Flirty Sexy Erotica
"Ducks" an erotic short story
by Elizabeth Coldwell
That morning, I had almost thrown the ducks away. For six months, they had been sitting on the desk at the side of my Mac computer, on a three-inch mirrored square, beaks touching, just as Frances had proscribed. She had bought me the little wooden ducks in a shop in Covent Garden; they were good Feng Shui, she had told me as I had unwrapped them from their tissue paper covering, and if I put them in the correct place, they would bring a man into my life.
Frances was a sucker for all that kind of stuff: good luck charms; the I Ching; the horoscope column in the Daily Express; the gypsy fortune teller on Brighton Pier who’d allegedly read the palm of Kylie Minogue. She’d wandered round my flat, periodically consulting a book on Feng Shui, before telling me that having the dressing table mirror facing my bed would disrupt my sex life and the reason I was single was because the relationship corner of my home was down the toilet. Physically down the toilet. If she hadn’t been my best and oldest friend, I would have laughed. The reason I was single had nothing to do with badly-placed mirrors and toilets: it was because since Tim had dumped me for his PA, nine months earlier, I had thrown myself completely into my work. It killed the pain, but spending most of your day photographing toast racks and standard lamps for interior design magazines didn’t give you a lot of opportunity to meet men. Admittedly, I did have an occasional sideline taking shots of male models for the sort of publication you wouldn’t let your granny read, but most of the men I photographed were either so vain or so dim they made a standard lamp seem a more attractive option.
So the ducks might as well go, for all the good they were doing. I’d reached down and picked up the drake, with its green and blue painted plumage and its beady little eye, and I’d held it over the waste paper basket. And then I’d remembered that Frances was coming over on Saturday night; I was cooking spaghetti carbonara and she was bringing the latest Brad Pitt film, courtesy of her local video shop. She loved to poke round the flat while I was busy in the kitchen, much as she always denied it, and she would notice instantly that the ducks had gone. I put the drake back in position, cosying up to his dowdy-looking mate, and decided I would dispose of them on Sunday.
I was in the kitchen, making myself a cup of coffee, when the phone rang. It was Izzy Russell, the art editor of Your New Home, one of the magazines which employed me on a regular basis.
She sounded breathless, slightly panicky, and I thought for a moment she was going to tell me my latest job had been canceled. “Hi, Lauren, just to let you know we’re having a small problem.”
“Nothing too serious, I hope,” I replied, thinking of the possible hole in my bank balance and the bills which were due at the end of the month.
“No, it’s just that I’m supposed to be sending you over the props for the tea table shoot, and we’ve gone way over our courier budget for the month. So one of the boys in the art department has agreed to bring you everything, as you’re on his route home. I hope that’s okay. Expect him about six.”
Crisis apparently averted, I went to retrieve my coffee mug from the kitchen, and turned my attention to my e-mail inbox. A couple of wannabe models had sent jpeg images of themselves, in answer to an ad I had placed online, and I gave them the once-over. One was a skinny, street urchin type, all gelled hair and sneering attitude. He looked barely old enough to be posing, and I decided to leave him for the gay magazines, whose readers had a decided taste for what appeared to be jailbait which I definitely didn’t share. The other had sent an illiterate e-mail and a couple of shots of nothing more than his erect dick, fat, pale and out of focus. I sighed, and deleted them. It was a while since I’d done a nude photo-shoot, and I had a sudden hankering to photograph flesh and blood, rather than bone china, but until a suitable model presented himself, I would have to stick to the commission Izzy had chosen to give me.
The entryphone buzzed, and I realised it was a little after six o’clock. I went to answer it. A deep, Northern voice enquired, “Lauren Lynn? I’m here with the stuff from Your New Home.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Bring it up. I’m on the second floor.”
I stood at the open door to my flat, watching him struggle with the heavy rucksack he was carrying. I ushered him inside and helped him ease the thick straps off his shoulders so we could gently lower the rucksack to the floor.
