Ultimate Curves Read online

  ULTIMATE CURVES

  A collection of twenty erotic stories

  Edited by Miranda Forbes

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2009

  ISBN 9781907761973

  Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2009

  The stories contained within this book are works of fiction. Names and characters are the products of the authors’ imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers:

  Xcite Books Ltd, 145 – 157 St John Street

  London EC1 4PY

  Cover Design by

  Red Dot Design

  Contents

  The Watcher Kristina Wright

  Clara's Cakes Izzy French

  Private Dancer Carole Archer

  Love at First Light Harriet Hamblin

  Princess Beatrice Sadie Wolf

  Where Phone Sex Can Lead Deva Shore

  Wanted, Exhibitionists Jennie Treverton

  In the Bakery Kristina Wright

  Watching Victoria Blisse

  The Photographer's Muse Scarlett Sanderson

  Meeting My Husband Again Deva Shore

  Fashionably Late Heidi Champa

  A Lucky Man Lucy Felthouse

  The Beautiful Move in Curves Elizabeth Black

  Chocolate Lover Victoria Blisse

  Mama Nana Alcamia

  Two for One Kitti Bernetti

  Workout Beverly Langland

  Painted Lady Amelia Fox

  The Ivory Tower Izzy French

  The Watcher

  by Kristina Wright

  He was watching her again. Maisy smiled as she walked across her bedroom, naked and still damp from the shower. The smell of lilacs filled the softly lit room. She was alone tonight. Her roommates were gone for the evening and she had the place to herself. She intended to give her watcher an evening to remember.

  Standing in front of the open window, she shivered as a light breeze dried the water from her pale skin. She looked upward, toward the night sky, not at the man across the street who sat in his own bedroom watching her. Stretching her arms over her head, she pulled her long blonde hair up and away from her neck. She arched her back toward the window, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the corner of the room. She looked like a woman waiting for a lover. Tonight, the stranger who watched her was her lover and her body was for his pleasure.

  For a long time, Maisy had thought the watcher was watching her roommates. Sara and Karen were thin, lithe little things who made men’s heads turn on the street. Sara even modelled occasionally, for goodness sake! The three women had speculated about the watcher over the past couple of months, debating whether they should do anything about him. Sara and Karen breezily accepted the idea that he was, in fact, watching them. They were used to the attention. But it had caught Maisy quite by surprise to find the watcher in his usual spot on several occasions when neither of her roommates was around. And it wasn’t as if he was waiting for them, either. In fact, she found herself watching the watcher and noting how quickly he abandoned his post when Sara or Karen arrived home.

  It thrilled her to know he was watching her.

  Dusk had fallen and she knew she was backlit in the window, erotically framed in the brackets of her red curtains like a Rubens painting for his private viewing. She fleetingly wondered if anyone else might be watching her from the darkened buildings, but it didn’t matter. The watcher across the way – her watcher – was the only one she was interested in. She could see him sitting in his usual chair facing the window. It was hard to tell what he looked like and she didn’t have the nerve to use binoculars to study him, but she could tell his shoulders were broad and his hair was dark. She imagined he was older than her, an older man with a penchant for women with soft curves and plump bottoms. He was a shadowy figure in a darkened room, watching her. Appreciating her. Desiring her.

  “Go on, then,” she whispered to him. “Get a good look at me.”

  She let her hair cascade through her fingers as she dropped her hands to her shoulders. She gently kneaded and soothed the muscles of her neck and shoulders like an imaginary lover. As if he was impatient for her to get on with it, the watcher shifted in his chair. He wore a white shirt and dark pants. Fully clothed in comparison to her brazen nudity. She had never seen him do more than watch and now she found herself aroused at the thought of seeing him naked.

  “Want more, do you?” she giggled. “Well, let’s give you more.”

