Anything For Him. Lily Harlem

      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

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