“I’ll tell you, I was terrified of someone bumping into me on the Tube and breaking something,” he said, as he unzipped the big compartment at the top and started lifting out cups, plates and a teapot, all packaged in layers of bubble wrap. I watched him as he worked, unconsciously studying him with a photographer’s eye. Early twenties, tall and broad, with short, spiky dark hair, sleepy azure eyes and a dimple in one cheek which was revealed when he smiled. Which was often. It was a warm day outside, and that, coupled with the weight of the rucksack, had caused him to sweat; I could smell it slightly, but it was a spicy, sexy smell that was making its presence felt down low in my belly. He was cute, and fit, but the way he was dressed, in a tight, faded indigo t-shirt and baggy combat pants, suggested he didn’t seem to care too much about his appearance – or the effect it was having on me.
“Do you have to rush straight home, or can I get you a beer?” I asked. “I mean, you’ve been kind enough to bring all this over...”
“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” he said, and I went to hunt a couple of cans of ice-cold lager from the fridge. When I came back into the living room, he was standing in front of what had once been the chimney breast, looking at the photograph I keep hanging there. It’s an arty, black-and-white shot of a well-muscled man, his face in shadow, wearing nothing but a pair of torn denims. The fly is open enough to show the beginnings of his pubic bush, and his hand is reaching in to cradle his cock. Nothing is explicit; everything implied.
“That’s some photo you’ve got there,” he said, taking one of the cans from me. “Is it a Mapplethorpe?”
I shook my head, surprised by his knowledge of erotic photography. “Thanks for the compliment, but no. I took it.”
“Seriously? It’s fantastic,” he enthused. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a thing about other men or anything, but if I did, it’s more than likely turn me on.”
“I do quite a bit of that sort of work.” I took a swig from my drink, hoping the lager would cool the fire that was being stoked in me, but standing next to Tizzy’s gorgeous errand boy was having entirely the opposite effect. “Well, to be honest, not as much as I’d like. I do sets for Dare magazine now and again.”
“That’s the porn magazine for women, isn’t it? I met a guy at a party who used to be their designer. He told me some pretty wild stories about the stuff they print.”
“It’s good fun,” I replied, kicking off my shoes and curling up on the settee, “but they don’t buy many black-and-white sets, which is a shame. I’d love to take some photos for them which really concentrated on the muscles in a man’s body; emphasize how they move, and the power they contain.” I noticed him raise the can to his lips again, and saw the way his biceps pressed against the taut cotton of his t-shirt. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you have really good muscles in your arm. Do you work out at all?”
He shook his head. “I play football on Sunday mornings, and I’m helping a mate renovate his flat at the moment. That’s pretty physical work, but I’ve never been in a gym in my life.” He drained his can. “What are you saying, that you reckon I’m worth photographing?”
I reckoned far more than that, but I just smiled. “I think you have good muscles. It’s a start.”
“But I thought you use professional models?”
“Not always. To tell you the truth, I don’t always like using professionals. A lot of them are a pain in the arse. They think they’re doing me a favor by turning up for a shoot, they whinge, they whine and they have these terribly possessive girlfriends who want to claw my eyes out for daring to look at their man naked. So I put adverts in places, and I get guys who’ve never modeled before, but they have great bodies and they have this natural, unspoilt air about them. I’ve even shot guys I’ve met in the street before now.” A memory swam into my mind: a bloke I’d seen in a coffee shop on Regent Street; impossibly tall, Viking fair. He’d been a Danish student, disbelieving at first when I’d pressed my card into his hand, then flattered, and grateful for the money the shoot would bring. The photos had been among the best I’d taken, and Dare had used them as their centrefold. I sensed in the man sitting before me the same potential.
“So say I was modeling for you, how would you shoot me?” he asked.
“In the bedroom,” I replied without hesitation, the image forming in my mind so vivid I could almost touch it. “I’d have you lying in the crumpled sheets, looking like you’d just had the best sex of your life.” I could see it now; his limbs spread languidly on the bed, the rucked-up sheet nothing more than a strip of fabric across his groin, soon to be pulled away to reveal his hard cock in all its glory...
“Sounds good,” he said. “Why don’t we go for it?”
I gaped at him. “Are you serious?”
The dimple appeared in his cheek. “Why not? Ever since that designer told me what he did, I’ve had a fantasy about posing for some sexy photographs. This seems like the perfect chance.”