  With that, she cupped her plump breasts in her hands, the soft flesh spilling over her fingers. She closed her eyes and imagined it was him touching her. Her nipples tightened under her fingertips, becoming hard, pink pebbles aching to be touched and sucked. A soft moan escaped her as she tugged gently on them and felt a corresponding tingle of sensation between her thighs. The sounds of the evening traffic fell away and all she could hear were her own little whimpers of desire.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she saw the watcher leaning forward. Anxious. As anxious as she was, she imagined. She felt nervous with anticipation, as if waiting for her lover to fuck her. She stared at him and mouthed the words, “I want you.”

  He didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t know what to make of it. What was she hoping for? That he would leave his post at the window and rush over to her bedroom? For a total stranger to toss her down on her bed and fuck her silly?

  Yes, that was exactly what she wanted. She said it again, out loud, even though there was no way he could hear her. “I want you.”

  Maisy ran her hands down to her stomach, stroking the soft curve of her belly, teasing herself as much as she was teasing him. Her skin felt warm, tingly. She slipped her hand between her thighs, caressing the silky blonde tuft of hair on her fleshy mound. The watcher stared, still as a statue, as she slipped a finger into her pussy. She gasped at how wet she was already. Wet and hot, the dull throb between her thighs was building to a sharp ache of need.

  In anticipation for this evening, she had dragged an armchair from the living room into her bedroom and positioned it in front of the window. She sat now, her knees a bit wobbly from her excitement, and propped her feet on the windowsill. Her hand was still between her thighs, but she pressed her knees together to hide herself from his view. She wanted to see what – if anything – he might do.

  He sat there for a moment, watching. Waiting. When she didn’t spread her legs, he stood up and walked closer to the window. He looked tall. Muscular. Formidable. A shaft of light from the streetlight fell across his face, illuminating his intense expression. He looked like a man possessed, all of his attention focused on one thing. Her.

  She caught her breath.

  His lips moved, saying something. She strained to make out the words. He said it again. This time she understood what he was saying. Her pulse pounded in her ears as the watcher suddenly became a participant in her exhibitionism.

  “Spread your legs,” he was telling her.

  She let her knees fall open. He nodded in approval.

  Maisy fondled her pussy while he watched, dipping her fingers into her wetness and dragging her damp fingertips over her swollen clit. She slid down in the chair so that her bottom was at the edge of the cushion, her pussy pushed toward him. She braced her feet on either side of the window, spread wide for him. A wet, succulent offering for her watcher.

  He was still standing at his window, nodding. She watched as his hand dropped to his crotch and he rubbed himself. Her pussy rippled in resp
onse to this overt sign of his arousal. She longed for him to unzip his pants and reveal his erection, to show her what she had only imagined. He didn’t go that far, however. He just stood there, watching her and rubbing himself through his trousers.

  Parting the engorged lips of her slit with one hand, Maisy pushed two fingers deep inside her dripping pussy. She moaned as she stroked herself, showing him how he could fuck her, if only he were here. She could almost feel his gaze like a touch between her legs while she fucked herself for him. She worked her fingers inside her pussy, trying to quench the ache deep inside, her pussy making obscene wet, slurping sounds as she stroked herself. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, as if her watcher could actually hear the unladylike sounds her body was making.

  “Fuck me,” she whimpered, pleading with a man who could not hear her. “Please.”

  She looked at him, thrusting her hips up to meet her fingers as if it was his cock she was fucking. He put a hand on the window, his fingers splayed like he was reaching out to touch her but the glass had stopped him. She moaned loudly, wondering if the sound might carry across the street. God, how she wanted him here, the watcher fucking her instead of only watching her touch herself. He was feeding her desire, pushing her higher. It wasn’t about putting on a show for him any longer – it was about her passion, her excitement.

