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We asked award-winning author Ewan Morrison to write an exclusive story for Esquire. I have to suck your cock, right now. I agreed to the date and put on my shades.
And this place was not anywhere near my comfort zone — it was way too arty. There were these hipsters in pork-pie hats and those heavy, black-rimmed specs and these super-ironic try-hard girls with pink bouffant hairdos and tattoos.
And her vast black eyes look up through her jet black hair, in this heavy smudged eye shadow and these things are stirring every part of me. Then I heard heels. She was wearing these strappy things with peekaboo toes. Gina wasted no time. She locked the cubicle door behind herself and crouched.
No kiss, no talk, no eye to eye. She undid my belt to free my cock and balls, and started gorging herself, filling her mouth as she rolled my length across her cheeks, all the time making these whimpering noises. She pulled her split skirt to the side and started frigging her clit frantically as she sucked and kissed my dick.
I had to hold her back and stood still staring down at her, this totally anonymous female pleading, worshipping, fingering herself senseless and practically weeping at the very sight, smell and taste of my dick, with those pretty eyes, staring up at me and begging me to let her suck.
And all of this could have only taken one minute. I had this strange need to kiss her and thank her and maybe whisper or hold her or do at least a little part of the usual male-female communication stuff, but she put a pussy-wet finger to my mouth and turned her back to me. The two of us stood there facing the cubicle door, listening for the sounds of humans beyond as my dick shrivelled to nothing in her hand.
We were like two criminals hiding from the cops, listening for sounds. There were footsteps, male sounding, and then the hand dryer went on. As soon we heard the outer door opening and closing, she undid the lock and slipped out without a word or backward glance.
I waited an hour, then another, but she was gone. When I checked the website again, her profile had been erased. Regular women bore me, the whole damn process does. Women started consuming naughty books not because of some historic surge in desire but because of digital technology — the real reason Fifty Shades of Gr ey was a success was e-readers.
What do you think men require from erotic writing that's different to women? How did this affect the story you wrote for Esquire? Pure, no-strings sex, which is, deep down, what men like.
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The moralist in me always considered it too calculating and too undignified. I had been celibate for six months — a reaction to a broken love affair.
I should have known then. One of the men was a journalist — a laconic, self-effacing chap with an acidic wit. The other man was Humphrey. Humphrey was an artist and his reputation as a notorious womaniser made me curious. I was in huntress mode, adorned to swallow some man up. I felt hot. The party was held in a converted garage. The basement had been transformed into a dance floor. I pushed my way through the usual suspects— students, journalists, models, unemployed actors, junkies and would-be film directors — down towards the dance floor.
I could feel men watching me. The hunger in their faces made me wet. I opened my eyes to find Humphrey dancing in front of me.
He moved as if he was making love, caressing the air between us. His flat was in an old Victorian block, bleak in red brick.
I had always resisted visiting him there, feeling that the proximity might have an inevitability to it. A sexual fatality. Those who are not are the connoisseurs who know where a woman likes to be worshipped.
And Humphrey was the ultimate connoisseur, a sex artist. There was a complete abandonment of intellect in his lovemaking, as if he was tapping into a higher frenetic power in direct communion with the great god Pan. I became drunk with his tongue, his cock, his lips, the hair on the back of his neck, his hands and the danger of it all.
What could I do? We were lovers for three months and I fell heavily like all the women before me. My fascination with his past moved from the objective to the subjective. I could no longer listen to stories of sexual duplicity and deceit without identifying with the female victim. And I made the fatal mistake of believing in his touch, as if the intelligence of his hands, our orgasms, the way he penetrated me, had affected him as much as it had affected me. Perhaps this is the catch cry of the egoist: I love, therefore I must be loved.
Perhaps it is the Achilles heel of my gender. Soon like all conquest junkies, he began to detect the stale smell of victory and he stopped returning my texts. I first met Elsa at a cocktail bar situated above a gay pub. She had the kind of grace that turned heads, as if you had caught the flight of some tropical bird in your peripheral vision.
It was as if she had no iris. Her large breasts swung free under a loose T-shirt below which a pair of leather jodhpurs cut angularly across her hips. She threw herself down into the chair next to me.
By the time Humphrey arrived we were drunk, and firm allies. Humphrey noticed Elsa immediately, assessing her youth, her body, her beauty in one glance. Faking indifference, he could hardly look her in the eye, but I knew, that glint as he glanced surreptitiously across at her..
He performed for Elsa, while Elsa performed for me. It was perfect. It was then that I knew I would eventually persuaded Elsa to commission a portrait from Humphrey. We meet outside his studio. Elsa presses the buzzer. A canvas sits on an easel, and an old bed swathed in sheets waits in the centre of the room. Death and the maiden — know what I mean, Elsa? Take your clothes off here. At first shyly, but, feeling the other two watching me, I begin to take on the persona of a performer.
I stop at my bra and underpants. Elsa stubs out her cigarette. Slowly I unhook my bra. As I turn I can see Humphrey sitting on a stool beside his easel. He stares at my body as if he has never seen it before. Elsa stands behind me, turning my body towards him for display. She touches the tips of my breasts until they become erect. I shut my eyes. Parting my legs slightly, she pushes her arm roughly between my thighs and pulls the underpants down.
I am damp. She stands between me and the white chalk circle, teasing, knowing the full control she has over her spectators. She begins to peel off her clothes very, very slowly. Her long, firm legs led up to two ripe cheeks. Her arse small but firm, her waist tiny, her ribs ripples of light. Humphrey moves to the edge of the circle, his whole body stretching in an attempt to meet hers. He stops, his erection visible in his baggy trousers.
Smell me? Want both of us? Suffer, boy. Humphrey dips his brush into a pigment, it drips scarlet. He stands in front of the easel poised, ready for the first mark to be scrawled across the virgin canvas. Elsa moves across the polished wooden floor. She lifts me up in her arms in one effortless movement I can see the muscles strain in her upper arm. She carries me over to the bed. I lie on my side, waiting, impassive under her fingers. She wraps her legs around my waist.
I can feel her sex against my back, her clitoris a fleshy spot that sticks to my skin. She parts me with her feet. So wide I am forced to lie back onto her with my head resting between her breasts.
She runs her hands around me, cupping my breasts. The pose I recognise from a Chinese etching she likes. An eternity lapses and I find myself wanting to be taken by both of them. By pulling her feet further apart, she pulls my lips back.
I can feel my clit swell and lift, wanting to be touched. Tempting Humphrey. He crouches over, pathetic, holding himself, his wide-open eyes eating everything up. Delicately, she begins to touch me with her toes, pulling gently at me as I become wet between her feet. She has me pinned.
Humphrey bends over the easel, maniacally splashing paint in great sprays. He eases his cock out of his fly. He holds it in his left hand, running his fingers along the whole shaft, pulling down over the tip. The paintbrush in his right hand pushes huge globules of paint over the surface in rhythm with his left. Elsa lifts her legs away from me and kneels on the floor. I move forward so that I am curled over her body. She turns me around so that my pudendum is facing Humphrey.
Her hands slide around the orbs of my arse. She prises me open, turning my secret parts into a visual feast. I sit over her face and can feel her breath on my thighs. One finger slides into my arse while two others enter my cunt, and she pulls me down to her mouth. Her tongue touches the tip of my clit, teasing, flicking. Elsa lies spread below me. Tentatively I run my hands along her legs.