t actually pulling her hair. Though not as satisfying as a true tug on her blonde locks, it was obviously having an effect on him, and it was one with which she wasn’t about to argue.
Joyce’s core felt a constant jolt of arousal as Pete hammered into her, the feeling of taking her husband’s cock more satisfying than it had felt for a long time. His strangled cry indicating that he couldn’t hold back anymore almost pushed Joyce over the edge, and she gripped his body with her legs as he came deep inside her. She squeezed him tight, reveling in the power she had to affect him that way.
Breathing heavily, he pulled out and rolled over onto his back, reaching for her immediately. He grabbed her waist and pulled her on top of him so she was straddling his torso.
“I’m sorry,” he panted.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t let you come first, of course. That’s against the rules, isn’t it?” He winked even as his hand slid forward to meet the sheen of sweat and arousal that graced her inner thigh.
“Fuck the rules,” she said—and meant it.
She’d looked the way she had in that picture because she had done something she wanted—and had felt, for once, that she truly had the freedom to. The arbitrary orders of someone else didn’t apply to her anymore.
That novelty had worn off, it seemed, without her even noticing it. She’d been back in the world of rules now for more than a decade, and she’d forgotten what it felt like to know something she wanted and own the freedom to follow it, to remember she wasn’t indebted to somebody’s arbitrary rules telling her she couldn’t have it. Like wearing vinyl and purple hair into one of the most upscale hotels in the area. Or loving the feeling of her husband’s cock in her so much she didn’t even care that she hadn’t had an orgasm yet. Or, she felt on behalf of all who did, getting paid to fuck if that’s what she chose to do.
Pete looked in her eyes, and Joyce’s grin was involuntary. For a moment neither of them moved, and even if she hadn’t seen the recognition in her husband’s face, she knew her eyes looked the exact same way they had in the picture that was the reason they were there. For the first time in a long while, she felt it again. It was exhilarating.
She shrieked in surprise as Pete grasped her waist and pulled her forward, the urgency in his forearms not relaxing until she was straddling his face. Before she could catch her breath, she felt the warmth of his tongue connect with her clit. A low moan broke from her throat, and the tremor that started in her body was electrified by the energy that felt like it was embracing her every cell.
It was joy. Pure, simple joy.
MORE LIGHT
Laila Blake
Broken glass crunches under my feet, however carefully I try to move. I remembered to wear heavy boots; I’m not worried about getting hurt, but disturbing the silence in this place seems like a crime in itself. Like shouting in a church or jumping on a tomb. I almost want to hold my breath—first impressions are important. I look around, follow gilded stucco pillars up to a high, decorated ceiling. It might have borne a mural once, but all it has to show now is the natural water-painting of mold and stains, of moisture leaking through the visible cracks. It is eerily beautiful, and instinctively, I raise my camera but the lens is wrong. I need something far more light sensitive. Instead, I imagine the fabulous parties thrown here once upon a time; I see flapper dresses and thighs, energetic dancing, twinkling lights, and a small brass orchestra. In one of the dark corners, a couple could have stood, catching their breath, hands gliding under fabric. A shiver runs down my spine, and I am back to seeing dust and ruins.
Some shafts of sunlight manage to fall through the shattered windows; where the glass remains, though, the milky-gray grime of too many years shields against them all too effectively. I snap a picture of the infinitesimal dust particles glinting there, smile and follow the shaft of light through the viewfinder.
“You need these?” George calls from behind me. I jump at the volume and turn around. He was being manly, herding me away from the trunk so that he could carry in the equipment. Now, he is struggling to balance two lighting tripods.
“Definitely later,” I say, nodding with a vague motion at the dim interior. “And the softbox and the reflectors,” I add with a sheepish grin. I take the tripods off him and store them in a less photogenic corner, then I reach for the light meter in my bag and start to walk around the room again. His shouting seems to have shattered something and the atmosphere feels less sacred, less stifling. There is dust and crumbled debris everywhere.