  Her need for release was building to an unbearable ache. She had intended to tease him all night, stroking and fondling herself to show him what he was missing. But now all she could think about was her orgasm. She wanted to come, was so close to it already that she knew it wouldn’t take but a few more strokes to send her into a spiralling climax. There would be more where that came from, of course, but would he keep watching? Would he decide to close the curtains and leave her then? Or would he stay with her, mesmerised by the way she touched herself, made herself come?

  She could barely think any longer. She felt flush with fever, her skin damp with sweat. Her body hummed with her desire, her muscles quivering with the need for release. She clenched her pussy around her fingers, feeling the first tremors of orgasm building low in her belly. Her plump thighs trembled as she rocked back and forth on her fingers. She watched him mimic her motions with the sway of his own narrow hips, whether consciously or unconsciously she had no way of knowing. But it was all it took to push her over the edge, to drive her to the exquisite release her body longed for so desperately.

  She screamed out her release, her cries of pleasure echoing off the walls of her bedroom and seeming to fill the night with her voice. The intensity of her orgasm was too powerful to focus on the watcher any longer. She closed her eyes tightly but his silhouette was burned into her memory, a dark vision behind her eyelids, watching her fuck herself. Watching her come. She thrust against her fingers as if they were his cock, wringing every last sensation from her overwrought body.

  Her orgasm seemed to go on for ever. Just as one ripple faded away, another would slam into her, dragging her down under a wave of pleasure so intense it left her panting. There wasn’t a coherent thought in her head, only this unrelenting need that she could not seem to satiate.

  Finally, slowly, the spirals of desire began to fade. Her pussy still rippled around her fingers, but the intense ache of need had shifted to a feeling of languid satisfaction. She was still breathing hard, her body as damp as if she had just left the shower. She kept stroking herself, moving her fingers inside her, feeling the tingle of response that let her know it wouldn’t take much to build back to the same intensity of a few moments ago. She dropped her feet to the floor, feeling the muscles in her calves and thighs protest. She ached as if she had been well and truly fucked and, in her own mind, she had. Suddenly, remembering the watcher, she opened her eyes.

  He was gone. His window was dark and empty, as if he was an apparition who had vanished with her orgasm.

  She sat up, peering across the darkness, looking for some sign of him. She felt empty, bereft at his abandonment. She shivered, her damp skin feeling suddenly cool in the night air that ruffled the curtains. Slumping back in the chair, she sighed with a strange combination of disappointment and anger. Without her watcher, she felt no need to coax her body into another frenzy of desire. His enthusiastic voyeurism made her hot but without it she felt rather silly sitting in an open window.

  She stood up and slammed the window closed, hearing it echo hollowly. She went still, listening carefully. Then she heard it again. Not an echo. A knock at her door.

  Maisy took a deep, steadying breath as she slipped into her dressing gown. Then she went to the door and let the watcher in.

  Clara’s Cakes

  by Izzy French

  Clara stood in the middle of her studio, eyes tight shut. She smoothed her skirt and apron over her ample hips. This was the moment of truth. She wished she had a great big strip of sumptuous red satin ribbon and a huge pair of scissors. Then she could do her very own proverbial grand opening. But instead, ‘Clara’s Cakes’ would open with a whimper rather than a bang. In a moment she’d have to open her eyes, step forward and begin cooking. Her first order for some fancy schmancy cupcakes for a posh patisserie in St John’s Wood was due to be collected at noon. Along with forty éclairs for a deli in Soho. So, eyes wide open, she took a deep breath and stepped forward to the sparklingly clean counter.

  An hour or so later she was delighted to be able to stand back, pull her apron over her head and admire her handiwork. Sixty perfect morsels of fluffy lightness embellished with icing in a range of soft pastel colours and silver balls were ready to be packed into a box. Next to them were six rows of small but perfectly formed chocolate éclairs. She still had to fill them with crème anglaise. She glanced at the clock. There was time, yet. She picked up a flat-packed box and began to open it up and slot the flaps into place.

  “Hey, got a parcel for Patisserie Chocolat?”