If he was up for it, who was I to argue? I had been bemoaning the lack of suitable models less than an hour earlier, and now one had pitched up in my living room. “I’ll need a couple of minutes to set things up. There’s another can in the fridge if you want it,” I told him. My camera was sitting in the spare bedroom, which I had converted into my darkroom when I’d bought the flat. I went to hunt it out, together with a couple of lamps which would create the dramatic lighting I needed for the shots I had in mind.
The bedroom was less messy than it could have been, considering; having set up the lights to my satisfaction, I bundled up the duvet and shoved it out of the way beneath the bed, replacing it with a freshly laundered white bedsheet. I was moving various personal items off the bedside table when I became aware of a shadow behind me, and realized my model had come into the room. I hoped he hadn’t seen me bundling the slim, white vibrator which had passed for my sex life since Tim had left into the drawer.
If he had, he said nothing, just glanced round the impromptu set I’d created. “So how do you want me?” he asked.
So badly my pussy is throbbing just thinking about it, I thought, but I was determined to keep this professional. “Take your trousers off,” I said matter-of-factly. “I’ll start with some of you in just your t-shirt and underwear. I take it you are wearing underwear?” When he just looked at me, I continued, “You wouldn’t be the first who wasn’t...”
He was, as I discovered when he casually slipped off his trainers, socks and combat pants: little black briefs that clung to the contours of his cock and balls. I picked up my light meter and took a reading, then ordered him on to the bed. “Right, lie on your back,” I told him. “Raise one knee and let your legs fall apart slightly. That’s great...”
When sportsmen have a great match, they talk about being in “the zone”; that moment when they can’t fail to hit the ball, when they feel almost incapable of making a mistake. Sometimes when I’m wielding the camera, it’s just the same, and it felt that way now. My instincts had been right; he was a natural model, with no shyness or inhibition. When I asked him to cradle himself through his underwear, he did it without embarrassment, and I could have sworn he was giving himself a couple of sly rubs through the fabric, helping to raise his cock from its slumbers.
The camera clicked away as he stripped out of his t-shirt, displaying a chest that was firm and hairless. His nipples were hard, and I wondered just how much of a kick he was getting out of posing for me. I would know soon enough
.
"Coming to Bed" by Mick Payton“Okay, let’s get you out of those pants,” I said. “Peel them down very slowly, like you’re teasing me. I just want to see a glimpse of your pubes.”
He did as I asked, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pulling them away from his hipbones. When he finally eased them down and off on my request, it was to reveal a hard-half cock, thick and already impressive. Even though the bedroom window was open, letting in the traffic noises which reminded me the everyday world was still moving past outside, it suddenly felt stiflingly warm in the room. Not only that, but my jeans seemed to be a size too tight, the seam pressing into the crease between my legs so that every movement I made put a subtle, aching pressure on my clitoris.
“Let’s do a few with the sheet round you,” I suggested. “Just drape it over your legs, like you’ve kicked it off in your sleep.”
He wrapped the sheet loosely around the lower half of his body, and then I arranged it to my satisfaction, pulling it away so it was barely covering his muscular left thigh. My fingers brushed his warm flesh as I did, and I shivered slightly at the contact. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had affected me so powerfully.
I grabbed my camera again, and directed him through the sequence of shots I wanted, taking some close-ups of the sheet where it was molded to the outline of his cock, then finally asking him to pull the sheet away entirely so I could photograph him naked. He was completely uninhibited as he grasped his hardening dick and played with it languidly till it stiffened fully, rising up towards his belly button. These were shots the magazines in Britain could never use, but I was no longer thinking about a potential market for these photos. Now, it was all about having a beautiful man lying on my bed, erect and unmistakably ready for sex. My pussy was hot, the pulse between my legs beating too hard for me to ignore. And then the roll of film ran out.
“Okay, all done,” I said. “You can get dressed now, if you want.”
“I don’t want,” he said, catching hold of my arm and guiding me to sit on the bed beside him. “I mean, what I am going to do about this?” He gestured to his cock, still hard and bobbing slightly as he moved.
