The Experiment and Other Tales: Fifteen Erotic Stories

By Alexe Andrewes

The debut collection of short stories by Alexe Andrewes introduces us to a range of thrilling fantasies and true stories. From romantic dreamscapes to hardcore erotica, Alexe’s stories open our imaginations to a diverse spectrum of arousing possibilities and memorable characters. Audacious beauty Saskia has a plan to improve her singing career; Zara puts her trust in a security guard who leads her into exciting and dangerous territory; Djamilla – a hardworking professional in the City of London – risks her career in pursuit of her basest urges. Alexe’s clear style, insightful psychology and vivid imagination are sure to carry you away in these 15 absorbing tales of erotic desire and daring...

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781781662304

Book preview

1988.

The Model

The woman paused outside the building. It was a large brick building, probably a former factory, at the side there was a service entrance with a new steel door. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a postcard.

I’d like you to model. Saturday, 3pm. 134b Hope Street. G.

She turned over the card and looked at the picture. It was a nude woman lying on her back on a rumpled sheet. When she had first seen the picture, she had thought it was a photograph, so naturalistic was it. It was only later, in the office, when she took out the postcard at her desk that she had seen the image was actually composed of paint. The picture carefully described the figure of a model, her smooth pale skin, the way her dark curls sprayed over the creamy sheets. Printed on the other side was the title Heather, Reclining. Oil paint on canvas. Private Collection. Above was the name of the artist, Gavin Grainger. When she heard colleagues approaching her desk, she slipped the card into a folder on her desk. When she drank from her tea, her hands were not entirely steady.

She looked at her watch. It was 2.55. She chewed her lip and looked up at the windows, trying to decide which Grainger’s studio was. Behind her were trains rattling over the rail bridge. It was an industrial part of the city. She didn’t know it well. In fact, she had never had a reason to visit this district before. A heavy cloud had made the light dimmer. She tightened her collar and approached the metal door. There was the number 134b and a single bell, Gavin GRAINGER on the label next to it. She began to reach for the bell and hesitated.

She had been on the underground train on Tuesday when it had happened. She had found a free seat when she got on and had started to read her paperback. When she turned the page she had noticed the man sitting opposite her. He was in early middle-age, 40 or 45 perhaps, dashes of grey in his thick dark hair. He was dressed in grey trousers, a white cotton shirt without a tie, and a heavy woollen overcoat. Very classic, smart, not in the usual city-worker uniform. She thought he looked like a model from a clothes catalogue - he dressed like one too. A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. Then she noticed he was looking at her, his brown eyes boring into her. She looked back at her book. Unconsciously, before she could suppress it, she had wetted her lips with her tongue.

At the next station she looked back, he was still watching her. He raised an eyebrow and half smiled at her. She raised her book but after two minutes found she had been reading the same sentence again and again, the meaning not sinking in. Normally, she didn’t mind flirting in the morning, it kept her warm and confident until lunchtime, though she could never remember the man’s appearance by the time she caught the train home in the evening. Flirting on the evening train was a little more difficult. There was always the possibility that the man might alight at the same station and depart in the same direction. No, morning flirtation was something she felt in control of. Something in the evening could be more of a risk.

The man had reached into his coat and taken something out, which he proceeded to write on with what looked like a very expensive fountain pen. Then he had pocketed the pen. As the train pulled into the station, he had stood and passed her a postcard before stepping out on to the platform and disappearing into the crowd. She had taken the card automatically. Seeing the nude figure on one side and the writing on the other, she had put the card between the pages of her book before what she had actually seen had had a chance to sink in. She resolutely refused to meet the gazes of the other passengers.

In the office when she was alone, she had been able to look closely at the card. There was a website address printed under the painting details. She thought that the site might not be safe for work, so she decided to look at it at home. She was so eaten up with curiosity that she went to an internet café next to the office at lunchtime, but all the terminals were occupied. She had returned to her desk and eaten her lunch in silence, seething with anger and anticipation.

Modelling? It was clear what kind of modelling this artist wanted. She had never modelled before. She had taken photographs of herself nude, first in the bathroom mirror and later she borrowed a tripod from a friend and took some shots she considered semi-professional. She liked her figure and sometimes masturbated using a mirror. But she had never shown anyone the nude photographs. One summer, a boyfriend had photographed her topless on the beach. Beyond forcing him to promise that he wouldn’t show anyone the images, she hadn’t given it a second thought. After all, a beach is a public place so she expected she would be looked at. Wearing sunglasses she could watch men looking at her breasts without them knowing. It made her feel braver than she was.

