sandrine_lopez

A short erotic story by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

I hate being interrupted by the phone when I'm writing but sometimes...

Cradle the phone under my neck and still try to type.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

Sometimes, some person, one person in particular at the moment, I don't mind. In fact...

"How are you?"

"Extremely hard. Exceptionally horny."

"That's always good to know." I reply, and try to imagine. You draw and paint, capture images. I've only got words so my thoughts become a stream of nouns, variations on cock, and adjectives like stiff and burning to describe it.

"Not with you absent, it isn't."

"I'm sorry." Type a bit more of my current erotic story in the pause. "Where are you?"

"Guess?"

Ooooh, could you be outside, waiting? Writing has got me in the mood...

"Close by?"

"Sadly not."

Unseen by you, I pull a face. I've been typing all morning, and I could do with a break. And some inspiration. Not that I've got a block or anything but you always bring out the best, the filthiest, of my writing.

"Home?"

"No. Still away. In a hotel."

"Shame it's so far." I sigh, "A dirty weekend in a hotel sounds fun."

They tumbled into bed, late on the filthiest of Friday evenings. No plans to leave it through all of Sexy Saturday and perhaps most, if not all, of Sordid Sunday... in all for her it was going to be a Wicked Willy-filled Weekend.

"It's not the weekend."

"I'll make do." I laugh.

Another pause.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"Writing. Still."

"Anything dirty?"

"Always."

"I'm missing you, you know."

My eyes water slightly. A twinge in my heart. Butterfly fluttering in my belly, and lower down.

He left a gap in her days, her soul, her body, something only he and he alone could fill...

"I miss you too. Loads."

"Wish you were here."

"Me too."

Another awkward pause.

"Do you know what I'm doing, right now, while I'm listening to you?"

I blush. It seems fairly obvious.

Stroking his long hard dick. Slow, sensuous caresses, palm over veins, while thinking of her...

"A bit of a waste." I sigh, wishing I was there, more so than moments before. Then it would have been for a nice snuggle. Now...

You say my name, draw it out long and slow, making it into a question.

"Yes?"

"You know how I painted you?"

"How could I forget?" You jerking off to get me to play with myself. The sharp intensity of suddenly climaxing in front of you, while you stroked paint onto canvas, stroked yourself yet didn't cum. Until I was ready. Then you, or rather we...

Coupling... long, slow, afternoon fucking...

"That was very inspiring." Another pause. "You use words. Paint me a picture with them?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You've inspired some very special paintings." You tell me. "Tell me what I inspire in you."

"You want me to talk dirty?" I glance around instinctively, even though alone. Typing on a keyboard, jotting notes in a pad, that's easy. Vocalising them, except in privacy and intimacy, I'm not so sure...

"That would be nice." You reply. "Think of it as my story. I paint you. You write me."

The words aren't difficult. They usually come easily.

"How do you want me to start?"

"Describe me. Don't be literal, be creative."

How would I do it with one of my characters? Conjure up a picture, and the most vivid, most recent, is you naked in the studio, as you undressed, standing erect. Ever so fucking erect...

"He was... " I begin, not wanting to fall on cliché descriptions. He didn't paint the surface me, it was always a subtle blend of what I could be, and what he liked, sensed, in me. So... "Being an artist, an expression of confident sensuality that life had painted in the shape of a man."

"That's nice. Not that dirty though."

"I'm getting there. Erotic writing isn't just one fuck after another."

"Now that idea I do like."

"You would."

"And you don't?"

"Didn't say that."

"Then say it. Express it. Get creative on me."

"Are you still jerking off?

I don't have to see his grin. "You tell me."

I've seen how you do it. I know your technique. Describing it shouldn't be... so hard?

So wonderfully, gloriously, deliciously, mouth wateringly - and other things wateringly - hard.

I don't even have to concentrate, call up images in my mind, you just penetrate my thoughts with it, whether I want it or not. And I do want it.

"And being a painting," I continued, savouring the words, my dirty talk, "An expression over reality, he was larger than life. And largest of all was his cock."

There's an appreciative murmur back.

"At least, that was how it expressed itself." My mind wondered, filled with it, "In his hand, stroking it and caressing it like a tame animal in his thrall, it was beautiful and livid, waiting to be unleashed. The ruddy, tight skin and proud, bulging red head as it stood high, made it seem attentive, anticipative, as his master caressed it, cared for it."

"Creative, but still not quite dirty enough..."

"Fuck you!"

"Yes, please!"

Right, you asked for it...

"To absent lovers," I mimicked his voice, by way of introduction "He said, raising his hand as in a mock toast, before bringing it down hard around the hot rigid flesh of his cock. Thinking of her, he kept his hand firm, tight as he knew her cunt was. Ramming his fist up and down, wanting it to be she he was pounding. That she was wrapping her thighs tightly round him, thrusting her hips, her soaked pussy, onto his dick, in time with him..."

A few grunts, a gasp. "Better... "

I could recall him in the studio again. He was almost vicious on himself. How could that not hurt? But then, I wanted that vigorous strength, no holding back, as well, for myself. That finest of lines between pain and pleasure.

As I held the phone to my ear, I could hear his breaths, tearing from his mouth with exertion. Strange to think his lips were almost touching the receiver, as mine were, but separated by so many miles. Kissed it, in the hope he might feel it close to his lips.

His panting, hot breath over the phone. I imagined him, mouth close to my ear, heaving against me.

My free hand falls from the keyboard to settle on my knee. Slowly finds its way up my thigh.

"Still there?" He gasps.

"He pumped his cock into the hot grip of his palm." I carried on, my own increasing breathless lowering to a husky whisper, "Burning dribbles of pre-cum were already issuing from the dark, bruise-coloured tip. As he fucked his fingers harder, he feel the savage sting of his climax busting from his balls, searing its way up inside his stiff shaft until... "

"Yes... ?" You gasp in reply.

"Until... " And I'm already losing myself to the fantasy of your cock, needing to bury itself under my belly and just have its own wicked way, or at least the way I imagine it wants me. My fingernails catch on the thin stretchiness of my panties, tug them out the way.

"Until... ?" You urge.

A slender digit, no match for him, even super-sized by how tenderly sensitive I am, slips inside my cunt. It is swelling and wetting with the thought of him. Hot with the flush of lust.

"Until... he could control himself no more." I murmur sultrily. Because I am losing mine too. "Until he was past the point of no return. No force on God's Earth or universe could stop him. It was a trigger pulled... a shot released... "

Another choked roar of effort, the need to satisfy oneself. Himself. Myself. Ourselves. It began by wanting to be the one to make him cum, so that separated from me he wouldn't wander. But now I'm caught up in his distant climax. I've got him to that point, the edge of that precipice, and I'm teetering with him.

"Ooooh Godddd... " I hear him gasp. Is he cumming already? I bring another finger, then a third, to bear inside. Cup my muff tightly in the heel of my palm. Rub it frantically, up and down, catch the swell of my clit, dry but suddenly awash with the wetness from my flickering, fucking, fingers. I want to be there when he is. At that same moment...

He begins to call my name, swallows on it in mid-syllable, his climax burning into his consciousness until he loses it in some parallel existence of pleasure. Neither aware or unaware, only knowing that total, consummating crash and burn. My hand blurs into how I imagine his moves, needing to free his cum, spurt hotly in the air. I wish I was there to catch it...

He finishes my name, and I know he is finishing his wanking, a fading noise in his throat, transmitted across the miles. And just when I think our crossed moments have passed, I find the trigger for myself, pulling my fingers out and flattening my palm, down, hard, dragging, then up in a long, slow rub over labia, clit and muff to my tum...

A twitch, a shudder, an unfolding, and I fall over the edge with you. You climaxing, letting go, ejaculating high in pulsed white squirts. Me rippling, flowing, trembling, relaxing as only orgasms can. As one, our voices become a single appreciative hum of bliss and physical satisfaction, sharing the telephone line between.

And we hadn't even touched each other.


*end*

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Sandrine's notes:

This is the long version of my Twitfic 'Call' (see below). I was halfway through writing it when I decided to have a go at a shorter version for Twitter. Then I came back and finished it. Strange how things work out...

A twitfic* by Sandrine Lopez

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My phone rings. It's you. Both alone, separated by miles but not desire. "I miss you. Want you. Now." You say. "Talk dirty to me?"

Writing erotica, I'm in the mood. "Tell me what I'm doing." You suggest. I blush, knowing you're stroking. Hard, horny, filthily so.

"You're hard like rock," I tell him. "Hungry to fill me." Hard breathing agrees. "Burning hot stiffness in your palm. Jerking off..."

"Wishing it was me, surrounding you." I continue. "Soft, wet yielding grip between my thighs." Your breathing gets harder. Rasps fast.

Can hear your hand pumping. Grunts of exertion. It fires me. My hand slips to the sudden gush of arousal, soaking my panties. Teasing.

My own breaths, shallow, urgent. Fingers find a fountain of tender delight. "Still there?" I ask. A hoarse "Yes." As you thrust more.

Know your palm is slick, moist, with pre-cum. Approximating my damp kitty. My fingers recall your hardness. Penetrating slowly...

...then with more force, a strength only you possess. "Tell me..." I urge, wanting to know. Hear the squishy thumping of your fist.