George is the more finicky of the two of us—although, by long tradition, he would say that I am just messy. When he comes back, he carries a foldout table for the equipment, gives me a look and picks my bag up from the floor. He dusts it off and puts it on the table. I poke my tongue out at him and push middle and ring finger under my thumb in the universal rock-and-roll sign. He sighs, shakes his head and leaves for more stuff.
We were in college together. Back then, we just happened to hang with the same group of people—photography is impossible to do on your own. He was the handsome, jock type although he never played sports; he just looked like that with his tall physique and his naturally broad shoulders, the wavy dirty-blond hair. He still does. I was the chubby, nerdy one with the glasses and the shy, quiet voice, which I tried to make authoritatively deep. We weren’t close but somehow we both ended up in Boston after college. His studio is just ten minutes away from mine and it’s good to have friends who get it, friends who actually enjoy spending an hour driving around Connecticut to sneak into a long-abandoned building. Neither of us can afford an assistant.
I can hear him pottering around with the equipment behind me, but I’m still walking around, looking at the walls in the different rooms. From time to time, a little bit of dust falls from the ceiling and my heart beats a little faster. I try to be more graceful.
“First impression?” George asks coming up behind me. Less body conscious, he touches everything, hangs against the moldy doorjamb in a way I would never dare.
“There’s something here,” I say slowly and shrug. We both know that we’ve been to more impressively abandoned places, but this one has a solemn quality all its own that will be difficult to catch on camera. George hums in assent and we start to walk around, to try and find these special spots in which the natural light provides enough eerie illumination. Too much artificial light would ruin it, I think. I stroll back to the table and exchange my lens for a more light-sensitive one. It lies heavy in my hand and I almost drop it when I hear a loud crunching, dragging sound from somewhere in the bowels of the building. Just for a moment, I am sure this is when the zombies finally attack, but then I come back to reality, screw the lens on my camera and go to investigate.
George is dragging something over the floor, with a sound like a hundred tiny bells, and when he emerges from the shadow I see his broad grin and the ancient chandelier he’s dug up from somewhere. It is dusty and broken in many places but it’s still gorgeous, some herald of older times.
“Wow,” I say—if just because it makes him grin with self-satisfaction as he gently drapes it into a shaft of sunlight.
We start shooting, find the best angle, the one that contrasts glittering light against squalor. My heart is beating faster; finally something is coming together.
If I wasn’t used to George, he would be distracting to the point of annoyance. As it is, I smile and let him get on with his athleticism. I have long found that George just enjoys using his body—it makes him feel better about his photos. He crouches on the floor, then lies down completely, moving over the debris like a war-zone journalist through the sand. I am more stationary; I squat in place, fumble with the controls, find the perfect aperture settings. I am more given to placing the ca
mera on the floor and snapping away with a remote than performing acrobatics. But I find myself momentarily entranced. From my vantage point, he is half hidden by the sparkling bits of polished glass and he stares at them with such a concentrated intensity, I just have to take a picture. He doesn’t resist. Years of training and spending time with other photographers have ground photo shyness out of both of us. I find a different angle and click again, check the image on the screen. It is a beautiful portrait. I feel that rarely reoccurring flash of affection, the memory of a long-abandoned crush. When I let the camera sink, he smiles at me and returns the gesture, click, my thoughtful, aching face. I have that sudden childish urge to throw my hands in front of my face and launch myself in his direction to grab the camera and delete all evidence, but I stay there, squatting, hugging my knees for balance.
I give him a half smile instead and raise my camera. We regard each other through the viewfinders, only seeing shiny black surfaces where eyes and nose should be. Photography robots. The two clicks are almost simultaneous. Just like back in college.
“You know what would make this better?” he asks, carefully raising himself from the ground, mindful of the expensive equipment in his hand. I raise my brows, encourage him to go on.
“Nudity.”
I snort and roll my eyes.
“Right, because the only real contribution women can make to photography is to take their clothes off…”
George just grins, above me now, my face at the level of his crotch, and he touches the tip of my nose. Just for a moment I want to be a different me, in a different body, and go right ahead. But then he shakes his head.