“Well, if it’s a problem, normally the model goes into the bathroom and sorts himself out,” I replied, trying to sound as though this happened all the time. Usually, they just collected their fee and left.
“Doesn’t the photographer ever give them a hand?” he asked with what I could have sworn was a hopeful tone in his voice.
“Not if they don’t want to get a reputation for being unprofessional,” I told him.
“Not even if the model were to ask nicely?” He looked at me with such a devilish expression in those blue eyes that my pussy clenched in a powerful spasm.
I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, that it went against the professionalism which was such an important part of my job, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and circled his cock with my fingers, feeling the hot, hard length of him. His sigh of pleasure was barely audible as I stroked him gently.
He rolled back, pulling me on to the mattress with him, and we began to kiss, his mouth soft and tasting faintly of spearmint. It felt strange to be still fully dressed while he was naked, but if I thought that gave me the upper hand in matters, I was proved wrong. Suddenly, he climbed over me, and the weight of his body pressed me down as he straddled my chest. My hand barely broke its rhythm on his shaft, even when he pulled my t-shirt out of my jeans and started cupping and squeezing my breasts through my bra. I wriggled beneath him, using the seam of my jeans to give my overheating pussy the stimulation it craved.
Now it was his mouth that explored my tits, his tongue dampening the nylon of my bra and flicking over my nipples. “Take it off,” I urged him, wanting to feel his lips against my bare skin.
My t-shirt and bra were stripped off me without ceremony, and as he suckled my bare breasts, my hand continued to wank his cock. We were both panting heavily by now, and drops of sweat glistened on his torso.
I guided his hand down to the fly of my jeans, hoping he would take the hint. I was pretty sure he knew exactly what I wanted, but he seemed determined to make me beg. “Please...” I murmured, pressing my crotch against his fingers, and I was rewarded with the rasp of my zip being pulled down.
Between us, we started hauling my jeans and panties down, but when they reached my ankles he pushed me back to the mattress, leaving me effectively hobbled by the tangle of denim and white cotton. It felt strange to have my movements restrained as his fingers began to explore the soft, wet flesh of my sex, but I gave myself up to the feeling. I had let go of his cock and lay submissively as he circled my clit with a lazy fingertip. I was blossoming, opening up under his touch, readying myself for the moment when the thick head of his cock breached the entrance to my pussy, and yet somewhere at the back of my brain a little voice nagged at me.
“Condoms,” I muttered. “In the bedside cabinet.” If he found the vibrator now, I didn’t really care. An image flashed through my mind of him using it on me, sliding its buzzing length deep into my cunt, or even using it to explore my tight, virgin arse–
He was straddling me now, his dick sheathed in translucent latex, and I parted my legs as widely as the knot of clothing around my ankles would let me. Slowly, he nudged into me, and I moaned as the thickness of him stretched me wide. And then he was moving, rocking his hips back and forth, and I was moving with him, finding his rhythm and matching it with one of my own. If the traffic was still moving on the road outside, or the breeze still stirring the curtains, I was no longer aware of it: the world had shrunk to the size of this bed, and the only noises I heard were those we were making as we hurried towards our orgasm, our breathing fast and ragged, our sweat-slick bodies sliding together.
His mouth met mine again, and we were still kissing fiercely as I began to come, the blood singing in my ears and my pussy clutching at his hot, solid cock. He groaned, low in his throat, and with one last thrust, harder than anything which had gone before, he, too, climaxed. He held still for a moment, and then he slumped against me, spent.
We rolled apart, so he could peel off the condom and I could finally free myself from my tangled-up jeans, and then he wrapped his arms around me and I cuddled against him, still not quite able to believe what I’d just done. I didn’t fuck men I’d only met a couple of hours earlier; it was so out of character for me.
Of course, when I told Frances what had happened, she would put it all down to her stupid Feng Shui ducks, but I knew things didn’t work out like that in real life. Far Eastern superstition hadn’t brought this man into my life; if anything had, it was Izzy Ross” overspending.
“By the way,” I said, “this is going to sound stupid, but Izzy didn’t actually tell me your name.”
“It’s Aiden,” he told me, that sexy smile dimpling his cheek again. “Aiden Drake.”
Originally published November 2009