"No..." You pant. "YOU... tell ME!" Realise you hear my fingers squelching deep. Breathing forced, a squeal as I think of you inside.

A cry released. A sigh realised. A short scream of pleasure, then you calling my name. Me calling yours. Distant but joined in bliss.

Hands held in a unique joining. I feel you within. You know me around you. Shared passions. Far but near, because of the. #call

-end-

*each section less than 140 characters, for those not on Twitter.

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Sandrine's notes:

Follow me at: http://twitter.com/sanpezzers

I was inspired to write a twitfic by the astonishing and extremely sexy ones by my twittermate Ruby, whose tweets you can follow at: http://twitter.com/eroticnotebook or usually compiled, with other wonderful erotic material at her blog: http://blog.eroticnotebook.co.uk/

A short story by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

I like to think I inspire him, that I'm his muse. Each painting alike in style, his, but different in approach. In what makes them his, from what he sees in me.

I have to know.

"What do I inspire in your paintings?"

The brushstrokes stop for a moment, then continue.

Wait a reply. There is none.

Raise my voice a bit. "What do you see in me?"

The brush stills again. A longer silence.

His voice, quiet. "Honestly?"

"Always, please."

"I see myself in you."

I smirk, not entirely sure if he's being dirty - as always in his humour - or if he means we connect. Feel easy with each other. Certain levels of understanding and intimacy.

I've been still for too long. Getting a cramp in my thigh.

"Can I see?"

More uneasy silence.

"Are you sure? I've not quite finished... "

"Yes."

"Stay there then. I'd like you there... just a bit longer."

The easel slowly swivels. The body is curled in an unfamiliar pose, not the one I quite held, but the situation is privately, intimately, known.

The woman in the painting, like myself, has one hand over a breast, the other over her mons. But instead of a modest repose, her fingers blur in massaging a nipple. The mouth is open, caught midway between a silent, artistic sigh or moan of pleasure, as her other hand digs deep in the pinky-brown shadows between open, exposed thighs. Small white dabs hint at the wetness drawn up to glisten on her... my... pubes.  

My mouth mimicks her open mouthed expression.

Find a voice at last. "I thought you said... "

"I know what I said but what I meant was... " A shrug. "That's how I imagine you when thinking of me."

I go bright pink, not because it's such an explicit accusation but because it's true. We're both adults. We both know we've expressed it in words. Now you paint a picture of it, a startling reflection of our hidden, personal realities.

"I'd like... to paint you... " A sudden broken, lack of confidence. "While you are... doing that. For real."

There's a jolt in my gut. A quiver in my belly. It's beyond intimacy. Taking things further than being able to hide under sheets, under each other, you on top of me or vice versa. You hidden in me.

But this is a captured, open expression to the world. Hung on a wall. In a public gallery.

"Just for me."

And with that he stands, undoes his trousers, unfastens his shirt, and stands naked, erect. Swings the easel round, and continues to paint. One hand brushing oils over the unseen canvas, the other... stroking himself.

My mouth is already open. My eyes widen. Impulsively, the thought, now the sight of him, makes my thighs part. My fingers explore downwards, inwards...

He is starting to dribble, to slicken the dark skin tightening over veins I can see throbbing from here, even without my glasses. A soft squish-squishing accompanies the swirling sound of brush of oil over canvas. I can start to smell him, sharp, distinct from the linseed and turps, even across the room...

He inspires me to dig deep.

I see himself in me.

My other hand, fingers and nails, rub the growing bud of a nipple, both swelling, blossoming, tingling and aching. The throbbing of his cock in his sticky, glistening palm, thumb massaging the burning glans.

Before I was posing, holding muscles tight in position. Now I have to relax, let go, slump back and let only my hands move. But that's what he inspires me to do...

That's what he wanted, wasn't it?

Head thrown back, eyes fluttering to closed, the image of him completely stark naked in the camera of my mind. My muse.

Him in me.

That wondrous image. One I'd normally keep to myself, in private, when he is not around.

Imagine, fantasise, him in me.

My fingers are him, because I only get pleasure thinking of him doing me, not me doing myself. His hands cupping, gripping my breasts. Let out sudden gasps of rapture.

A third sound joins his. A slapping squelchy rhythm. Palm over muff, fingers in cunt. Hand rocking over clit, now palpitating like his dick.

My teeth nibble at my lip, a hint of a smile beneath.

In my mind my muse has got up, is closing on me. He places his hand over the one sinking into and tugging at my pussy, guides it, teaches how to heap pleasure on pleasure. His fingers are bigger, stronger, longer, and while I know myself more intimately, he reaches further... a raw untamed beast in my cage, compared to a slender cultivated self.

Open my eyes, tilt my head just enough...

See him painting feverishly, as fevered and fiery as my own play. The other, fast, savage, almost ripping the skin from his cock, sending small splashes of milky white drops to rain on the floor between his legs.

My muse. Oh my genius. Ooooh...

Oh my god!

Hand or cock, he's inside me. Tearing at me. Sending me far and away. I can't feel my fingers in my cunt any more, there's just waves, blistering ripples, roaring surges of sensation. Exploding out like hot flushes to an infinite power. Don't even feel the recliner, the sheets beneath me. I'm weightless, flying, soaring, all feeling flowing out from me... overwhelming anything touching me.

Then it's over. Perspiration coats me like an oil painting, the drops merging and mixing, creating a new natural perfume in the air, a perfect blend of both of us.

Giddy, dizzy, I raise my head to see you, strangely unsatisfied, still stroking but slowly, swivel the easel so the painting is visible. Abstracted blurs of colour, movement, a woman in the throes of climax, head thrown back, face unseen. Bold colours explode from her pinky-red cunt, colour her skin in every hue possible. What was felt, rather than seen.

He sees himself in me. I want him in me too.

As he closes on me, my thighs still wide and welcoming, I know that he knew what was in myself too, in that wonderful, intimate moment...    


*end*

A short story by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

Last Summer...

Holiday *romance*. Sun, sea, sex. Lots of.

Hook-up on dance floor. Old skool was in. Though we grinded more lambada than twist.

Our twist, shaking to the bpms, wrapping round each other. Hearts pounding. New beats. No love required. Shameless, ceaseless, uncommitted sex...

Now.

Me. Creature of habit. Same place and season.

You. Unexpected again. Name unrecalled. But year-old memories, sweetly recalled sensations, flood me. Whetting my sunlit appetite. Wetting...

Us. Introduction, words, unnecessary. As if you waited here, anticipated hardness, since I left. Sprint bags to my room. No unpacking. Not gonna need clothes much...

Then.

You. Powerful. Intoxicating. Seeking my limits. Finding none.

Me. Opened, revealed, explored by night. Tanned from your heat by day.

Us. 24/7 fucking.

Now.

We never ended. Just paused.

One long fuck, distilled over a fortnight into a single euphoria.

Straddle you on bed, curtains open, daylight streaming. Massage your chest, slowly quiver over you, gripped between shaking thighs, make you come again. Again. Again! Your hands on my arse, rocking me orgasmically when too blissfully satisfied. Sharing unhurried sun-drenched, cunt-soaked climaxes. Lazy lovely spurts.

Intense moments of rapture, unfolding into vacation's heaven.

Hot dark nights. Bliss of pussy. Ecstasy of cock. Our heady mix of fingers, tongues, limbs, naked bodies, to accompanying bpms nearby.

Repeat to fade.

Holiday's ending. You, urgently inside me. Me, feverishly taking you. Time running, trickling, dribbling out.

To come?

Doesn't really end. Just another break.

Twist again, like we will, next summer...


*end*

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Sandrine's notes:

The entry that didn't make it to Round One of 'Project Smutway'. I think it tried to do too much, even though I thought the idea was hot, for a word limit of 250. C'est la vie, i guess.

You can follow the actual contest, and vote, at: http://smutmarathon.blogspot.com/

And you can read my first attempt at my other blog:
http://sandrinelopez.blogspot.com/2010/06/stick-or-twist.html

A short consideration by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

I don't know...

They say an artist's hands are long and sensitive, and watching him work, sketching me, I can see why.

I hate being captured, on film and now on paper, but it's his take on me, a view over harsh photo-realism. And I can tell his is appreciative.

Quick flicks of the wrist as he sweeps lines with his brush and ink, flicks that suggest he is pleasuring himself in my presence. Here, in his public studio, they are subtle. In private, with photos of me for reference, perhaps they are vigourous and energetic, ending with a flourish, a splash, of white.

And what of me, the writer, the one he draws out? Do I dare put words to type, expressing what I feel. My fingertips dance over the keyboard for public consumption. Privately, they describe what I'd like him to do. Caressing, exploring, discovering the inner me.

He draws me out of myself.

*

I don't know what it is...

I let myself model for him. Because he draws that inner me, the self I would like to be, not what is. He sees potential, and is flattering because of it.

First pencil and ink sketches, then oil portraits, and...

I hate being naked, even just to myself. But it's just him, me and the medium. My body, his gaze, and an appreciation still.

His strokes are more considered, easing oil over canvas. I'd like to see the work in progress but he doesn't want me to move. Let him finish, because he works quickly. Just one sitting.

