Monday, August 23, 2010

Private Eyes by Michelle Houston

As I patiently waited for the Morrisons’ baby to toss me an “I just farted” grin so I could take his picture, I reflected on just how much my day job sucked. If taking portraits of smiling, chubby babies was all my life had become, I seriously needed to reevaluate my career choice. Although my sideline business of taking boudoir photos was slowly taking off, it wasn’t bringing in enough to pay the bills yet. Which meant that, for the time being, I would be stuck waiting on babies to shoot a smile.

Finally, Morrison Junior decided to give a toothless grin, and somehow I caught it on film. As the happy parents looked over the twenty-some shots they needed to narrow down to six, while cooing like idiots at their little bundle of joy, I skimmed through my schedule. Only two more sittings and I could close up shop for the night. Oh, the joys of my life. When the evening spanned long and lonely, filled with a warm bubble bath and an hour or TV during a dinner for one, a few hours of reading in bed afterward was all I had to look forward to. I had been debating for some time if I should just give in and take my ex back. At least she had been a warm body, and even if when she wasn’t with me, I had to wonder who she was with.

Several hours later as the Brocks, my last appointment of the day, headed out the door, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was Friday night, and I planned to enjoy my two days off, even if it meant taking in a movie or hitting a club alone.

It had been so long since I felt a woman between my legs that I seriously debated a one-night-stand, just to take the edge off. Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes and drifted, listening to the soft sounds of Mozart playing on the sound system, wishing I had time to work on finding someone to spend my life with. Unfortunately, trying to get my fledgling sideline up and running and turned into my full time job was sucking up what free time I managed to set aside for myself.

A gust of wind preceded a woman as she thrust open the door to my studio. I bolted upright, slamming my feet down on the floor so hard my teeth snapped together. Damn, the stranger was hot. A real looker. Although, what she was doing in the old maid getup, I couldn't understand. Women with long, regal necks, gorgeous caramel skin, and sultry facial features with a curvy body to match should never be allowed to wear their hair pulled up and in a bun, nor should they be allowed to dress like a dowdy librarian.

“I’m sorry for coming by so late, but I just got off work. I was wondering if you could help me. You are Lynsay, correct?” At my nod she continued, “A friend gave me your address and told me you sometimes take intimate photos.” A faint blush stained her cheeks, but she continued, “Is that correct?”

I had to admit, I wasn’t paying as much attention to the woman’s words as I was to her lips. Full and lush, they were perfect, without enhancement. I could only imagine what they’d look like with a rich red lipstick. As it was, I struggled to stay focused on the woman’s words as several illicit images raced through my mind, including those lips wrapped around my nipple.

She had a job for me. If I was reading the woman’s body language and her subtle wording correct, I was about to see this lady in her underwear.

“Boudoir photos? Yes, I take them. Are you wanting to set one up for yourself?” I wanted to cross my fingers, I was hoping so badly it wasn’t a gift she was purchasing for someone else, but clients had done that before. Although, given my reaction to the woman, it might be better if she was buying the shoot for someone else. My palms were growing damp but it had nothing on my pussy, which was slowly soaking the crotch of my panties.

As she shyly licked her lips and nodded, I felt my nipples harden, pocking against the lace of my bra. Hot damn, she was fine. I couldn’t wait to see her in the altogether, and answer for myself the question of what she wore under her clothes. If I had to select for the woman, I would go with a light cream to draw out the subtle color shifts in her gorgeous coffee-colored skin.

“When would you like to do the sitting?” I felt like the big bad wolf, waiting for Little Red to get just a bit closer so I could eat her up. Oh yeah, I was so bad, and my pussy was on fire with need. It had been so damn long, and this was a woman I could easily imagine screwing. I loved the shy appearance, especially when it was coupled with a woman who knew what she wanted in bed. It wouldn’t take but her asking and I would be on my knees, licking the red slit between her legs, lapping up her cream as it flowed from her pussy.

“Do you have any openings tonight?”

It took a moment for me to bring myself out of my fantasy at the woman’s words.

“Sorry. I’m about to…well, come to think of it, yeah I could fit you in tonight.” I couldn’t help thinking that I could fit her in, right between my legs while her tongue danced on my clit. I internally yelled at my inner whore to be quiet and remember she was a client. “Do you have whatever you want to be photographed in?”

