Free Asking For Trouble by Kristina Lloyd Page A

wondered what would land on my doormat Friday morning. He was bound to send me a photo of his erect cock. What else did a bloke have that could be classed as non-mantelpiece fare? What would his prick be like? And would he take the picture from above? Or hold the camera in front?
    And what should I send him?
    I reckoned my pouting-vulva shots were probably the best. Before my photo session, I’d given myself a vicious bikini line and snipped at my pubes, leaving just a sparse triangle of light-brown hair. I’d also masturbated. So in the snaps my sex lips stood out proud and plump, flushed and glossy.
    Yes, I thought, I’ll send him one of those. They were brazen and fearlessly explicit. And he probably thought I wouldn’t dare. He’d taken the lead so far: spying on me, phoning me, encouraging me to talk dirty.
    I wasn’t going to carry on playing catch-up. If he wanted to swap intimate photos then I was damned if mine was going to be subtle and coy.
    So that’s what I did. I chose my favourite snatch-shot and posted it.
    Oh, silly me.
    He was bare from the arse upward, his naked back facing me. His olive skin was overlaid with a sheen of dark bronze, and he was perfectly muscled: sinewy, work-strong contours rather than vulgar brawn. His black hair was cut in a grade-two crop and the suggestion of skull beneath was menacingly beautiful. His head was slightly turned, eyes downcast, mouth set in a firm line. You could see an ear, jawline, a high cheekbone, and part of a big hawkish nose.
    His left arm was angled at the elbow; his hand was in front of his body. It looked like he was wanking, oblivious to anyone else.
    It was, quite simply, the horniest photo of a bloke I’d ever seen. It was so intimate and erotic, so utterly free of any macho ‘get an eyeful of this’ nonsense. And gazing at it made me feel like a voyeur, peeping at a private, blissful moment.
    I felt a sudden stab of jealousy. This was not a photo he’d taken himself, not unless he had one of those self-timer things and the patience for a lot of trial and error. Who had taken it? Who else had seen it?
    It wasn’t fair. I wanted something that was for my eyes only, something to equal the Polaroid I’d sent him.
    The more I looked at Ilya’s picture, the more I began to regret my own gynaecological effort. Right at that moment he’d probably be smirking into my glistening pink crack. How unimaginative of me, how stupidly dull and tasteless. I’d revealed far too much and had given him nothing – just a bog-standard, two-a-penny beaver shot; the kind of thing any old wank mag could provide him with.
    Once again he’d outmanoeuvred me, this time with subtlety.
    ‘Nice photo.’
    I smiled ruefully into the receiver. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m better in the flesh.’
    ‘Likewise,’ he replied. ‘So now what?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You agreed to meet up if my photo appealed. Did it?’
    ‘Yeah, sure. Though I think you cheated a bit. Compared to me, to my photo. You kept yourself well hidden whereas I was very –’
    ‘Open.’
    ‘Ha, ha,’ I said. ‘How amusing. I was going to say honest and upfront. So I think you cheated. I mean, youmight have a great arse and everything but, for all I know, you could have a tiny little prick.’
    I wasn’t going to reveal how delicious I found his photo, nor how dismal I found my own. I’d psyched myself up for his phone call and I wanted to appear sassy, so very proud of my gaping-wet-pussy shot.
    ‘Is that all you’re interested in, Beth? he asked. ‘My prick?’ There was a faintly challenging note to his smiley voice.
    ‘Yeah,’ I lied. ‘We haven’t really bothered with small talk, have we? It’s been sexual from the word go. Why change a winning formula?’
    ‘Hmm,’ he said, as if mulling the idea over while not quite believing me. ‘Is that what you want then? For us to be just sex?’
    ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Just sex. Pure, unadulterated, meaningless sex.’
    I