“You and your assumptions,” he chides with that naughty schoolboy grin on his face. “Who said I was talking about you?”
My mouth falls open, just for a second, and my eyebrows seem intent on trying to disappear under my hairline. George laughs and offers me a hand to pull myself up from the floor. I accept. His hand is warm and I bite at the side of my lip, feeling lumpy in my long, shapeless sweater-dress and tights I’m wearing for comfort of movements.
“It would make good pictures,” I agree, frowning as professionally as I can at the scenery. George seems satisfied. He hands me his camera and pulls his sweater over his head. It is a careless gesture only people with beautiful bodies, people without shame could be capable of. I place the strap of his camera around my neck and raise my own. In the first picture, he is unbuttoning his jeans; in the next he has pushed them to his knees. I snap the next of the curve of his back. In the shaft of lights, the tiny knobs of his spine are visible though his sleeveless shirt.
“I’ve always liked your portrait work,” he says casually when he has finally liberated his jeans from his sneakers. My heart beats faster and I grin, not even capable of waving the compliment away.
“Thanks,” I manage, and I catch that glimpse of stomach in the sun as he is pulling up his shirt. There is a fine light-brown line of hair that runs down into his tight boxer-briefs. It is just a shade darker than his hair. I exhale a shallow breath; send a prayer to the god of professionalism. But then he meets my eyes and he holds my gaze, fierce and serious in a way I have hardly ever seen him. I know he’s pulling down his boxers but my eyes are arrested, held in place. Almost in panic, I throw my camera between us and manage a picture of that expression before it fades.
He doesn’t cover himself; I wet my bottom lip and wordlessly direct him into the light. It throws beautifully stark shadows over his chest and face: planes of light and dark, all angles and masculinity only the magic of light and shadow can create. When I finally dare a glance at his crotch, I hardly manage to take it in before I tear my eyes away. He is not aroused—but I am. Tingling and nervous.
He looks like a god in the tiny preview screen. I ask him to pick up the chandelier and hold it up next to him: a hundred lights sparkle over his chest. I want to render these in black and white, I think—time in the studio will tell. I click, click, click—I can’t get enough of the lights, of his body, his face. For long moments I get so lost in the work, I almost forget the aching tingly feeling between my legs but it always comes back, harder and more demanding than before.
Finally, I hand him back his camera, and he raises his brows questioningly as he sets the chandelier back onto the floor and shakes out his arm, tired from holding it up too long.
“Vulnerable photographer in dark corners,” I tell him with a smile and bring a tripod, light and soft-box from the table.
“Still trying to be deep,” he teases, and I want to blush, but I think I manage not to.
“Trying to be?” I ask instead, jokingly menacing where I don’t feel like either. Not deep down. But he just looks at me for a moment too long and then starts to take pictures. He keeps the camera just far enough from his face to let me capture his expression, his natural body language. He is beautiful and I find myself envying his freedom. I catch him squatting by the chandelier, checking his setting, staring almost meditatively at the view-screen.
“Aren’t you cold?” I finally ask. I never know how long I’m snapping away, but I finally caught a close-up of his shoulder and arm and I saw the gooseflesh rising there.
“Not very,” he answers, but I think he’s lying. I let my camera sink and take a deep breath. George is still watching me.
“What?” I finally ask.
He cocks up his chin, just once.
“Your turn.”
For the second time, my jaw drops. This time I am more prepared for it. Raising any opposition isn’t easy, and I take a deep breath.
“I’m not…” I start, but George interrupts me, before I can denigrate my looks, the state of my hair, or any of the million other imperfections I could name.
“You are,” he says with a strange emphasis. “You really are.” His eyes travel down my shoulder and along the side of my breast and he finally smiles. And there is something in his smile that has power and magic, especially in a place like this and without clothes to detract from his magnetism. I finally shrug as though I, too, think nothing of it. As though I do this all the time. I hand him my camera and try not to linger too long with my hands clinging to the hem of my long sweater.