The fear, the excitement, the anticipation, rises in me. I'm aware I'm getting wet, the scent of myself mixing with the heady smell of oil and linseed, hormone and perfume. It's driving me wild. I can only imagine what effect it has on him.

I should be shock still but I know I'm trembling.   

*

I don't know what it is but there's just...

"It is done." He tells me.

I slip my robe on and go to see. What has he made of me?

Explosions of colour, what should be a mess with wide, child-like brush strokes and yet... it works. It's a me beyond imagining. Beautiful. Vivid. Alive. What I feel rather than what I am. My ample curves are sculpted once more into a figure of desire. My face is simplicity, blissful. I'm surrounding by a halo of hues, that complement the flesh tones of my painted skin.

This is what I am to him.

*

I don't know what it is but there's just something between us...

He is beside me, clothed. Then, as I admire the painting, he is in front of me, naked. My robe falls, and we are bare, exposed to each other.

I only have words in return to show my own perceptions. Not the mature body or looks, but what is within him to me. The eternal youth. The striking character. The sharp wit and good humour. And the amazing sensuality only confidences of experience can bring.

This is what he is to me.

I may be the writer but I am an open book for him to express himself in. He may be the artist but he is the canvas I want to paint on.

We lay as one on the soft sheets I modelled on, taking turns to be on top. I wrap myself around him as he covers me, keeps me warm, before sharing his heat. I straddle his thighs and massage baby oil on his back, then swirl him so I can guide him inside again. His hands rub oil up me, cup my breasts so tight, they leave his signature handprints like pretty butterfly tattoos for me to cherish until they fade.

We taste each other on shared fingers, cuddle intimately between short sharp fucks of each other's souls and bodies. We don't want it to end but it has to. One last lingering crafting of our skins next to each other, beside and within. Dripping with exertion, coated in secretions.

This is our art.

*

I know what it is that is there, just between us...

Attraction. Personal, sensual and animal. The erotic veneer of romance. The savage untamed need of beasts. Blended like two hues to become one medium. Merging like we did.

Drawing me to him.

It may not last. We may not linger.

But we are what we are to each other.

I know what it is...

It is Us.


*end*

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

For someone special I've got to know recently. He'll know who he is hopefully, as he reads my blog.

A short story by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

Men love their country. Men also love guns, shooting... killing. When those passions collide, terrible things happen...

My husband-to-be loved this England. And I loved him for it.

Then his letters from Europe stopped.

He never returned.

I remember the day, the exact moment, the missive arrived. Black ink finality on white. The beginning of November, 1918.

The Great War ended ten days later.

*

John and I grew up together. Marriage was an arranged convenience for our families. Fortunately we had fondness for each other, attraction which blossomed into love before the call of King and Country took him. We wrote frequently, enthusiastically, and I was proud, so proud, of his officership.

We were to marry on his return from duty. I listened to Papa telling how the War was going. The Allied Forces were pushing back the enemy. It would soon be over. John would be back before Christmas.

At first I thought duty meant John had no time to write. My urgent letters went unanswered.

Then the telegram arrived. My world, echoing the world torn apart, fell to pieces.

*

I buried myself in matters of distraction. I had always helped Mama with the gardening, and nurtured a red rose from smallest bud to fullest blossom. My gift to John for his return.

I could have let it die, wither away like my sense of purpose, in winter. Instead I potted the small bush and kept it in the conservatory.

Other duties prevailed. England had lost many young men - sons, husbands, fathers. Families suffered. John's father had also been lost in the War. Ours was fortunate. No brothers. An injury prevented Papa from fighting. We took John's family - mother and sons - in patronage. George, the eldest at 15, was to join the Army the following year.

I became a friend and confidante, while their mother worked to support them. Grateful of support but not wanting to be a burden.

George had young friends in the same position. I was a comfort, sweet gardener, to all - babes and children. Caring, sustaining, fostering. A mother in training. But the black ache I would not be one to John's children still darkened my soul.

The children were my roses. Men were the flowers the garden of England had yielded to the bitter winter of war. We were now in the uneasy peace of spring, a country barren with loss. These new shoots needed nurturing against the frost of mourning, until a summer of recovery, emotional and economic. Blossoming to take their places. I ensured they knew love, hoping we never saw war again.

The first bloom was George, now old enough to enlist. His nurturing was briefest. I knew the loss of his brother wore heavily on him, as I kissed him farewell on the cheek.

*

Before I realised, it was a new decade. 1920, scented with the promise of change.  

Months passed. I was dressing the younger children when the door swung open. Silhouetted against sunrise was a soldier. I went as white as the ghost I perceived it to be - John. Restored.

Instead, it was George. My heart pounded... fear, hope, relief, disappointment. A tearful kiss on the cheek. In that emotional moment I realised, even though unalike - John was brown, hair and eyes, while George was fair and blue - there may be love there also.

We shared a few glorious weeks. Touching hands as we played with the children, our 'pretend family'. They had a Mama in myself and, briefly, a Papa in George. He was as bold in that as I imagined him as a soldier. Strength and vigour, but with tenderness also.

*

Another change. Ruth.

We had been at school together but our paths separated. I had heard she married abroad but no-one who knew wanted to speak of it. Rumour accused them of cowardice, fleeing England to avoid the War.

"Mary?" A woman's voice called, as I pushed a baby along for a morning perambulation.

I almost did not recognise her. I never considered Ruth fashionable but she was the personification of covers for women's gazettes. The skirt was short, revealing her knees. A thin top under her coat barely hid the lack of corsetry. I was more covered in my nightdress.

She indicated the perambulator. "Yours?"

"A friend's."

Ruth was disinterested. "Not really my style."

"Where have you been?" I asked.

Ruth's eyes rolled upwards, hands spread. "Darling, where haven't I been?" She listed American states, an itinery embellished with appeal or disdain.

I became aware of a tall, rather dashing man approaching her. Ruth turned but before any introduction, he took her in his arms in a quite ungentlemanly way, pulled her face to his and kissed her. Only quite unlike any I had seen. Their lips locked, she held his face to hers. An uncivilised, almost brutal, savagery to it. But both were enjoying it, immensely. They continued for a minute, as I averted my gaze.

"Sorry Mary." I heard Ruth gasp, "This is... " Another breathlessness sigh. "James."

James, a smudge of Ruth's lipstick on his lips, offered his hand. It was strong and firm. A grip which could have crushed the life out of Ruth. Yet she endured it, as love only could.

Boldly, I enquired, "Is that how married couples kiss in America?" The country often headlined the vulgar, the indecent.

Ruth laughed. "We're not cuffed. Heaven forbid! We're... very, very good friends." They exchanged glances that implied far more. That explained the silence - love that dare not be spoken. Relationships outside of wedlock.

How very fashionable of her.

*

On my 21st birthday Mama gave me a book. Intended for my wedding, now indefinitely postphoned. Written by a woman doctor for all women. The loss of so many men meant we were replacing them in society, not just the 'little men' - the children I nurtured. Some women pushed further for suffrage, equality not only in work but every manner. No longer walking behind but side-by-side.

The book explained beyond the act of procreation, to the pleasure of physical union between man and woman. That sex was something to be enjoyed mutually, not just endured for the sake of children. It was too new, too different, for Mama to believe but she was forward thinking and cared for my well-being.

She held my hand tight as she imparted the book.

"Do not tell your father."

No more was said.

*

The decade passed quickly.

George and I shared long walks when he was home, usually with children still in my care. I had long felt the inner urge to have my own. I think George sensed it but felt as I had been John's, there was impropriety, disloyality, in replacing him.

I got letters from Ruth, living with James, and an invitation to a party. I expressed doubt to George, my chaperone, being associated with someone of dubious morality. Perhaps men viewed such things differently but his reply was, "Enjoy and be damned."

We arrived at the train station in the afternoon, and were met by Ruth and James in their new automobile. George looked so dapper in slacks and blazer. My heart pounded as we sped along sunlit lanes, verdant countryside a blur on either side.

"Faster!" Ruth urged James, laughing, no stranger to such velocity. I gripped George's hand for comfort. His reassuring smile melted away my fear. My heart pounded still, but differently.

Our room was furnished with a large double-bed. It took moments to see the incongruity of this.

"We're not... " I started, but George put a finger to my lips, took the key and said to James, "Perfect, old man. I'll take it from here."

Behind the closed door, George held me. "Nothing to get balled, old girl. I'll sleep in the chair. No need for them to know, is there?"

A gentleman still.

Ruth had made new friends. As the party began, she and James flapped, both smoking, making sure everyone had lots of drinks. She joked they left America because of the Prohibition.

"Juiced our own joint here, darling!" Ruth laughed, and attacked - not exactly kissed - James' face again. A small war of unashamed passion. Lust with the intent of attrition, to wear the other down towards... I could scarcely imagine what.

I needed to blur their indiscretion, and downed my champagne. "Something stronger, please?" I hissed at George.

I am no party pooper and brought my full attention on George, learning new dances with him. It was a hoot. I soon forgot Ruth, her crudity, even where I was. The only thing I knew was George, as we hopped and swung round the floor.

I had a notion of being guided, dancing upstairs, and became sensible at our bedroom door. Another couple along the landing were swirling into another, laughing and kissing.

