LITMIR.BIZ

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never thought you’d ask, Aniolku. I’m getting so bored of my own hand.’

      He thought I would never ask!

      All the damn time I’d been waiting for him to pose the question and all I’d had to do was ask.

      ‘So whereabouts do you live in Brixton?’ I dropped the scissors on the desk and ran my fingers through my short hair. It was about two inches all over, including the fringe.

      ’78 Woodstone Road, flat 2.’

      ‘What time?’

      ‘Nine.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘One more thing.’

      ‘?’

      ‘I will leave something on the door handle. You will wear it the entire time you are with me.’

      ‘?’

      ‘Trust me, Aniolku, I know what you need more than anyone else you have ever been with.’

      I waited another minute to see if he elaborated on this detail. He didn’t, so I went back to painting. My mind whirred as my brush flew over the wall, adding in symmetrical abs and long, hairy shins.

      Finally.

      Finally we had a meeting set up. At his bedsit too. I could hardly believe it.

      I glanced at my watch. It was early evening. This time tomorrow I’d be getting ready to take the bus to Brixton once more. With a sudden flourish, I reached over and displayed Liuz’s jerking-off photo on my screen. Hit print, ten copies.

      Soon, within hours, I would hear him coming, feel him tremble as his cock spurted into me. There was no doubt in my mind we would fuck tomorrow. Too much had passed between us for it not to get carnal and dirty on our first meeting. Sexual tension sizzled through cyberspace with each email we’d sent, right from the word go. He’d coaxed out my secret thoughts about sex. I’d felt safe somehow, telling him sordid fantasies anonymously. His reactions were always positive, encouraging. When I worried I was kinky he’d replied: ‘Aniolku, it is only kinky the first time you do it.’

      So now, after all my soul-baring, Liuz knew I had a seedy desire to be taken roughly. Degrading, dirty sex was my thing. He knew full well that a dinner date and movie was not necessary for him to get a fuck. Just a series of perverse, crude emails and an address would get me wet and slippery and spreading my legs.

      I was a slut.

      I was a wet, slippery slut right now.

      As I moved between paint and wall, my thighs smoothed against one another. My clit swelled, peeking from its hood as I started work on Liuz’s balls. My breaths were short and gasping, and I was bombarded with images of us fucking in every position. Noisy, sweaty, animalistic.

      Within minutes I’d created soft sacs, heavier at the base and the skin loose and hair-coated. I could almost feel them, cool, slightly prickly, a perfect cupped palmful.

      Briefly, I paused to look at the photos whirring from the printer. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I hoped it would give me a clue as to what his cock would be like. Would he have a generous length but a slim girth, or a fat, wide dick and a mushroomed head?

      Sloshing more wine into my glass and gulping fast, I had a sudden inspiration; it would be like the rest of him, perfect.

      Starting above the testicles, I created a thick, upwards-pointing shaft, then, a fraction before I reached his navel, I fashioned a capped head. Something told me he would be circumcised and this was how I painted him.

      With a smaller brush I added in shading, bulging veins and a rim beneath the glans. The slit was central and wide, and I placed a blob of perfect snow white in the middle to look like a pearly drip of pre-cum.

      Done.

      I squeezed and strummed at my nipples as I admired my full-size mural. Liuz stood before me, brooding, naked and hot enough to sear my skin.

      Grabbing the pile of photos from my printer tray, I then spread them on the floor around myself, covering my cut hair and the new splatters of paint with the photos’ cool surfaces. There was only one thing on my mind – an orgasm.

      I had to climax, now.

      After knocking back the last of my wine, I delved into the desk drawer and pulled out my favourite long black vibrator. I never used to keep it in there, but since talking to Liuz on email, it had made its way into the room I now masturbated in with the most frequency.

      Dropping to the floor, flat on my back, I stretched my legs wide. Propped the soles of my feet on the wall either side of Liuz’s painted knees. Stared at his cock and delighted in the sliding photographic paper beneath my back and hips. I was surrounded by him. Above me, beneath me. All I needed now was to imagine that greedy, determined cock pumping into me.

      I spent only a brief second spreading my natural lube around the satiny plastic head of my vibrator; then I shoved it in, hard and fast, just how he would do it. I arched my back and cried out, and I did not take my eyes from Liuz’s cock.

      Jerking my hips and ramming the vibrator upwards, I imagined him taking me over and over. I could almost hear the hard panting breaths he would groan out as he forged in, not stopping until he’d penetrated me to the hilt. I snarled through the pain, even though it was my own doing. I didn’t want comfortable fucking. I wanted to be ravaged by lust, consumed by desire. I wanted it to be as basic and primitive as it was possible to be.

      I clicked a button at the base of the shaft and allowed the vibrating plastic ears to embrace my clit. The action was a signal for my body to seek out release. Within seconds I was climbing, climbing high and rapidly. I wanted to shut my eyelids, and my body was ready to fold in on itself. But I wouldn’t let it. I had to come with the image of Liuz before me.

      I did. In an explosive burst of contractions and spasms, I allowed my orgasm to rake through my core. I stared at his painted cock, wishing it was in me for real. Pounding, thrusting, jettisoning hot, viscous cum into my pussy.

      All too quickly the vibrator had served its purpose and I tossed it aside. But I kept my feet planted on the wall; my pussy, swollen and sopping, opened wide before Liuz for his sulky, unblinking gaze to feast on.

      Chapter Four

      ‘Oh my dear God!’ squealed Hector, my long-standing hairdresser at Portobello Cuts. ‘Darling, what the fucking hell have you done?’

      I shrugged. ‘I’d had some wine, fancied a change.’

      ‘Bloody Nora, why didn’t you call me, anytime day or night, no need for such drastic action when Hec is only a phone call away.’

      ‘From Hell to Hec,’ I said with a grin. ‘Do your best to tidy it up, and dye it black while you’re at it.’

      ‘Black!’

      ‘Yep, black.’

      Hector frowned and tutted, his whole body twitching up towards his ears. ‘My beautiful Hannah, I only hope this is because you are on some super undercover journalist mission and not that you have gone completely insane. Your lovely blonde tresses have been an advert for my work for many years.’

      I sat in the chair and allowed him to drape a shiny silver gown over my front. ‘Absolutely, a top-secret journalist mission that will hopefully be very lucrative and very satisfying.’

      He shook his head and ran his fingers through my tufts. ‘Black, really?’

      ‘As black as you can make it.’

      * * *

      Walking along the street I’d previously pounded in pouring rain, I allowed the evening air to swirl around my newly exposed nape. It was a Thursday and people were still milling about, some in suits having worked late or going straight for drinks, and some in casual evening-out gear. Men in nice shirts, ladies in dresses

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