That evening she had opened Grainger’s website even before she had taken her coat off. She sat at her kitchen table and scrolled through the pages, feeling her heart beat faster. Grainger was good, very good. There were dozens of paintings and drawings of nudes, mainly women. All the women were pretty, some beautiful, but she felt she wasn’t far off them in terms of looks. Maybe she had an even nicer figure than some of the models. They were in all positions, some close up, others more distant. She began to recognise some of the models in the paintings, even without looking at the titles. Heather, Sarah, Amy, Rebecca. The paintings of men were also lifelike and attractive but there were fewer of them. The image she spent most time looking at was that of the artist, a moody head shot in black and white. The list of his exhibitions spooled off the bottom of the page. He had exhibited all over the world. There was no year of birth but from the dates of his education, she estimated he was in his early 40s.

And he wanted her to model. She ran her fingernail over a groove on her laptop. Well, why not? She had a good figure and she thought he could paint her well. What if someone recognised her painting? All the paintings were classy, nothing smutty, though she did find some of the images arousing, while others intrigued her. No one would recognise her and if they did, she would have nothing to be ashamed of. Of course she was nervous but he was a professional. Nothing would happen. Apart from the painting. Probably.

She pressed the bell. As she did so the first drops of rain started to fall from the dense clouds. She waited then pressed the bell again. A scooter sped by. She had decided that he was not in and had turned to go when the door groaned open.

I’m Martina.

Come in.

He reached out to take her hand as she mounted the high step from the street the interior of the building. His hand was warm; the fingers strong, the skin slightly calloused in places. He led her up a flight of stairs to an airy studio with whitewashed brick walls. At one end there was a sink and table with a kettle, cups and glasses. At the other end was a shelf of paints, an easel and some furniture.

Martina approached the painting on the easel. It was of a dark-skinned woman holding hair up above her head. It was half finished, the brushstrokes of oil paint just starting to curve around the full breasts. Martina felt her nipples become painfully erect. She crossed her arms automatically. Even though there was no way that Grainger could have seen her body’s reaction, she wanted to conceal her anticipation.

You like it?

It’s amazing. So realistic. I feel I could reach out and touch her.

He smiled. If you tried that in my gallery they would throw you out. Or ask you to buy the picture.

Your paintings must be very expensive.

He did not reply but held out his hands to take her coat. Heart beating fast she took off the coat. He laid it over a chair and picked up a pad of paper and a pencil.

I suppose I should....

I suppose you should. I have a dressing screen, if you prefer. He indicated an antique screen covered with moss-green embroidered fabric.

Martina went behind the screen and undressed, putting her clothes on a wooden bench. She folded the clothes very carefully, concentrating on the clothes rather than her nakedness. Her nipples were erect. She warmed them under the palms of her hands but they would not become soft. He must have seen all sorts of women in all conditions; she couldn’t be the worst looking woman he had seen nude. She breathed deeply and stepped around the screen.

Grainger was seated on a stool, the pad on his lap. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt so that she could see his strong forearms. The hair on his arms looked so dark against the white of his shirt. He gestured to the couch and she sat back.

How do you want me?

However you want, he said with a half-smile. Oh, you look great, he added, offhandedly as he began to draw.

Martina hoped that he couldn’t see how fast her heart was beating in her breast. He worked in silence, just the rain on the skylight and the soft rasp of pencil over paper breaking the silence. She noticed where his eyes were directed and when he drew her breasts she felt her nipples get hard and when his eyes went lower, she became warm and moist. To distract herself, she studied the studio, the tins of paint and bottles of varnish, the jars of brushes arranged by size. She became more relaxed.

Okay. Another.

She did a standing pose and he worked faster, finishing before she could get tired. He worked fast, making no mistakes. How many models had he drawn? How many models had he slept with? She blushed.

Want to see?

She walked behind him to look over his shoulder. There she was on the page. It was uncanny and strange. It was completely her, her hair and figure, her attitude, yet not her. She was timeless, classic. It was like seeing a Greek statue, but with her features. He turned back to his first drawing. She looked so calm and relaxed there on the couch, not how she had felt at all. He had transformed her. Absorbed, she leant forward to look closer. Her breast brushed his elbow. She almost apologised but left it there, the nipple against the sleeve fabric.

Another?

She stood up straight, making sure he felt the breast against his arm as she moved. On the couch she lay back and opened her legs a little. She saw his gaze flit down to between her legs. He started to draw her but he was slower this time, pausing. She could see that he was getting an erection, the swell at his groin becoming long and obvious. She felt hotter.

Your hair, he said. For a moment she thought he meant her pubic hair, which she had carefully trimmed the night before in the bath. Then she saw he was looking at the stray strand on her shoulder. Hold your pose, he said, approaching her. He reached down to brush the strand behind her shoulder. And his hand stayed there. He cradled the nape of her neck and kissed her.

Suddenly hot, she kissed back, urgently. She reached round to touch his back, broad and muscular below the shirt. Gently but firmly he removed her hand, gripping her wrist. He was giving her a message: I