"George, I... " A protest cut short by his lips pressing to mine. A gentleman's kiss, polite and formal. He tasted sweetly of champers and martini.

We fell through the door, stumbled across the floor, tumbled onto the soft bedding. Darkness... the only light the moon. Under its heavenly eye, tainted by shadows, George almost looked the image of John. I could imagine this being our lost wedding night.

No.

It was a thing impossible. I burst into tears.

George sat up, and held me as I sobbed.

"Oh, George... " I sniffled, "How can I ever forget John?"

He hugged me tenderly. "I know, old thing. Don't you think I miss him too?"

He lifted my chin with his strong, gentle hand. Looked at me with those blue eyes. "I don't think you ever properly grieved, my brave, stiff-upper girl."

I hadn't. The rose was John's epitaph to me. I had hidden sadness behind smiles as I cultivated it. Nurtured George, the other children...

The wrongness of it all... the War, the death, rose in me to become anger.  I thumped his chest.

"Why, George?" Another thump, harder. "Why!? WHY!?" I punched and wailed. He took it like a true man. Let me work through the veiled mourning of years in gall and tantrum. An uninhibitedness only drink can bring.

My heart pounded as loud as my small fists. George wrapped his arms round me, holding me tight until I could hardly move. I was still impassioned, struggled furiously, screamed, tears running down my face. Then he pressed his lips, open-mouthed, to mine.

I struggled against that too. My fury didn't dissipate but transformed.

George shrugged his jacket off, as his hands sought to unfasten my dress. Blazing with emotion, I unbuttoned his shirt, his trousers, then spun round as he undid, peeled off, my corset. I felt truly unbound in that moment.

The last remnants of clothing fell away. We were still fighting, an inspired contest. Not against, but with each other now. My rage became a terrible thing. I clawed at George with my nails, hissed like an undomesticated cat.

It was unseemly for women to fight...

I fought as I imagined John had, for what he believed in. Then dying, alone and cold, choked in dirt.

The same dirt the rose had grown from.

I believed in John. My fight was to be with him.

I clawed my way through reality. Tore away the facade of George in front of me, bareskinned as a newborn babe, yet as erect as only men could be, to reveal John.

Just once.

God forgive me.

There was still an anger, a madness. I had seen George, as a boy, scrap with John. Children at play, rolling together. An energy, where the good fight was never to harm. George, and through him John, and I were as children, youth and maiden, in an act meant to create children.

I could not lay there, passively. Fate had given me one chance to experience this. My strengths are hidden within, disguised in a body considered frail. All those fortitudes, that potency.

I fought... remembered Ruth and James...

Decadent, yes. But such spirit. Men were always the hunters, the pursuers. Now that was changing, as was my rage. The same vitality. Not bad emotions like hate, but a storm of love.

It wrenched at my stomach, a tempest within. A downpour of God's tears. A tide which soaked me where John penetrated, and made us both damp to touch with exertion.

I needed to know all of John. What could have been. A lifetime compressed into one night.

My hands ran over his back, slowly but with growing urgency. Until I had touched, memorised, every inch of exposed, moonlit skin. I brought my thighs up against his hips, so I could experience him more. He swayed like branches caught in breezes, then tossed by a squall.

He brought his own fervour to bear, hard and deep, a fight to plant his seed. It would not, could not, ever grow to be the rose of our love. A baby. I prayed this first time I would not become a mother, no matter how much I yearned. I could not shame him that way, let alone myself.

It blossomed into burning heat. A glorious unfolding, as unexperienced words from that book became flesh, within my flesh. My senses ignited like fire, making my skin glow as if under summer sun.

I was still clawing John's back, lost in a haze of heavenly sensation.

Still crying, now with the absolute fulfilment of joy.

So much said as our souls touched, sparking like electricity, yet so little compared...

Was it greedy to want the whole night? Until the sun exposed my dark fantasy?

Ruth would have been proud.

I rolled on top of John, pressed home my attack. He pushed me to kneel up, tenderly exploring my skin, my softness.

Thinking only of John, until I thought no more. Natural instinctive love.

I had been starved by his loss, my own flower neglected, withering. He wet me, nurtured me, as only a man could. I grew again, my body, a radiant bloom. My face turned to the glow outside the window.

Dawn. Sunlight.

Darkness ends.

The next I knew was George, lying facing me, our eyes meeting with unsaid understanding.

"I'm ready now, darling." I told him, as we curled into each other and joined the sleep of those put finally to rest.

*

George asked Papa for my hand in marriage. We were joined in matrimony the following summer.

Our first true night together, with George and not the spirit of John, was wonderful. But we waited before starting a family, using birth control so we could enjoy each other as only married couples should.

I became with child in the spring of 1929, and gave birth as the new decade began.

We took the baby, our son, to Westminster Abbey, to see the Tomb. Innocent eyes not comprehending. But one day he will know.

We christened him John.

*end*


- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was my entry for the 1920's themed issue of 'Filament' magazine, and while it ticked all the boxes I wanted, it didn't fit in with their ideal of erotic short stories. They were probably right but I wanted to give the era a go, and felt it more interesting not to just simply transplant 21st century sexual drives back to a 1920s setting. My view was, how could I get a proper and upright woman of that socially restricted era so passionate, so incensed, that it would explode and could come to the fore sexually. The burning and unfulfilled gap in her life, left by her husband-to-be being killed at the end of the First World War, seemed a good idea. I let it simmer through into the 1920s, her love eventually growing, like a flower, towards his brother George. The second idea was that the main character, Mary, would nurture the boys, George among them, in her care to be more considerate and loving, so they would one day be better husbands themselves, after the horror of war. Some of my feelings on current overseas conflicts came to the fore here too.

Anyone wondering what 'the book' is, it's 'Married Love' by Dr Marie Stopes, published in 1918, which gave me an insight into the understanding of female sexuality at the time. A chapter title from it - The Glorious Unfolding - is actually name-checked in the story itself. While it may seem quaint to many women now, I was pleasantly surprised how modern most of it is, and straight-forward. We writers of erotic literature now, nearly a century on, owe her a great debt. If in doubt, read Melvyn Bragg's overview here: http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article696217.ece

A short story by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

The advert seemed innocuous enough... care assistant for a trip to a European clinic. After filling out application forms and the usual checks, I was set for an interview with the patient himself, Mr. Hall.

The doctors don't even have a name for his affliction, a nervous hypersensitivity that makes movement difficult with discomfort. It's now in a chronic stage, and increasing painkillers and analgesics only dull his senses so I'm told he comes off them for this first meeting.

What I didn't expect was a man no older than myself. The amount of care suggested someone almost incapable of looking after himself, so had imagined someone advanced in years. But illness is no respecter of age, striking indiscriminately.

He rises slowly from his chair, measured movements, trying not to look in pain. For whom each gesture chafes. Every breath cuts. But when our eyes meet it's as if we've known each other all our lives. New acquaintance, yet old friends. Or lovers missing their soulmate and reunited.

It's obvious the attraction is mutual but he doesn't want me in an awkward position, professionally or personally. I should not become attached. Can not.

His voice is controlled too, pauses when the pangs overwhelm, eyes closing for a moment before continuing. It's as painful for me to watch as it is for him in reality.

His explanation is brief, having learned to make every word count, a passion only pain can bring, constantly on adrenalin because he fights it always.

Then I see it reversed, the pain only passion has. When emotion takes you to the edge and further, when your soul learns to fly... or plunges into the abyss. I can tell he has experienced both.

He has some doubts, not about my experience, but time is short - the appointment is days away. I get the position. His secretary will brief me on the flight details and accommodation on the way out.

As I leave, he wears a bittersweet expression. A smile with a tear. He's glad it's me accompanying him... but somehow he's not.

I have an inkling of that too...


*

Mr Hall... "Please," he urges, "Call me Lester." ...needs drugs to endure the flight so for the most part he dozes. I watch over, unable to take my eyes off him, wondering if his dreams are filled with pain and anguish also.

The journey, thankfully, is problem free. At the hotel, we take dinner in our room. Though not wanting to exert him, I make conversation so we don't eat in silence. I know so little about him, wanting to know everything, anything.

"Will the treatment help?" I ask.

There's a long pause. "Yes, it'll help."

His vice is chess. A game not requiring much movement. My father taught me how to play and, as it makes him happy, distracts from the discomfort, I agree to a game.

He lets me be white, make the opening move.

White Pawn to E4.

"Do you have family?" I ask.

Black Pawn to E5.

"Parents died early. Left everything to me. Been in care all my life. One way or another."

White Queen to H5.

"I'm sorry, that's very sad."

Black Queen's Knight to C6.

He pauses. "They were spared my pain."

White Queen's Bishop to C4.

"No friends?"

Black King's Knight to F6.

"Don't get out much."

I see an opening.

White Queen checks Black King at F7.

Mate & Endgame.

The game is too short, too easy. I suspect he let me win just so he could see me smile.

*

I arrange a taxi to take us to the clinic the next morning, giving the address to the driver. It's a short, wordless, drive across the city.

I help Lester out and we climb the steps. A small plaque by the door gives a name which takes a few moments to register. It's been in the media, caused a furore over the world.

It's an assisted suicide clinic.

