by Lily Harlem
ANYTHING FOR HIM
Lily Harlem and Natalie Dae
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen: One year later
More from Mischief
About Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
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 sai
d 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.
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.
Chapter Two
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 luck
y. 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?