As she nodded, I felt my pulse flutter. Oh, I hoped it was leather. The woman had a body for a leather corset and thong. Maybe even a collar and leash. Or something in a deep red. Yeah, I could easily see her in a vibrant red, a perfect match for the color of her pussy as she lay on my bed, her hair spread out on my pillows, her legs spread wantonly before me.

“I just have to run out to my car and get it.”

“First, if you’d fill out some quick forms, and then I’ll get the camera ready and set up some of the lights while you get whatever you want to be photographed in.”

Her handwriting matched her appearance, delicate but with broad swoops and curls. I had always wished for handwriting like that, but had long ago settled for chicken scratch. I flipped the paperwork around towards me, so that I could read it. “Okay, Daria, I’ll meet you down the hall, second door to the left and we’ll get started.”

As she turned and walked away, I allowed myself to picture just what she was wearing under that prim and proper outfit, the skirt a black knee length with straight lines and the blouse a dark blue. It was one of my more perverse hobbies. I loved picturing what my clients wore. Frankly, I love lingerie of any kind, satin or lace, leather or the softest of silks. Seeing it stretch tight between a woman’s legs, her lush lips pressed against damp cloth always made me wet. Especially when I pulled it just a bit tighter, until her lips spread around it, opened so very lushly to my hungry gaze, letting her pussy cream soak the material until it turned several shades darker.

Forcing myself back to my job which, given the promise of my new client’s luscious body I knew was going to only get tougher, I unlocked the door to my boudoir studio and flipped on the first set of lights. In one corner, around a big four-poster bed, I had positioned candles for effect, in case my client wanted a romantic atmosphere. Across the room, a floor to ceiling mirror stood, with metal and chrome bars and a padded bench, for those into more of a kinky look.

I even had a little chest of toys, ranging from a flogger and handcuffs to items I’d picked up at a local sex toy store. Of course, since they were a one use item, and went home with the client, I had to add that to the bill. But some I'd photographed loved the idea of a clit clamp or a dildo enhancing their shoot.

“Okay, I’m back.”

I turned as she called out and got the full effect of her walking into the room. The skirt revealed a hidden slit that teasingly opened as she moved toward me. The little librarian was wearing a garter and hose, both black. Maybe she wasn’t as reserved as her manner of dress and hair indicated.

“Where do I go to change?”

As much as I wanted to tell her “right here,” I knew I might possibly lose the work she was offering. “There’s a bathroom right through that door,” I nodded my head and watched as she walked away. Playing my little game, I imagined her slowly stripping off her blue blouse to reveal a demi-cup lace bra, which of course would have blue matching panties. Maybe the garter was even blue, with tiny black roses along the band, a perfect foil for her vibrant flesh.

Before she was back out, I had the candles lit, turned on some soft mood music, and was crouched on the floor setting up my tripod. I found my mind wandering, imagining the rich color of her pussy lips, parting to squeeze around a dildo. Her nipples would be a deep rosy brown, standing proud on firm breasts. I knew if I closed my eyes I would be able to see everything. Such was my curse. I had always been a very visual person, which had served me well but could also be a distraction.

The door opened behind me, drawing me out of my fantasies and back to reality.

As I watched her step into the room, I almost swallowed my tongue.

Gone was the god-awful bun and dress. Her hair was a vibrant cascade of brown and black. Long enough to brush against the tops of her breasts, her hair did nothing to cover them. For that, I was grateful.

She had kept the hose, but must have changed the garter. She was sporting a naughty peach peek-a-boo lace bra, and a matching garter belt and thong. Much too classy to have worn something so off in color under a blue and black outfit, I knew she had to have changed clothes. Now I really wanted to head into the bathroom to see what else she had been hiding. Even her shoes had changed, from a modest low heel to what I affectionately termed “fuck-me heels,” also in a light peach color.

I admit when I am wrong, and I had to say it to myself: I had been so very wrong. Red was not the color for her. Nope, the perfect color for her was what she had on. Her skin fairly glistened under the lights in contrast to her peach lingerie.

“Where do you want me?” As she neared I could see the lightly applied make-up, which subtly accented her features. Her eyes had gone from flirty to downright sinful. From prim and proper to sex kitten, all in under five minutes—hot damn, a new world record. Someone call Guinness.