Lester has come here to die.

*

Lester doesn't let me in on the meeting. Apparently all the consultations have been done, and this is quite literally the final trip.

Why me? Why not his personal assistant, or nurse, or...

When it's time to go I'm burning with anxiety, anger, fear... assisting suicide is a criminal offence. But he explains someone 'unconnected' will be less liable. His staff will not go without but distanced from the act itself makes it look they do not directly benefit from his death. So does my new, unsuspecting position. He's thought it all through.

After we get back and I've made him comfortable he gives me an allowance to go shopping, enjoy the local scenery while there's time. There will be too much to do for the flight back, even though most of it is already arranged. The only specific item is to buy a nice dress. I'm hardly in a position to argue. But even less inclined for retail therapy.

I thought Lester may want to spend a bit more time together but he has some last calls to make.

"Shoo." Is the end of the matter, as far as he is concerned.

*

Tonight is Lester's last night on Earth. He's not sad, he's joyous. An eager anticipation that after so many years, he'll be free of pain. I have difficulty believing his choice but if I tell him not to do it, regardless of his own situation, then I'm just being selfish surely.

It's not my decision. Not my pain... at least not his pain. I have a different one.

Over dinner I'm the one who finds it agony to talk. Lester is, for him, more vocal. Still short, tense comments but more of them.

Professional detachment. I should be comforting and joining in his 'joie de vie', for want of a better term, not being a sulky bitch.

"Grant me three wishes." he says, out of the blue.

"What?"

"Indulge me." He closes his eyes as discomfort threatens again. These final hours he's going without painkillers. It's not to remind him why he's doing this but because he wants the closing acts of his time here to be lived, as felt, as fully as he can. Even if it kills him. It's not going to matter either way. To him, at least.

"Dance."

There's a disco in the hotel, and he leads me down to the floor. There's no further instruction except, "For me..."

Dance like I have never danced before, will ever again. Most there are couples, shaking it with each other. My partner sits and watches. In his eyes, the passion of pain, pain of passion...

Isolated in one corner, silhouetted by whirling coloured lights, I move slowly at first, finding a rhythm for him, imagining him dancing with me, bodies tantalisingly close but never touching because it would hurt. So my hands replace his, smoothing down my sides, discovering the sway of my hips. I make out even these shock, feelings of pleasure so intense they go through ecstasy and into something indescribable. Like the face of God...

...for no one may see me and...

A tear. Droplets of sadness on my cheek. My dance becomes one of extremes... a tragedy in twirling touches but joy for the end of suffering.

As the last slow, soulful track is played, for all too brief moments, Lester stands, moves slowly towards me and dances. It must be the most painful thing he can do. I'm reminded of The Little Mermaid, for whom every step is a walk on sharp swords but does it for love.

I'm not sure whose passion, pain, is greater.

The music stops. The dance is over.

I help Lester back in our room. He's wracked with agony but he laughs as only someone with nothing to lose can, "I enjoyed that."

*

"Make love."

Less a wish and more a suggestion. But not entirely for his benefit. He knows that if I touch him, kiss him, caress... hold... it will hurt. The more we embrace, the greater the pain.

I've enjoyed the dance, allowing intimacy without contact, a fantasy consummating our souls but not our bodies. I want more. I think he does... how can I go further without crossing that border, threshold, of agony.

I slowly peel my dress off, making it seem the shedding of clothes is a relief. Disrobing each layer, even the gossamer of my slip and stockings, brings blissful release from the featherlight pressure on my damp burning skin.

By the time I am naked, my pain has turned to pleasure, set free with only the still air, his gaze, on me.

I know men's looks, how they can burn right through you, eyes slamming callously into my body. But Lester's admiring consideration is soft, reflection of that knowledge and making sure it is tender and caring, as if a spring breeze.

"Make love."

He reiterates his wish, and I go through my dance again, this time on the cool soothing sheets of my bed. My hands become his again, adopting his mindset.

He continues his lonely vigil, as I tease my skin, each touch agony, every caress pain. The sensitivity of my nipples, swollen with arousal, are daggers through my chest... stroking my stomach a hammer blow... and when my fingers gently slide within, I'm clawed by angry, unleashed pussycats.

I'm more delicate than I've ever been but it pushes my limits. The torture is extreme... excruciating... exquisite.

I cannot bear any more, the relief of my hand's exit from between my thighs triggers release of another kind. Deprived of pain, a new bliss explodes outwards, all over...

In the moments it takes me to recover, tears blurring my sight, Lester has undressed. Instead of joining me, he lays naked on his own bed, beside mine.

The choice is mine. Given the white pieces, the opening move. I'd be betraying professional conduct if I do, and him if I don't.

His last night on this world.

Trembling, filled with trepidation, I slide from my bed and lie softly beside his body, naked together. He puts his arm round me and, still shaking with fear at the harm I may cause, I kiss him gently.

His other hand finds mine and draws it to his erection. Tenderly, I smooth it, knowing his gasps are a mix of severe sensations. With a single gesture, he indicates I should kneel up and take him between my thighs.

"Won't it hurt?" I ask.

"All the torments of hell." Love is endurance.

Tears roll down my face, splash on him like small bombs, as I let him plunge into my abyss. This position allows minimal contact, as I do all the moving. Gentle, delicate rises and falls over him, in time with our shallow, scared, breaths.

Perhaps it is his over sensitivity but he cums very quickly, almost economically. Like his words, he makes every small thrust count. Then, surprising me once again, with tremendous effort, a triumph of will over pained body, he rolls me over, lays on top of me. I want to wrap myself around him but this must be more touch then he can bear. The most I can do is caress his face as he slowly eases himself back and forth inside me.

I look lovingly into his eyes and if they are windows to the soul the view beyond is carved out of his landscape in anguish and torment. Breathtaking vistas, beautiful to behold but created by elemental forces over unimaginable time...

Time which is running out.

It takes longer, his second climax. His face is that of a marathon runner, pressing for the finish. Just one more step... one more push... So soft, so tender. Gentle grinds. So when he lets go his ejaculation is uncharacteristically physical, and for short moments I hold him close, arms on back, thighs round his hips, show what it means to me, as he gives me our unique, one-off, orgasm.

Then, spent in emotional and physical agony, he rolls off me and lies very still. Care-minded professional, I check his weak pulse, listen to his almost inaudible breaths. Even in the dim light I can tell he is too pale, on the very edge of life.

He turns his head to me, and smiles. Reaches up and strokes my hair.

"Live."

The last wish? Does he mean he wants to and... Or is it for me?

Then he holds my hand, closes his eyes...

Mate & Endgame.

...and is gone.

Live.

For what? Although I've only known him a few days, he has permeated every fibre of my being with his dignity and grace.

Some accuse people who commit suicide of cowardice but Lester was bravery itself. Just tired, worn down, eroded. I would answer back the accusers don't understand, that the law shirks responsibility by not protecting those faced with the hardest burden of decision. That politicians and the medical profession run and hide from this bigger question. Who is really afraid here... ?

I hadn't expected him to go like this. That having accepted fate, I thought we would at least wake in each other's arms, share a final breakfast, make that last heroic journey together.

I remember the song of our first, last, only dance.

Killing me softly...

Did he know this would be the way?

*

On returning, after a funeral attended only by myself and the few staff he had, there are the usual questions and tribunal. I answer them perfunctorily. It hardly matters. While Lester's solicitor sways the arguments in my favour but there may still be a charge. If so, I won't work in care again.

As I wait the long drawn outcome, I miss a period. A test confirms it... I'm pregnant. It can only be Lester's.

With this information, the solicitor has another surprise. Even though he could not have known if it would definitely happen, a last-moment codicil to Lester's will indicates any offspring has a fund. It's not wealth but as the mother of his child, we will be provided for comfortably. Like everything else, including his chess game, Lester needed to make sure of every possible move.

I do now have something to live for...

*end*

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was written as an attempt to express the sense of loss after a short but unbelievably intense relationship. The main crux was how to have an erotic sexual scene which was, in effect, the last thing someone ever does? To put it plainly, how can you fuck someone who is dying, who you will never see again alive? It was a difficult, and personally emotional, set of decisions... some, once again, drawn from real life.

A short story by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

*click*

Morning snapshot of a cityscape, a moment frozen forever in time, behind the shutter of a 35mm SLR.

Katherine had grown to love photography. Proper cameras with film and grain, not the pixel shit of the digital age. There was something more intimate, personal, about negatives, exposing them in a darkroom and seeing the image - your view and cropped framing - developing, nurtured, in the tray. It was a creative process, and she was a woman with vision.

*click*

People this time, crowds of faces milling about in rush hour, their likenesses now trapped on acetate and silver halide, like insects in amber . She wondered if some historian or archeologist, thousands of years in the future, would see these images and ponder on their significance. A preservation of now, for some time hereafter.

*click*

One face stood out. A guy had spotted her, perhaps a flash of the lens caught his eye? Was he wondering if she's focussed on him? Picked him from the crowd. He pointed at himself. Me?

*click*

It was now. He posed meaningfully. Katherine smiled.

*click*click*click*

The motor whined. End of film. One disadvantage against digital, the handicap of being limited to 24 or 36 shots, wasting time changing cartridges. As Katherine wound back the film, released it and fed a new cartridge in, the guy was nearly upon her.