“There’ll be pressure marks all over,” I warn ahead, then open my mouth again to say something else, something about my thighs or my stomach but then I don’t.
“They’ll plush out soon enough,” he assures me, and I turn around to pull the sweater over my face. I suck a sharp breath through my teeth at the cold against my skin. With my shoes, I clear a patch of ground and kick them off. Then I peel down my tights, my panties and finally reach back to open my bra. Unlike me, George grants me that moment of privacy. He is fumbling with the light and his settings. When he concentrates like this, a strand of hair falls into his face. His frown and the stance of his naked body suddenly take away from his jock appeal—he seems buffer in clothes but more handsome without them; he looks thoughtful and somehow more, deeper. I feel my chest flutter.
“Ready?” he asks, looking up at me. He comes around and picks my clothes up, then moves them out of frame. Out of reach. Wearing his sneakers but still nothing else, I notice that his cock is not quite as disinterested in the proceedings anymore, perking up as though in greeting. I feel more naked immediately and tear my eyes away, but also less nervous.
“Ready.”
“Good, move against the window.” His voice changes when he takes pictures. I have noticed that before. He is serious and intense. “Like that, look outside; place your hands on the window, careful where it’s broken.”
I try to take deep breaths; he tells me to relax and I do my best. Muscle by muscle I force the tension to flow out of my body.
“Ass too,” he finally chides with a grin in his voice, and I have to laugh.
“Fuck you,” I say, giggling, shake myself, and when I return to position he hums in assent. I can hear the camera shutter click and click. So fast, furiously clicking at every inch of my naked skin, the p
lush curve of my hip where it moves into the narrower waist. I turn toward him only a few degrees to let him catch just the hint of my breast. During those first poses, I feel torn between being all too conscious of my body, the extra softness, the lines and dimples over my ass—and my professional knowledge of taking pictures of women’s bodies, and how to make them all believe in their own style of beauty. With time, I start to gravitate toward the latter. Moving slowly, I stretch myself, turn around and lean against the wall—grappling for courage I stare down the lens. A storm of clicks washes over me. The fear is starting to fade to exhilaration, adrenaline. We try more adventurous poses; I crouch in the dirt behind the chandelier, I rise up high to my toes, I turn around and touch my ass, my breasts. I place my chin on my shoulder and run my hands through my hair. I feel like one sore nerve ending, ready to explode at the smallest touch. Every once in a while he issues demands but for the most part, he seems happy to go along with my sudden sense of freedom.
When I take a break to stretch my arms out and rub them against the cold, George mounts his camera on a tripod, carefully sets the field and then nods at me to turn toward the wall. I hear the shutter click again, and again, and suddenly his hands encircle my waist. Another click—I hold my breath.
“You are beautiful,” he whispers against my hair. Click. His teeth graze over my neck and I feel his cock pushing up against my ass. Click, click. Then he turns me around, and there is something in his eyes—seeking, wanting. I know that feeling, and for a moment seeing it in his eyes hits me like a slap across the face of an unconscious person. I wake up gasping for air and lean in to kiss him. He crosses the rest of the distance. Click. Click. I find the remote in his hand and take it from him; I can hardly breathe. His hands run down my arms and up my waist until his thumbs caress the undersides of my breasts. This time I release the shutter: click. Click. He walks me back a step; I find myself pressed against the wall, cool against my ass; then his hand is between my legs and my head falls back. Click, moan, click. With two fingers inside of me, the world grows hazier, I hardly think of the photos anymore, just know that the click sends tiny shoots of electricity through my body. I kiss his chest, his shoulders—he is so hard and tight under his skin, no softness like my body has in abundance. Click. Curling his fingers, he touches that perfect point inside me and I rise to my toes, aching, breathing, moaning. My tongue travels up his sternum; he tastes like salt and I want more. Soon I can’t keep quiet and he lifts my leg over his hip. The angle is terrible but god, his cock feels good against my clit. Click. Click.
Best Erotic Romance 2014 Page 6