  Clara was startled at the deeply masculine voice and leather-clad figure standing in front of her. She hadn’t heard him come in. Obviously the buzzer system wasn’t working. She’d need to get that checked out.

  “Those look good enough to eat.”

  “Corny line. And don’t think that’ll get you one. They’re all spoken for.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the cakes. I’m Joel.”

  His eyes were firmly fixed on her breasts. She glanced down. She’d worked hard physically for the last hour. Her dress had pulled apart slightly across her chest, she could see the black lace that edged her bra and some small nuggets of icing nestled in her cleavage. No doubt her round cheeks would be glowing, and she suspected there would also be telltale traces of molten chocolate around her lips. Her hair felt like it had worked itself loose from her severe ponytail, and she tried to blow strands of it away from her cheek. There was a good reason she cooked for a living. She had a sweet tooth, a fussy palate and the hips, thighs, rounded stomach and breasts to show for it.

  Clara blushed. She’d tried to dress carefully this morning. Although she was working alone, she didn’t want to fall into sloppy habits straightaway. So she’d taken her designer wraparound jersey dress from the wardrobe and pulled it tightly over her best black satin bra. She’d finished off with a little twirl in front of the mirror. Her dress fanned round her hips, complementing her curves perfectly, and her heels showed off her calves, knees and thighs to their best advantage. She wasn’t worried about marking her dress; it would be well covered by her brand new chef’s apron.

  He was pulling his motorcycle helmet off now. Did he think he was staying? Clara watched him in silence. He was gorgeous. She’d always gone for the blond Aussie, surfer-dude type. And here was the perfect example of the species standing before her. He shook his shoulder-length hair. She gulped, and couldn’t stop herself licking her lips. But they’d never gone for her. Not till now. They always seemed to go for women who looked just like them. Athletic, tanned. Blonde hair down to their pert little arses. Not plump, pale-skinned brunettes.

  “You�
�ll need to hang around for a moment or two. The cakes aren’t boxed up yet.”

  “No worries. I can wait.”

  He hoisted himself on to the counter.

  “You can’t sit there. There are rules. Regulations. Food hygiene. Health and safety.”

  “Fuck health and safety,” he said.

  “And then there are the copious amounts of icing sugar that will now be dusting your arse.”

  He glanced down at the counter. Then he ran his fingers through the white dust. He grinned and drew two big circles. She thought he was drawing breasts. Her breasts by the size and shape of them. Then he added two nipples in their centres. That confirmed it.

  “Do men ever grow up? You’re the same the world over. Boys for ever, despite outward appearances to the contrary.”

  She was trying to use her very best prim and proper English rose voice. But it wasn’t working. It came out as a bit of a squeak. He jumped down from the counter and brushed the white powder from his arse.

  “Nah, ’course we don’t.”

  He walked over to where she’d half finished packing the box. He stood so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

  “Think you’ve missed a bit.”

  He touched her cheek, scooping a smudge of chocolate up on his finger, licking it slowly, rubbing it across his lips.

  “Buttercream. My favourite.”

  “You’re an expert then?”

  He nodded.

  “Trained as a chef over in Oz. Couldn’t get work here. Thus the couriering. Still if I get to meet gorgeous women like you, and taste their wares, then it’s worth the sacrifice.”

  “I don’t recall offering you a taste of my wares.” Clara attempted to sound huffy. He obviously wasn’t convinced. The next thing she knew his hands were cupping her face, and his lips were on hers, sweet and moist. He kissed her lightly at first, and she found it impossible not to respond to him as he dropped his hands, encircling her more than tiny waist. Then he pushed her lips apart with his tongue. This felt electric, and she couldn’t resist entangling her tongue around his, each of them taking turns to explore the other’s mouth. Finally he pulled away. Her lips were tingling, as were other parts of her body. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes tight shut again, hoping against hope that he wasn’t going to leave her now. Pick up the box, and walk out of the door.