Katherine pointed the lens up at him as he shadowed over her, sat on the wall beside her camera case. She focussed and got a close-up of his grey eyes, dirty blond hair and enchanting smile. One for the personal folio, she thought.

"Am I that interesting?" He asked, "To be picked out of... so many."

"Luck of the draw." Katherine replied, "The right time, the right place..."

"The right person." He added. Katherine smiled again, liking his candour.

She extended a slender hand, "Katherine Sade."

He took it, raised it to his lips like a gentleman, and kissed her fingers, "Christopher Parfitt". With a returned smile and slight mock bow, he added, "Model extraordinaire, at your service."

Katherine may only have been a talented amateur but she knew the market. He wasn't young enough, or beautifully sculpted in the trade sense, to be a model but that didn't stop him from being exceptionally and instantly attractive to her, in looks and personality. Katherine was aware she had snatched him, visually and socially, out of his journey. While not wanting to, she found herself saying with a blush, "I'm sorry. I must have stopped you from wherever you were going."

Christopher spread his arms, "I'm a free agent. Well, today anyway."

A snapshot of here and now. A moment frozen in time.

"I guess I am too." Katherine replied.

Suddenly, Christopher had the SLR out of her hands. Before she could protest, the camera was being turned on her. Katherine hated having her photo taken, which was why she preferred being behind the lens, not in front. And especially now, no make-up and just in a frumpy, comfortable jumper and long denim skirt. Fuck, I haven't even washed my hair...

*click*click*

Katherine held up a hand to stop more being taken but Christopher was already offering it back to her.

"For posterity," he told her, "and, if I may be so bold, for me to have a print sometime?"

Now Katherine was really blushing. Her heart pounded in her chest.

"And in return for so gracious a gift," Christopher added, "Might I buy you a coffee or something?"

She had no choice, and laughed coyly at so obvious but welcome a proposition.

*

Starbucks was too crowded so even though it was throwing caution to the wind, Katherine took him back to her place.

Am I usually this bold? She asked herself. No, but this may be a one and only opportunity...

Over coffee, she probed a bit. Was Christopher married? No. Girlfriend? Between relationships. Tactfully put. Katherine felt a twinge of possibility, beyond this single day. For now she was more concerned about getting some portrait shots, in her spare bedroom-come-studio. Christopher may not be a model but he had looks enough to spare and with the right lighting and angles...

She couldn't help shutting one eye and forming a mental crop round his head and shoulders. In return, Christopher winked back.

Stop thinking like a photographer and act like a woman, you stupid cow! She chided herself.

"Sorry," Katherine blushed, realising what she had provoked, "Force of habit."

"Winking at men you just picked up off the street?" Christopher was teasing her.

"Framing." She explained, "I was hoping to... "

"Yes?"

"Take some more photos?" Katherine grimaced inwardly. That sounded almost cold and impersonal.

"Sure," Christopher smiled. "Why not?"

*

Christopher, model or no, was a photographer's dream. It would be too easy to call him a poser. He knew instinctively when to freeze, allowing Katherine the luxury of just snapping away, not even having to say 'hold it' or 'smile'. He did these as naturally as breathing. And what a heart melting smile too.

Katherine was in a creative heaven, the adrenalin flowing and heart pounding as Christopher went from simple lit portraits, to taking off his tie and loosening his shirt for a more casual look, before actually stripping to the waist! Katherine giggled shyly at being in a room with a half-dressed guy she barely knew, taking photos. It verged on the decadent, the immoral. She had to stop, think, and made more coffee as she let her whirling, buzzing senses try and find the ground once more.

Christopher didn't even bother putting his shirt back on, and Katherine felt she should avert her lingering gaze as she sipped from her mug.

"So, how did I do?" He asked, sensing her awkwardness.

Katherine smiled with burning cheeks, "Wonderfully."

"I said I was extraordinaire, didn't I?" He put down his mug and held her arms, guiding her to the stool in front of the spots. Katherine winced, please God no...

But she didn't move from where Christopher had perched her. A bird in a gilded cage of light.

As he moved behind the camera on its tripod, he winked. "Framing"

Katherine had to grin at the touché.

*click*

"Perfect." Now Christopher raised a hand and made a fluttering movement with it. "Watch the birdie!"

Katherine laughed.

*click*click*

Christopher sent up the whole male photographer/female model scenario for her. Doing what Katherine thought she would have to do with him but hadn't needed to. He made her smile and laugh, told her to make luurve to the lens - *click*click*click*click* "Ooooh yeah baby!" - and instinctively got her to relax where being in front of the camera usually freaked her.

And when that cartridge finished, Christopher surprised Katherine further by expertly rewinding it, flipping it out and loading a new one as he'd done it all his life too. Barely moments lost before he was getting her to pose, no... just be... naturally, unselfconsciously, again.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Katherine had to ask.

An enigmatic smile. "Perhaps."

Katherine gave a half exasperated, quirky pout of the lips.

*click*

"Beautiful."

"I am so not." A frown.

*click*click*

"Beg to differ."

"If I had a chance to scrub up, maybe."

*click*

"Fine as you are." Christopher stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes.

Katherine laughed so much, tears rolled down her reddening cheeks.

*click*click*click*click*

"Okay, now take your jumper off." Nonchalantly requested, as if the most natural thing in the world.

Katherine swallowed. "What!?"

Christopher stood up, gestured towards his chest. "Hey, I'm topless. The least you could do is return the favour."

"You've got to be fucking kidding!" Katherine was half-horrified but half-tempted, because he had been making her feel very good about herself. "I'm so self conscious."

Christopher exaggerated closing one eye, looked at her through a box made with his fingers, mockery of photographers framing, and said in a cliched French accent, "Nat evern eef ah zay 'make ze sweeet luurve to ze lens' non?"

More silly giggling. It was so stupidly awful yet enticing Katherine gripped the bottom of her jumper and slowly pulled it up over her head. She was half way when she heard another click.

In her newly discovered bravado, Katherine had forgotten there was nothing on underneath. She froze.

"No-one will know." She heard Christopher say, "Just us. Just this once. This single day."

Katherine's head popped out from the stretched neck of the jumper, her chestnut hair every-which-way.

*click*

So was that the pay-off? The price for all this? That after he would be gone forever? His way of saying goodbye already. Katherine's wasn't sure she wanted that. Her smile melted off her face.

Christopher saw it instantly. "Did I say something wrong?"

Fuck, Katherine thought, I barely know this guy, who's a dream in front and behind the lens, knows how to make me love myself, and I'm already committing before the sun sets on us.

Christopher released the shutter.

*click*

"I'll name that one 'melancholy'..." he told her.

A tear rolled down Katherine's cheek, but not one of laughter, or joy. Christopher adjusted the lens, zoomed in on her face.

*click*

"And that's 'sadness'... " He said, "Going the whole emo range here. What an actress."

Katherine glared at him, "I'm not acting!"

Suddenly, in one swift move, Christopher was in front of her, holding her in his bare arms, naked chest against exposed heaving breasts, hot skin on skin. This close, Katherine took in his aftershave, mingled with his own natural musk, a heady cocktail for her to become intoxicated on.

Make love to the lens, he had told her, when perhaps all along he had been suggesting, make love to me.

And terrifyingly, she wanted to. This perfect stranger, captured in her photos, her dreams, and now perhaps - for a single day or night only - her bed. Better to have loved and lost, than regret always?

It was like one of those cliched romantic scenes, where a man holds a woman in his arms and there's moments of indecision... do they or don't they? Kiss or bed? Katherine's head whirled again. So decadent...

Their lips met.

*click*

Christopher still had the end of the remote cable release in his hand. He had captured that moment forever too.

"What do you want to call that one?" he asked.

The touch of his lips on hers meant more than her heart was pounding. Deep in her gut Katherine felt burning needs, deep desires. Her thighs trembled.

"Possibility..." she murmured. And brought his face to hers, snogged him meaningfully.

*click*click*

Something was clicking alright, and it wasn't just the camera.

The film had ended.

"Let's see what develops." Christopher suggested, and pulled himself slowly away. A gentleman still.

Flushed with torn indecision and bemusement Katherine pulled her jumper back on and, as she tugged the wool over her breasts, so the old self-consciousness covered the new bolder, daring version of herself.

*

Colour photo printing had to be done in almost total darkness, so sensitive was the film and paper. Small phosphorescent strips marked out corners and equipment for when the main light was off.

Katherine developed the films and made a contact sheet. There, next to her photos of Christopher, were his ones of her. Smiling, laughing, thoughtful, crying... the ones of them kissing, first tentatively, then with her passionate craving. For someone whose experience was confessed to be 'perhaps', he had framed their bodies perfectly, caught the moment.

Even if she and Christopher didn't go beyond this day, the preserving of that instant took her breath away. The potential was still there, not lost but on hold, like the camera shutter half-pressed, waiting to be released.

There was a knock on the darkroom door. "Anyone in?" She heard Christopher ask. "Coffee, and guy, going cold out here."

Katherine wasn't sure whether she should let Christopher see those ones, just yet, but she pinned up the contact sheets of him to let them dry, and opened the door. The others, as yet unfixed, she slipped in the bin.

