“Meet for a coffee?” she asked. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of months, so catching up seemed like a good plan. We’d managed to stay mates after our fling of a couple of years previously and had kept up via Facebook, texts and the occasional Starbucks. I knew she had a new man in her life (we’ll call him John), but then, I had a new woman; a couple of cappuccinos and a chat on a quiet afternoon seemed altogether very civilised. When together we had been reasonably adventurous, sexually. She liked being tied to the bed now and again, lightly thrashed with a toy cat o’nine tails she kept in her bottom drawer, along with her other sex toys. She also quite liked it when I sucked her facsimile-cock dildo before and after fucking her with it. But then, she was one of the few women who actively invited anal sex and one of the very few who ejaculated. A good session between us would end with her soaking the bed and me cumming up her arse. Even now, a couple of years later, I still masturbate from time to time, thinking of her tongue on my balls, or her holding her mouth open as I wanked off by her face. One of those scenarios that never happen in sex videos – the cum went right over her head and landed on the far side of the pillow. “I was trying to be encouraging,” she said through our giggles. But central Edinburgh, a cold winter afternoon, two former lovers in a Starbucks sipping coffee. “So who’s your new guy?” I asked. They met through work, they’d been seeing each other for a couple of months, she was head over heels and he felt the same – all good. I got praise for making the plunge with my new partner too and then conversation turned to the usual Edinburgh topics: trams, traffic and recession. After a while, she asked me about some pictures she’d sent via text. “Oh I deleted them,” I said. “It seemed a little off to keep phone pics like that.” (The pics under discussion were slightly fuzzy, low-res images of her tits, a dildo sliding into her cunt, or that cat o’nine tails draped across her naked thighs. I’d looked at them from time to time, then upgraded my phone and had to make a decision about what went and what got kept – deleting those saved me any embarrassment at Carphone Warehouse. I still don’t know what she did with the pics I’d sent her – an erection out of context.) “John likes pictures,” she said, slightly hesitantly. “Well, fair enough, whatever floats your boat, eh?” I replied. “We’ve got quite a few now, but they’re mostly rubbish.” “Yeah, well, tough to take decent self portraits when you’re turned on. We should know,” and I smiled. “I told John I’d ask you if you’d take some?” she said. I looked at her, slightly stunned. As a topic of conversation, it was a long way from Shandwick Place being closed to traffic. “You mean, er…” I started. “Us. Of him and me. Well, it’s nothing you’ve not seen before and I blame you for getting me interested in it. It was you who asked me to text pictures to you…” “Well, yeah, but you took to it fairly readily,” I countered. “But would you?” she said, going straight back to the nub of the matter. “John’s alright about it, I just thought that since we’ve both moved on, you know, you and me I mean, then it would be okay. If you were okay.” I took a sip of coffee. It was a surprise but also a thrill – one of the moments when your stomach does a flip. The idea was attractive, but I’d never met this bloke, didn’t know what he was like. But I could already feel my cock swelling in my jeans. “Yes. Okay. I’ll do it,” I said. Part two follows...