Cleo & Me
Copyright© 2026 by Popsicolous
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - When I first met Cleo, I thought she was just a beautiful girl. I had no idea I was about to embark on an incredible journey through exhibitionism... (First chapter of a series)
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Heterosexual Exhibitionism
The apartment was still quiet. The music was kept low, someone had already filled the first glasses, and the final preparations were mingling with the conversations of the first arrivals.
On the terrace, there were only two or three couples and a young woman leaning against the railing. She was watching London spread out below her, as the first lights of evening dotted the city. She seemed to be paying no attention to what was happening around her, absentmindedly twirling the glass of spritz in her fingers.
I found myself approaching her almost without realizing it, captivated by her figure.
She was tall; even without the sky-high heels she was wearing, she must have been over five foot seven. Her denim miniskirt was barely long enough to cover her underwear, revealing slender, straight legs like a model’s. A thin strip of exposed skin separated the miniskirt from the top, revealing a red stone dangling from her navel.
Noticing my approach, the beautiful stranger turned toward me. Her sweet, delicate face, dotted with occasional freckles, was framed by a cascade of red hair and dominated by two eyes whose colour was hard to pin down: blue, but with a gray tinge that shifted under the terrace lights.
Discreetly lowering my gaze, I also had a perfect view of her cleavage, which left little to the imagination. A pendant in the shape of a sailboat rested softly between the generous curve of her breasts, which remained high and firm despite the obvious absence of a bra.
I’ve never considered myself particularly handsome, nor particularly charming. In short, I’m not one of those alpha males who make women fall at their feet with a look. I’ve always had a certain ease with talking to people, though, and over the years I’ve learned that a well-started conversation is worth much more than a magazine-cover face.
So I decided to use the pendant as an excuse to strike up a conversation. “Nice necklace,” I told her.
She looked down briefly at the pendant, then back at me.
I steeled myself and asked, “Is it a memento, or are you into sailing?”
She smiled slightly. “Neither. I just like it.” She had a foreign accent, something French but also warmer, vaguely Latin American, or maybe Italian. Then she reached out with her free hand. “I’m Cleo.”
“Steven,” I replied, squeezing her fingers. A quick but firm touch. “And where are you from, Cleo? The accent isn’t exactly from around here.”
“A little bit from everywhere,” she replied, leaning back against the railing. “When you’re half French and spend your childhood moving between Denmark, the United States, Italy, and Brazil because your father is an engineer, you carry a piece of everything with you. Now I’m here to get a PhD in English literature.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed, genuinely impressed. “A globetrotter, and an intellectual one at that! Anyway, I liked studying literature back in school.”
“Do you know anything about boats, Steven?”
“I live on them when I can. I’m a skipper for a charter company. I take tourists around the English and French coasts to pay the bills.”
“And does it pay well?”
“Not enough. That’s why I work as a photographer the other half of the time. Modeling agencies in London, online printing ... and countless weddings and nightclubs to make ends meet.”
Cleo’s blue-gray eyes lit up. “Photographer and skipper? Practically the perfect job. And what kind of fashion photography do you do? Portraits? Advertising campaigns?”
“A little bit of everything,” I said, letting my gaze drift again, for a second, to the cut of her miniskirt. “Model portfolios, catalogs...”
“And you also do nudes?”
What caught me off guard wasn’t the question itself, but the way it was asked. More than mischief, there was an almost scientific curiosity in Cleo’s tone.
“It happens,” I admitted after a few seconds, straightening my back. “It’s part of the job.”
“I’ve always wondered how you manage to remain professional in that moment. I mean, you’re looking at someone naked. How can you look at them as just ... a subject to photograph?”
I smiled, stepping a little closer. “It’s possible. It’s a matter of focus. And if you want, we can try it. You could model for me.”
I said it with the casual tone of someone testing the waters with a joke, expecting her to deflect the conversation with a laugh or a hint of embarrassment.
Cleo, however, took me aback again. She stared at me, her full, red lips slightly pursed, then gave a small nod. “I’d like that. Having your photo taken by a professional must be interesting. Clothed, I mean.”
“Clothed, yes,” I repeated, as if there were any chance a woman like that would decide to pose naked for me without even knowing me.
