Smut in the City (Absolute Erotica) by Sommer Marsden, Victoria Blisse, Viva Jones, Lucy Felthouse, Giselle Renarde, Cassandra Dean, Tamsin Flowers, Geoffrey Chaucer, Wendi Zwaduk, Lexie Bay

when he passes my glass. I feel him looking me up and down, studying me, working me out. “What’s your name?”
    “Carla,” I say using my middle name as I always do. I was named Elsie after my grandmother and while I love my granny, I’ve never felt the name suited me much - especially while trying to pick up sophisticated suited gentleman in a wine bar. “Yours?”
    “Joel.”
    “Mmm, that’s unusual,” I say, feeling more and more relaxed in his company. We fall into easy conversation until he tells me he’s a lawyer (yawn) who studied law in order to dutifully take over the family business (even bigger yawn). I start losing a little interest until he tells me what he really wants to be ‘when he grows up’.
    “I am an artist at heart,” he says and my ears prick. How suave!
    “What kind?” I ask crossing my fingers hoping he is a painter.
    “I paint women.” Jackpot! I’ve always fancied myself as a muse. I lift my ribcage and check my posture hoping he might consider me for that very role. “Nude women.” Heat prickles up my neck and flushes my cheeks. I’m no prude but the way he says it draws a certain excitement from me. I sense my nipples have become visible through my sheer dress. I make no attempt to hide the fact and actually reach seductively for my drink so that my upper body twists slightly towards him.
    “What part?” I purr. I have never been this forward before but especially since I began to lose my sight. As soon as it got bad people began to treat me differently - even old friends and lovers. It made me want so scream at them all that it’s my sight I’ve lost not my fucking sexuality. I’m still the lustful kinky girl I always was, only now, men treat me like I should be wrapped in cotton wool. I’m sick of it. Really. He seems to take a moment to consider my question carefully.
    “The eyes,” he barely whispers. I recoil into my seat and look away with a sudden sickening feeling growing in the pit of my stomach. Of course he knew. It must be so obvious. I don’t even really know what my eyes look like - they might be swirling madly or rimmed with red for all I know. Panic rises and I want to run away. My skin bristles and heats, pulling sweat from my pores. I begin to gather my things, trying to stuff my purse and keys into my bag but somehow everything spills onto the floor and I hop off my stool to retrieve it. He does too and we bump heads. The kind of bump that if I was on my own, I’d hop around cursing in rage and smacking the thing I’d bumped it on, but I’m not alone. I pause in a semi crouch as he retrieves my things and hands them to me. There is an awkward moment as he puts my bag in my hand but then instead of letting go, his thumbs stroke my skin. I pull away tucking my bag over my shoulder and quickly down my drink before turning to leave. He leans in. “I can make you see again,” he says offering his hand. I take it.
    ***
    “How did you know?” I am lying naked on what feels like a velvet lined altar - though he assures me it’s simply a platform for best viewing his subjects. “Was it obvious?”
    He pauses, I can see him from a mirror placed serendipitously on the wall so my eyes can look right at him while he paints and I am able to catch a woozy reflected glimpse from the side.
    “Perhaps not to everyone,” he says very gently, “but I study things. Everything. I can’t look at even a glass without being fascinated by how the light strikes it - both piercing and reflecting, causing shadows to make it look whole.” He pauses to load up his brush and perhaps, I think, he might be a little embarrassed about what he might say next.
    “Go on,” I urge.
    “Well, it’s just that, most people can’t handle my scrutiny. Most people find it... me... creepy.”
    My skin bristles and I’m suddenly panicky. What the hell and I doing here, naked, in a strange man’s flat, drunk and almost blind? I feel a little sick. Creepy? I hold my breath