Christopher, thankfully back in his shirt, looked at the small images of himself. "Hey, I look pretty good. Even unscrubbed." He looked round. "None of you then?"

"They... uh..." Katherine bit her lip, lied badly, "Didn't come out too well."

Christopher spied the crumpled sheets in the bin and picked them out. Shame-faced, Katherine didn't stop him or meet his gaze as he looked them over, slowly solarizing under the light.

"You don't like my work?" he asked.

"It's not that... " she began, knowing full well Christopher could sense she didn't just like the photos but loved them. Were they the beginning of something, that shared breath, or was it an ending? As far as it should, or could, go? "Is it just... some kind of work to you?"

Christopher shook his head. "I used to be like you... a talented hobbyist. Then other things got in the way... life, work, career. You brought some of that fun back." The contact portraits of him were darkening with overexposure, but the few of them embraced held out. A sign possibly, picked out in light and shadow on paper.

"A day not thinking about where the money is coming from. Hours of just me... " He continued vaguely, not in particular to either of them, "And, suddenly, you as well."

Christopher hadn't needed to include her in his confession but he had. That moved her.

"Fancy making love to the lens again, Katherine?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No cameras this time. But... "

The rest didn't need saying.

*

It was now mid afternoon, and the brightness of the sun backlit the closed curtains of Katherine's bedroom. A small chink of amber light streamed like a spotlight through the uneven gap where they failed to meet, painting golden highlights over Christopher's naked body on the bed.

No cameras, Katherine had said, but she ached as much to immortalise him to a photograph, a reclined god-like pose on her sheets, as she did to have him beside her, on her, inside her...

Stop thinking photographer and be a fucking woman for once, you silly bitch! Just... this... once...

But she was still the same self-conscious self as Christopher knelt up, peeled off the old woolen jumper to free her breasts again, and undid her skirt. It fell to the floor and she stood there, just in panties, covering her exposed body with her hands in a vague semblance of the Birth of Venus.

Christopher stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes again. It hadn't failed to make her laugh before, and it didn't this time. It broke the stupid, solemn seriousness of the moment, made it fun again. Forget the work, the studio, the camera... just be. Just once.

*click*

That wasn't the camera, it was their chemistry, like the dev in the darkroom, bringing the potential of exposure into vivid visual reality. Something that could be seen and felt.

Christopher leant down and brought his lips to Katherine's navel, and planted soft kisses down the pale skin of her stomach to the thin elastic top of her panties. Took it in his teeth and stretched it out with a mock growl. Katherine giggled, as he then rolled on his back with the fabric still in his mouth, and tugged them down her thighs. The pull unbalanced Katherine, and she fell with a whooop on the bed beside him, her head perilously close to his cock, which was hardening and extending, like a living zoom lens.

Make love to the lens...

Christopher scooped her legs up, and eased her undies off, so they lay panting, naked, facing each other's sex. Another moment of indecision.

"Ladies first?" Christopher offered, though it wasn't a gentlemanly suggestion. It was decadent but Katherine wanted it anyway. She closed one eye, and mentally framed his cock, now at its fullest size, as hard as it could be. Then she leaned forward, kissed the tip, took a deep breath and slowly drew him between her lips.

In return, she felt Christopher part her thighs, continued kissing where he had left off, until he found the soft fluff of her muff. And what was beyond, hidden... camera obscura, her darkest room. The heat of his tongue was like that chink of sun, soft comforting warmth. She suppressed a giggle, as much of one possible with Christopher's cock in her mouth, at the memory of his tongue waggling to make her laugh, now buried deep inside her cunt. Both thoughts relaxed Katherine. Made her open like the iris in the lens, his light flooding through and illuminating her.

Aperture f/1.8... as open as possible. Setting for low light levels... longer exposure...

They changed positions and, like his studio poses, Christopher instinctively seemed to know when to pause for Katherine, let her capture that moment in her mental camera. They may not be committed to film but these snapshots would live on in the album of her mind. She wondered how much Christopher was committing, for afterwards.

Christopher lay Katherine back, half sat up against her pillows and, with practiced precision, slowly entered her. A pause again, for her to take in the view of him.

A fluttering of eyelids before her gaze met his, fixed on each other. Then their two bodies were moving as one, as equal but complementary opposites, like light and dark, brightness and shadow.

The sun had set by the time their opposites cancelled each other out, exhausted but satisfied bare bodies lying together, entwined in the grey of twilight.

*

Katherine woke alone in near darkness. The curtains were open but it was night outside, the silver orb of the moon now her spotlight.

Christopher had gone. There was no sound or light elsewhere in her flat to suggest he remained. All she had were memories and a cosy, glowing ache inside.

Katherine flicked the bedside lamp on, and was startled to see a large photo print taped to the wall beside her. It was a montage... soft vignettes of her faces smiling, laughing, frowning and sad in each corner, framing the central image of them kissing. As a colour multiple exposure onto paper, it was flawless, like art. Christopher must have spent hours on it, or he was even better at this than he gave away.

It also seemed to mean goodbye.

Katherine pulled it from the wall but as she went to toss it to one side, she saw some writing on the back.

Dear K,

I didn't want to disturb you but I had to leave.

You looked so blissful it seemed a crime to wake you.

Please send me some prints and call me.

Love,

C.

- with an address and telephone number.

Well at least it wasn't over. He could have just made his own prints and gone. The next move was hers to make, should she choose to.

The room's night air was cool, and she shivered, still naked under warm sheets, even if glowing from their faded heat. Katherine clambered out to find her gown, and flicked the main light on. And started again from the two large photo prints stuck to the closed bedroom door.

One was of Christopher, sitting in all his naked glory on the studio stool. He must have used the camera timer, and it brought back happy remembrances of their fun photographing each other. Not a god-like pose, as he had seemed earlier on the bed, just a man. But what a man, though.

The other was of her, lying naked and asleep on her bed. As she hadn't been disturbed by a flash it must have been a time exposure, using natural light only from the sunset. Christopher had been right... her expression, in soft focus, was one of an angel who had found inner peace and contentment. No wonder she had slept so soundly for hours.

Katherine studied the photo with her more critical, photographer eye. Christopher had got her good side. Not just physically - she didn't really think she had one but he had made sure her nudity was tasteful and not voyeuristic - but emotionally. That knack of making her relax before the camera, his lens, the one she had made lurve to. The calm after the physical and sensual storm.

Let's see what develops... Christopher had said.

The photos were a preservation of then, but perhaps an echo of what might be as well, yet to be shared.

*click*


- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was my second submission for UStar's story competition. I drew on my long-dormant experience in photography (I'd studied some at college, more than 20 years ago) and used that as a theme, while holding back on the two main ideas I was going to pitch for the novels, had I been accepted.

Longer than most submissions at the time, which limited me to under 2,000 words, this one ran to 3,500, and allowed me to explore the characters a little more in this (no pun intended) vignette of a first meeting and start of a relationship.

A short story by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

I Love You

It began as a game. Short, sweet nothings texted to keep each other interested.

Katherine started it, and to make them short, so much sweeter, the rules were:

Three Words Only

So Christopher sent back:

Be Mine Tonight

Katherine gave a little smile as she read it, feeling her heart skip a beat. Her reply had to be more considered, raising the bar.

Bring Back Sexy

For she knew he would. He already had, and Christopher anticipated that.

Don't I Always?

You smug bastard, Katherine thought. But what she keyed back on her mobile was:

Really Mean It

Christopher felt his temperature start to rise. Katherine usually only said something like that when she really meant it too. Really, deeply felt it. He could sense a growing impatience in the words, so texted:

Don't Wanna Wait

The reply was obvious.

Neither Do I

It was half past two, and Christopher had already eaten. He suspected Katherine had too, so a lunchtime quickie was out of the question. It was Friday. Would either of them be missed for the last few hours?

Wanna Skip Work?

Katherine might be tempted, but anticipation was everything. Keep Him Hungry, she thought, but her text said:

Not A Chance

There was a significant delay. Katherine wondered if she had upset him, put him off.

Still There Honey?

Several minutes more, and nothing. Katherine checked her mobile for signal, and got full strength. As she slipped it back in her bag, it chirped.

Touching Your Muff

Katherine gnawed her lip as she felt a familiar twinge in her panties. She looked around the office to see if anyone had noticed her blush. Anne walked past to use the photocopier nearby. When her back was turned, Katherine asked:

Is It Hard?

No delay from Christopher this time.

As A Rock

The tingle between Katherine's thighs slowly melted in a hot soft dampness, and she shuffled uneasily in her chair. Her legs were crossed neatly under the desk but there was a growing desire to part her thighs. She was able to play that game too.

Imagine Me Sucking

Christopher could all too easily. He was in a board meeting which, thankfully, was coming to a close. Even so, he had difficulty keeping his mind on the concluding minutes, as he read Katherine's text, and his hard-on threatened to lift the table up.

It took two to tango, to flirt, to make love... even over the air.

Clit Needs Attention

Katherine shifted her position in the chair, tense shivers trapped beneath the skin of her stomach, and replied:

Asking Or Telling?

Christopher's answer surprised.

