Saturday, June 25, 2016

Let Me Explain! A Ficlet from Clare London

“Charlie! Let me explain!”

I had to turn back and look, didn’t I? I mean, the guy had an accent that’d cut through a football crowd on match day. Anyone would have to listen to those sexy syllables, me included. Especially the way he rolled “Char-lie!” over his tongue like the sweetest, honeyed schnapps.

Didn’t have to like it, though.

I paused on the pavement outside his Knightsbridge flat, the sky still tinged Wedgewood-blue at this early hour of the morning. Took a deep breath. Glanced up to his third floor window.


Aleksandr was leaning out of the window, naked torso in full view, still in his designer tighty whiteys. Did he have no shame? Then I remembered the way he’d balanced a brace of shot glasses on that naked torso last night, as we sampled all the flavours of his schnapps collection; how he’d laughed every time they spilled into his navel and I had to lap it up, until I figured out he was clenching his abs deliberately.

I’d been easily distracted, okay?

I remembered what he’d done to me last night with his luscious lips and his elegantly manicured fingers. The way he’d gripped my arms and breathed on my neck, and flexed his wonderfully sculpted, four-days-a-week personally trained glutes as he thrust….

No. He had no shame at all, and not just because he was a younger son of some Russian bloody oligarch.

But I still wasn’t going back.

“Charlie!” He waved at me and flashed those perfectly straight teeth in a beaming smile. “You misunderstand things, Charlie. You mustn’t leave in such a bad mood.”

A woman passed me on the pavement, walking her dog. She peered up at him over her D&G sunglasses, and a smile threatened to crease the Botox-ed skin around her eyes. Three doors down, a UPS guy stood on the front steps of a building, finger paused before hitting the entry intercom, staring shamelessly at Aleksandr’s window. Damned guy looked like he was drooling.

I wasn’t in a bad mood, at least not in the way Aleksandr suspected. I was heavily hung over, my arse hurt from delicious over use, and I was wondering if I had enough fare money on my Oyster card to get back in time for afternoon kick-off on TV: the Arsenal match promised to be a real killer. But none of that was much different from any Saturday morning after the Friday night before.

However, Aleksandr’s expression was tinged with serious concern.

“He is an old friend, Charlie. We slept together for fun, for a summer, that is all. It’s all over, I promise.”

I shook my head slowly. Took another deep breath. Might as well give his affluent neighbours something to talk about, right? “He’s still sleeping in your spare room, Aleksandr,” I called back. One of his spare rooms, I could have added, but there hadn’t been time between being picked up by an oligarch’s gorgeous son in the pub and being dragged back to his luxury apartment for a night of unfettered sex to check through all the others for random half-naked men.

“I am just a good friend. He cannot go back to Russia yet. He’s looking for a job. I barely know that he is there, from day to day—”

“He came in to watch us. Having sex.”

Farther up the street, the UPS guy dropped the parcels he was carrying.

Aleksandr didn’t even have the decency to blush. “It’s okay by me. You look good in bed, Charlie. We look good. You over react.”

Over react? Please. My groin stirred: bloody cock always had its own agenda. “You invited him to join us.”

The UPS guy sat down on the steps of his delivery address, ignored the tumble of parcels around him, and settled in to listen.

Aleksandr flashed the seductive smile again. “Was it such a bad idea? Your dick didn’t think so. I felt it thicken at the thought, resting in my palm.”

Yeah. Definitely had its own agenda.

“Can’t you imagine the fun, Charlie? Hands on you, front and back. Lips touching you from ear to toes. Behind, beneath, between. All at the same time.” His smile was sly: I didn’t need the UPS guy’s rapt expression as proof. “You said you were an adventurous man, Char-lie.”

And that was the turning point for me. Yes, I had said that. Yes, that was what I told myself, every weekend when I went out on the pull—or to be pulled. Life’s too short not to take advantage of everything that comes your way. Like a handsome Russian with enough money and clout to give me a great Friday night in the best London bars, to ply me with smooth spirits and restaurant dishes I never even knew the name of, to offer a shower in a luxurious wet room the size of my living room, to share a night of sex play that’d be in my top ten for years to come, I reckoned. And in a bed large enough for half Arsenal’s first team.

Or us and a Russian flatmate.

I glanced at the UPS guy. He was very flushed, and gave me a leery thumbs up.

I looked back up at Aleksandr. Cocky bastard was already moving away from the window, grinning, tugging at the waistband of those tighty whiteys.

The route to the Tube station forgotten, I ran back up the steps to his flat.

After all, I could watch the highlights of the match on catch-up, couldn’t I?

Gotta fan myself after that! And oh look! Clare has more goodies for us!


A series of collections of Clare London stories full of sweet, sexy romance, and boys seeking friendship, fun and inspiration.

Boys in Brief     |     Boys in Season    |  Boys in Hand: Coming Soon!

BIO: Clare London took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.

She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.

Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter three stage and plenty of other projects in mind... she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.

Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her here:


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