I shook my head slightly, and forced myself to turn back to the tripod. “Let’s start over by the bed for starters. I thought maybe you could stand next to it, with your foot propped on it, and slowly pull off one of your heels.”

I tightened in the focus and knelt behind the camera. Although I could have done it differently, I always preferred to get the first few shots from waist height, then switch cameras and positions as I went along. Generally with fantastic results. Even before I had the client move I could often picture how it was going to turn out, so it lent me an edge.

“Ready when you are, Daria.” I looked through the lens and got an eyeful. She had seated herself on the edge of the bed, her legs crossed and arms wrapped around her waist, succeeding in pushing the creamy mounds of her breasts half out of her demi-cups. Before she had a chance to move, I snapped a picture, catching just the briefest edge of her nipple peeking over the lace.

Startled, her dark eyes widened. “Ready?”

As I nodded, she took a deep breath and stood. If anyone ever says that I don’t have a fetish for lingerie, they don’t know me. Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats a man or woman in a fine piece of silk or satin. I don’t care what color their skin, or even their age. As long as they felt sexy, truly felt it deep down, there is nothing that compares to the way they moved in lingerie—okay, maybe if they’re in leather, too. But when that sexiness is below the skin and radiates out, there is nothing in the damn world that will beat it.

Which is why rather than hit the strip clubs, I always turned to things like this.

As she moved away and set her foot on the bed, I captured a shot of her heart-shaped ass, then another of just the hint of mound when she bent over. My tongue longed to slip between her lips and sample the dew already darkening the crotch of her thong. Zooming in, I caught just a shot of her damp panties, unable to help myself.

“Okay, look at me. No, no, don’t turn your body. Just kind of lean down a bit and look back over your shoulder. Yeah, just like that.” Definite sex kitten material, I thought. The woman positively oozed sex appeal.

Whoever was getting these pictures had better damn well appreciate not only her, but the effort it was taking me to concentrate on taking them Normally, I was only partially interested in my subjects, just enough to get the best possible shot. But, Daria had gotten to me. She felt sexy, which was evident in her motions and her eyes. She was shy, sure, but she was also aware of the effect she had on people and thrilled in it.

“Now, take off your shoe. That’s right, slow and easy. Now, look at me again, purse your lips a bit more. Perfect.” The camera whirled as I struggled to capture all the shots in rapid succession.

“Now, the other one. Let’s have you sit down. All right, lean down, press your breasts against your legs. Good, good. Now, unbuckle it slowly.” She was starting to move more naturally, less stiff. I zoomed in quickly as she licked her lips and tossed the shoe aside.

“Let me change cameras.” I reached down and grabbed my alternate camera, quickly checking the memory, and moved closer to her.

“Close your eyes. Just relax and lose yourself in the moment. Pretend your lover’s here, watching you as you strip.” Almost unconsciously her hands lifted to her breasts. Cupping their weight as I’d ached to do, she gently rolled her thumbs over her cloth covered nipples. “That’s right, let yourself go.”

Keeping my movements whisper soft, I moved closer and took a few good shots. As she leaned back against the sheets, I captured a full shot of her laying there, her body dark against the light sheets, the peach of her outfit stark against her flesh. I wanted to run my fingers through her rich tresses and spread them out around her head, fanning her delicate face.

Her eyes snapped open as I kneeled on the bed, but rather than stop, she slowly slid her hands down as she arched her back. The clasp of her bra sprang open and her glorious breasts were free. Catching my breath, I snapped the shot as mentally I acknowledged I was right, her nipples were a deep rosy-brown, and almost as big as half-dollars. My mouth watered just looking at them, imaging the feel of them hard against my tongue as I rolled them around, creating a light sting as I bit gently down.

Bark At The Moon by Julia Davies

Chapter One

Ret watched the world go by through wolf eyes, his vision in black and white. He had shifted and come out here to think, to escape the chaotic everyday workings of the pack and the guard, but all he’d done was bring his problems with him. Usually, shifting to wolf form and going for a run relaxed him, but not today. Despite his good intentions, he found himself turning away from the woods and heading for the playing fields.

Now, he sat in the long grass at the edge of the park, near the houses, keeping low so that no one would see him. He had been here for about two hours, observing and now he watched as a blond man came out of the end house, locking the door behind him. He must have finished his unpacking, Ret thought, for he’d seen the removal van had left an hour ago.