Know So Darling

And he was right. Katherine didn't need to slip a delicate finger between her trembling thighs to sense the swelling bud, starting to ache with need. If he kept this up she was going to leave a damp patch on the chair through her skirt, and that would be beyond embarrassing. She would get her own back.

Tonguing Your Tip

Christopher gave a bit of a jump, and banged his leg on the underside of the table. At least he hoped it was only his knee.

The chairman looked up from his speech and papers. "Are you okay, Chris?"

"Just some cramp." Christopher smiled meekly. God, he had to get out of there soon, or it wouldn't just be a very obvious and enormous erection he would have trouble concealing. He could feel the slight sticky leaking where Katherine's imaginary tongue was playing on his thoughts.

"Nearly done." The chairman reassured him.

So am I, Christopher thought. And sent Katherine:

You Absolute Bitch

She was ready for that.

Nowhere Near, Lover

This time it was Christopher who got even.

My Fingers Inside

Katherine gave a small, involuntary whimper as her desires began to run wild. David, who sat almost opposite, looked up.

"Need a pee." she told him and, picking up her bag, stood and minced to the ladies loo. Katherine hoped her skirt wasn't betraying the wetness that had so far soaked her panties, making them think she already had.

Katherine gasped as she shut the cubicle door, and thumbed back:

Sucking Your Balls

See how you like that, big boy! Then Katherine eased her skirt up, and wiggled out of the clingingly wet undies, before rummaging in her bag for the spare pair she carried in emergencies. And god, was this one. The sirens were sounding, and red lights flashing already. Inside her muff had become a very dangerous zone.

Deep Dirty Digging

Clean, dry panties bridging her knees, Katherine sat on the loo. She was aware she was perspiring, more than her thighs starting to tremble. She couldn't stop her fingertip slipping down and touching herself. With her free hand, she texted:

Rubbing That Stiffy

Katherine was unaware Christopher had at last, desperately, got out of the meeting and was likewise secreted in a toilet cubicle. He replied:

Enquiring Or Wishing?

Her nail flicked over her clit, now so acutely trigger sensitive she thought she was going have a small, urgent climax right then and there. Her thumb stumbled over her mobile keys.

I'd Do Better

In his cubicle, trousers down, Christopher stood holding his cock, caressed its solid, hot, veiny length.

You Aren't Here

That settles it. Katherine counted to ten and brought her raging libido under control as far as she was capable. Weekend begins now, she thought, and patted herself as dry as possible before straightening her clothing. Then she had one final adjustment before she got back to the office, and excused herself for the rest of the afternoon. Thankfully, her boss waived it off with a kindly, "Have a nice weekend."

I intend to, Katherine thought. Her next action was to text:

Yours Or Mine?

Christopher smiled. He knew that must also mean Right Fucking Now!

Did I Win? He sent.

Katherine wasn't going to give him the benefit of that victory. His prize would be her, anyway.

Well Did I? Christopher pushed.

There was another delay while she got to her car, keying the ignition like a woman possessed. Before she drove off, she had to know where. And there, at last, was Christopher's answer.

The Closest. Quickly

His place.

Already There Sweetie. Katherine replied.

And with a screech of tyres, she joined the traffic at speed.


*

Christopher's car was already in the drive by the time Katherine arrived. She parked beside it and checked her mobile.

Guess I Did

Katherine had almost broken land speed records in her frantic drive across town.

Wipe That Smile

- when she really meant This Time Yes. And Next Time No.

An instant response.

The Door's Open

Katherine didn't even bother locking her car as she skipped up the steps and threw herself into the hall. There was silence but she suspected Christopher was already in the bedroom. She asked anyway:

Where Are You?

Hide And Seek

Katherine let out a shriek of frustration, and pounded up the stairs, matching the pounding in her panties, driven by lust gone wild. Nope, Christopher wasn't in bed or the room. She raced onto the landing, mobile in hand.

Cruelly Denying Pussy

She listened intently for giveaway keying sounds.

There's No Justice

Damn, Katherine thought, he must be on silent, the bastard! She would have to draw him out.

Softly Sweetly Dripping

She kicked off her heels and padded down the stairs. If Christopher was upstairs, she was sure she would have heard something.

Getting Warm Perhaps? He teased her.

Hornily Hot, Honey

In the lounge, Katherine looked round and spied the toes of Christopher's shoes under the full-length curtains. She put her mobile on silent as well, and thumbed in a text ready. Got you now, she thought, as she tip-toed slowly towards them. Send:

Peek A Boo!

Katherine pulled the curtains to one side but found no Christopher. Only his shoes. She didn't have time to react before she was grabbed from behind, to be tossed onto the big soft sofa.

"Peek A Boo." Christopher grinned. And then he jumped on her.

Katherine welcomed his weight on her, his hands finding their way all over. One reached up her skirt, teasing its way up her thigh but fund no other clothing, only a warm, welcoming wetness.

"No panties, sweetie." she purred.

Christopher hummed his approval. "Three little words..."

"Stick with it." Katherine told him, as she unbuttoned his shirt and ran her fingers over his chest. Then she started on his trouser belt but being pinned, it was awkward for her. "Take those off." she demanded.

Christopher knelt up and shrugged his shirt off, undoing his trousers with bold confident moves. "Your wish fulfilled."

"Socks as well." Katherine raised an eyebrow. Christopher peeled them off, and towered over her in just his silk boxers. Which, she noticed, had a very large damp patch upfront, where something long, thick and hard was making an effort to push its way out. She reached out and stroked the damp material with a smile. It twitched a bit.

"My fault, perhaps?" she asked.

"It always is." Christopher replied.

"Mmmmm, my hero." Katherine knelt up and teased the boxers down to reveal Christopher's huge erection. As she pulled them down his thighs, she let her lips find the tip, and ran her hot tongue over it.

Pausing for a breath, she looked up. "Is that nice?"

"A rhetorical question?" Christopher gasped.

Katherine gripped his shaft and slowly stroked its long girth, with a satisfied sound. Then she took Christopher in her mouth again and sucked on him lustily, rubbing and twisting his cock in her palm.

"Oh. My. God." he whispered.

"Uuh mmm mmmuhMMMM?" Katherine hummed, mouth full. You taste delicious, she thought.

"Mouth full... rude." Christopher chided her humourously, as he stroked her brunette hair.

"Hmmmuh uh uhmmm." Whatever you say.

Katherine pushed Christopher back on the sofa, his cock still between her lips, so he half-sat, half-lay on it. She gave him a few moments more of exquisite sucking and rubbing, before kneeling up so he could take her clothes off as well.

"Your turn now." she advised. He eagerly undid her blouse, unhooked her bra, and let her skirt fall. With a neat kick, she sent the last garment into the corner.

"She shoots... scores!" Katherine grinned.

"Scores is right." Christopher agreed, and guided her thighs so she straddled him, knees either side of his legs. Katherine didn't need to guide him. His cock was rigid and upright, and the wet depths of her pussy slowly settled around him as her mouth had done, moments before.

Katherine began to rock herself on her lover's blissfully huge and hard erection, letting her cunt ripple over him. Christopher's head lolled back in ecstasy, as she stroked his face, lovingly. "Welcome home, darling." she sighed.

Christopher took one of her pert nipples between his lips and, as he moved from one to the other, sighed. "You're an angel..."

Katherine giggled, "My halo's slipped."

'I'm so dead..." Christopher could barely speak. He knew exactly where that exquisite, golden ring had fallen to. What it now surrounded.

"Gone to heaven." Katherine added, as he found hers. The tip of Christopher's cock seemed to reach up inside Katherine, and massage her heart. Caress her soul.

Their gentle motions began to increase in speed and urgency. Both had been driven to the extreme edge of horniness by the text game, and now they needed release from it.

"Faster, sweetness, faster..." Katherine sighed, bouncing up and down on him as if he was a trampoline.

"Are.. you.. close.. ?" Christopher asked.

Katherine nodded, though that was difficult for him to tell as she juddered up and down. "Fuck... yeh... nearly... "

"How... about... now?"

"Yeh... yes! YES!"

Christopher brought his hips up a few times more before Katherine threw her head back, and gave a sighing scream of rapture as he let go of everything he had. The burning heat of his cum filled her, as she felt all her pent-up Friday afternoon frustrations melt away inside.

"Come... my angel... " Christopher gasped.

Katherine's next three words were more sounds of intense, inexpressible, pleasure.

"What... was that... ?" He urged her.

Three more sounds. A high moan of bliss. A cry of sudden, surprised sensation. A squeal of... something hidden, untold.

"Works for me... " Christopher conceded.

Katherine slowly descended from her cloud of ecstasy, a glistening stain of hot perspiration now dressing her smooth pink skin. As her sensibilities returned to her gaze, she took in the powerful image of Christopher in front of her, beneath her, inside her. She didn't need to see the musky, heavenly sweat on him. As she ran her hands over his chest, she could feel the drips moistening her fingers. Her thighs, spread over him, also testified to his all-enveloping wetness.

"Do that again." She smiled.

Never The End...


- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This was my initial submission for UStar's story competition last year. I thought a simple idea would suffice, especially as the names had to be specific for reader personalisation. But while it was fun to write, it probably didn't have the impact or international scope they were looking for.

I still enjoy its straightforward approach.