The party continued to flow around us like background noise. We talked for hours, cut off from the rest of the world, while she told me about her musician mother, and I talked about my London agencies, and my adventures as a skipper working for bored rich men.
I know what you’re expecting: sexual tension building, her inviting him over or vice versa ... but when it came time to say goodbye, we simply exchanged phone numbers, then she leaned forward. Two light kisses on the cheek, the scent of her skin lingering on me the entire drive home, and nothing more.
Two days later, I was retouching wedding photos. The bride was smiling for the hundredth time while I tried to convince myself that the yellow cast was the sunset’s fault and not my monitor.
The phone next to the graphics tablet vibrated.
Hi 😊 It’s Cleo...
I found myself smiling before I even realized it. I reread the message a couple of times, almost as if I couldn’t believe it was real. What should I say to her? I didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic. I paused for a few seconds with my thumb hovering over the keyboard before typing my reply.
How’s it going?
Good. Does the offer still stand? 😄
I had no doubt what she was referring to.
Without thinking, I typed: Sure! But I waited a few seconds before sending.
She: Then I’d like to try! 🙂
I wrote again: Anytime! I deleted it. Then: If you’re free tomorrow afternoon... Yes, definitely better. I sent it.
A moment later, the reply came: Okay. Your place tomorrow at 5?
I reacted with a thumbs-up.
Only then did I look around. The house was a mess: backdrops piled high, tripods everywhere, coffee cups forgotten on the desk. I had less than twenty-four hours to tidy up and convince Cleo that this was a photographer’s studio, not a hoarder’s den.
At five o’clock sharp, like clockwork, the intercom rang.
I buzzed her in without even asking who it was. A few moments later, I heard her footsteps on the stairs. When I opened my apartment door, Cleo was there with a faint smile and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder.
She was wearing dark jeans that hung like they’d been tailored for her and a simple black V-neck T-shirt. No sky-high heels, no flashy makeup. Yet, just seeing her in the doorway made me think that, among the models I’d worked with, she wouldn’t look out of place.
“Come in,” I invited. “Just don’t judge me for the mess.”
She glanced inside. “Should I be worried?”
“It depends on how comfortable you are with chaos.”
Cleo laughed and followed me inside.
The attic where I lived took up the entire top floor of the building. I showed her the kitchen under the sloping roof, then the open space where the bed, sofa, and bookcase shared the room. Finally, I opened the door to the photography studio. Two backdrops rolled up against the wall, a couple of softboxes, stands, cables, and cameras filled almost every corner.
“So this is where you work.”
“This is where I spend most of my days,” I corrected her.
Cleo entered slowly, observing everything with the curiosity of someone setting foot backstage for the first time. Then she pointed to one of the SLR cameras sitting on the table. “May I?”
I nodded.
She took it carefully, as if it were a fragile object. “It’s much heavier than I expected.”
“Everyone says that the first time,” I reassured her. “Before we start ... can I get you a drink? Anything you want: water, juice, Coke, cold beer, white wine...”
“White wine,” she replied confidently. “At the party, you told me you’re a wine enthusiast. I’m sure you’ll surprise me.”
I chuckled nervously. “Actually, I told you I know a little about it because the rich guys I take on their boats sometimes give me a few fine bottles. Yes, I’ll definitely surprise you.”
I headed toward the kitchen. I already had the bottle I wanted to uncork in mind. I opened my wine fridge and took out the one I’d chosen. Then I uncorked it and poured a splash into a glass to check it, as I’d seen many of my customers do. Satisfied with the test, I filled two glasses and returned to the living room, handing one to Cleo.
“It’s called Timorasso,” I explained. “It’s a very special white wine from the Tortona area, between Alessandria and Milan, in Italy.”
Cleo took the glass I handed her and raised it to her nose. “The aroma is extraordinary,” she commented before clinking my glass with hers. “So, shall we toast to sailing and photography?”
I returned the toast by raising my glass and taking a sip, then took a seat next to her on the studio sofa. “So, do you really want me to take some photos of you?”
“Perhaps. I’ve never posed for a photographer, so I’m curious. In the meantime, you could show me some of your shots while we enjoy this good wine.”