The man pocketed his keys and walked to the bus stop, tugging the collar of his thick jacket up around his neck in an effort to keep out the cold air. Ret followed at a distance until he ran out of cover, then sat on his haunches, watching until the bus came and the man was gone.

An hour later, Ret sat in his office with his feet up on the desk, staring out the window. Images of the blond man sprung into his mind—as if they’d ever really left—and he groaned as he felt himself growing hard again. He hadn’t even spoken to the man, didn’t know his name, and had only seen him a few times as he passed him in the street, yet his body reacted to him each time. If this were anyone else, he would have said that the man was his mate, but it wasn’t possible. The man was human, he was wolf. It couldn’t work.

“Ret, you in there?”

Jai sauntered into the office without bothering to wait for an invitation, let the door swing back, and dropped into the chair opposite Ret.

“Where have you been? You were supposed to meet us at Howlers half an hour ago.”

Ret smiled apologetically. Howlers was their usual after-hours hang out, a biker bar on the edge of town run by one of the pack. The owner, Jake, had named it as a joke, one that the locals didn’t get. Most of the residents had no idea that one of the largest werewolf packs in the country lived among them, never realising that the woodlands around the town were filled with wolves each full moon. Ret, Jai, and five others were the pack guards, protecting and policing the others. Since much of their job involved keeping files on troublesome pack members and organising permissions and security for other wolves to enter their territories, they held a small suite of offices in a building on the main street.

“I had a couple of errands to run,” he told Jai, not wanting to admit where he had really been. There was something a little pathetic about stalking a man he’d never actually met.

“Well, get your arse to the bar,” Jai told him, standing up to leave before grinning and adding, “It’s your round.”

Ret laughed and followed him out, climbing onto his Harley and tailing Jai’s bike to the bar. When they reached Howlers, the car park was already full of motorcycles, the noise from inside spilling out as they opened the door. From across the room, laughter could be heard and he and Jai headed that way. His friends had staked their claim on the pool table again, it seemed.

“At long bloody last!”

Ret growled but Dex just grinned, holding up his empty pint glass.

“I told you it was your round,” Jai said, slapping him on the back.

Ret turned around and went to the bar, grumbling, Dex tagging along. Suddenly, he stopped dead.

Behind the bar stood the blond man, pulling a pint and chatting with a customer, his delicious-looking full lips curving up into a smile at whatever the customer had said as he took the money to the register. The man was in his late twenties, with piercing blue eyes and delicate features, yet he didn’t look feminine. Ret watched the man joke with the customers, pushing a strand of hair that had escaped from the rubber band that held it back behind his ear. He could feel his cock swelling, becoming uncomfortable in his motorcycle leathers.

“Ret? Earth to Ret.”

Dex waved a hand in front of his face, chuckling, and Ret glared at him. He had to get a grip, and get his bloody hormones under control. Ignoring the images his mind was coming up with and the ache in his cock, he leaned on the bar.

It was then that the object of his obsession turned around and looked straight at him. For a moment, he stared and Ret’s breath caught—the man felt it, too. Then the man glanced down at the bar, looking embarrassed, and the spell was broken. He came across to them, asking for their order.

“Is this your first night?” Dex asked. “Jake never mentioned it.”

The guy nodded, his gaze flicking to Ret for a second. “I’m Andy McEwen,” he said, “and yes, it is.”

“I’m Dex, this is Ret.”

Andy got their drinks, and as Ret handed over the money his hand brushed Andy’s by mistake. When their fingers touched it felt as though a shock of electricity ran between them and Ret dropped the note, looking up into Andy’s startled eyes. Fuck. He was right, Andy was his mate, he was practically certain of it now.

He went back to the guards and half-listened to their bickering and teasing, but his mind was elsewhere. A couple of times he looked up and saw Andy watching him curiously across the bar, and it took all of the self control he possessed not to march back across there and see if that delectable mouth felt as good against his as he imagined.

At closing time, when everyone had gone, Ret sat outside Howlers, resting against his motorcycle. He’d left with the others half an hour ago but hadn’t even made it halfway home before turning his bike around and coming back.

Moments later, the door opened and Andy came out, calling goodnight to Jake. When he saw Ret, he paused.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked, “because everyone apart from Jake is gone. You’re Ret, right?”

