LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      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

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