He remembered. “Ret Alexander.” Ret stood, not taking his gaze off Andy. “I was waiting for you, actually.”

He didn’t move as Ret closed the gap between them. Andy was interested and aroused, he knew, his werewolf sense of smell told him that. Reaching out, he cupped his palm to Andy’s cheek before leaning in and brushing his lips over Andy’s. The other man hesitated for a moment before his body relaxed.

Ret felt the first, soft press of Andy’s lips—just a brief touch—and before he knew the other man had slipped his hands around Ret’s waist, holding him close. Ret’s fingers ran underneath Andy’s hair on the nape of his neck as he deepened the kiss.

Ret flicked his tongue along the seam of Andy’s lips, begging for entry, testing to see if the other man would protest but no objection came. Andy opened up to him, tangling his tongue with Ret’s, and Ret could feel his cock growing harder again. The man ought to warn people about that tongue, he thought. He knew he was no slouch himself, but damn, Andy was good. The thought crossed his mind that if Andy could make him feel like this by kissing him, what would it feel like having that skilled mouth on his cock, sucking him, tasting him?

“Come with me,” he said, drawing back to look into Andy’s slightly dazed eyes.

The other man nodded and Ret led him to his bike. Andy looked down at the motorcycle, unsure, but Ret handed him the crash helmet and helped him fasten it. He only had one helmet with him and, as a wolf, he could take it if they had a smash, but Andy wouldn’t fare so well. Andy’s unease about the bike worked to his advantage , as they roared out of the car park. His entire body pressed along Ret’s back, his arms tight around his waist. Mere minutes later, Ret pulled the bike into his driveway and let them both into the house. He could smell the other man’s fear and faint worry as Andy glanced around the house and at him, but under it he was still aroused. Good. Ret didn’t want to be a stranger to Andy.

This time, the kiss was anything but cautious. He kicked his front door closed and turned, pressing Andy to the wall, his mouth claiming Andy’s. Inside him, the animal awoke, hungry for more, but he pushed it aside, knowing it would alarm the other man.

Angel On Fire by Megan Hussey

Chapter One

“I tell you, Blythe. You’ve got to get it together.” Richard Billings regarded his fiancĂ©e, Blythe Browning, with a cool, condemning stare.

And Blythe, heaven help her, stared right back.

“Yeah, well, I’ll work on getting it together while you sink to the fiery depths of a metaphorical abyss.” She arched her eyebrows. “Deal?”

Richard rolled his eyes.

“Our wedding is in three weeks, and you haven’t fulfilled any of your promises to me.” He sighed in frustration. “For one thing, you can’t get along with my mother.”

“It’s rather difficult to get along with a woman who counts shuffleboard and poorly veiled verbal abuse as her two favorite sports.” Blythe sighed in return. “I’m sorry, shuffleboard is NOT a sport, and telling your future daughter-in-law she likens a bloated panda in her wedding dress is just not very nice, no matter how you process it through your proverbial mental filter.”

“Well, Mom was right.” Richard shrugged. “You vowed to lose 30 pounds before our wedding.” He cringed in disgust. “Instead you gained 10.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Blythe jumped to her feet, then crossed the length of her fiance’s apartment in three quick strides.

Richard maintained a home that was as neat, sterile and unforgivably linear as he was. And she simply couldn’t bear one more moment, either of him or his stifling living quarters.

She turned to face him at his front door, regarding his pudgy but sharply dressed form with cool eyes.

“Maybe I need to lose two hundred pounds of insensitive fiancĂ©.” She planted her hands on her hips.

Richard shook his head.

“Why am I even bothering to marry you?” He lifted the first of his two chins to haughty effect.

Blythe shrugged.

“I’m not altogether sure, Richard. Maybe you should reconsider.” She opened his front door and stepped outside. “In the meantime, I have preparations to make for the wedding.”

“Preparations to make for the wedding,” Richard sniffed. “Is that code for, ‘I’m going to go home and cry over a box of bon bons?’”

Blythe considered this statement a moment, then shook her head.

“No, that’s not a precise translation.” She sneered. “It’s code for, ‘I’m going to go drink away my cares and perhaps even get a lap dance from a sinfully gorgeous man.’”

She quite enjoyed the shocked look that crossed his ruddy features as she bid him good day.