Beads of sweat formed on Belle’s
forehead, her open mouth silently
voicing her pleasure. She allowed
herself to get completely lost in the
moment, blocking out the reality of
her circumstance and denying to
herself the true material origins of
the ecstasy she was now
experiencing, pretending the
looming orgasm was for her alone to
enjoy. Her bared chest heaved with
her heavy breaths and quickening
pulse, her vividly pink nipples erect
from a mixture of arousal and the
perpetual draught that seeped
through the decades-old window
into her closet-like bedroom.
Holding the proportionally
ginormous device that had been
delivered two days prior with both of
her pale, child-like hands, she could
not help but think, despite her
misgivings at having received it in
such a fashion, that the Hitachi
Magic Wand really did live up to the
hype. She knew other girls who used
it regularly, even to the point of
mild addiction, but she had found it
difficult to believe that anything
could be so dramatically better than
your run-of-the-mill sex toy. Now,
with all the she had
heard so much about pulsing fiercely
against her clitoris and surging
through her petite body, Belle could
not deny that there was certainly
something about it.
Then it hit, long expected yet so
surprising. Her whole body reacted
in quite a fortuitously spectacular
way, her legs clamping the toy in
place as an immutable scream
sought to break through her ceiling
to waken, and not for the first time,
the elderly couple living above her,
whose lack of technology savvy she
had for months been capitalising on
to avoid paying for her own internet
access. The climax, if only for that
brief time, transported Belle from
her mouldy, three-roomed flat to a
world in which she felt no shame, no
world in which she
felt truly sexy, and genuinely proud
of who and what she was. For those
few seconds, while physically
overcome by her orgasm, she felt
beautiful.
In what might have been construed
as a performance, her
back arched quite of its own accord,
thrusting her trembling hips up and
forward and bending her body in a
way she had not known possible.
Her muscles tensed and relaxed in
an orgasmic wave from the tips of
her toes to the top of her head. The
relentless pulse of the wand caused
her tight, teenage pussy to spasm
uncontrollably, gushing out an
unprecedented volume of her sexual
discharge. Breathless from the
excruciating ecstasy, she pushed the
offending device forcefully from her,
leaving it to vibrate and buzz
violently against the uncarpeted
floor.
Belle continued to twitch, her eyes
still closed and her breaths still
short and sharp, as she gradually
drifted back to the real world, the
unceasing pings from her laptop
indicating new messages beginning
to register in her mind once again.
When at last she regained her
composure, she hoisted herself up
onto her shoulders and spread her
knees, exposing her still dripping
cunt to the nearby camera which
had just broadcast one of her most
intimate sexual moments to
approximately two thousand rapt
viewers around the globe, many of
whom were now expressing their
delight at what was, even by Belle’s
standards, a top class performance.
As Belle glanced across her screen,
she wished that some of those
gentleman who happened to enjoy
her show a great deal would express
their delight in a somewhat less
graphic and vulgar fashion. Sadly,
she had grown numb in the last five
months to the perverted comments,
finding the exchanges in which she
found herself obligated to engage
extraordinarily monotonous. Donning
her best false grin, she stared
intensely into the camera as she
scooped up some of the viscous fluid
from her parted lips and sucked it
from her fingers, making a show of
enjoying the taste while mentally
noting that she should probably eat
more fruit.
With many thank yous and virtual
hugs and kisses to her regulars and
the various anonymous fans who had
provided her with financial
sustenance enough at least for
another day, she ended the show
and heaved a sigh of relief from the
amateur porn-star persona she had
grown to resent and dislike. She
grabbed and pulled on the hoodie
and sweatpants she always kept
hidden behind the camera,
grimacing at the lingerie she
had specifically sported an hour ago,
now lying discarded on the floor
near the aggressive wand; the room
fell depressingly silent once she
unplugged the grudgingly accepted
gift.
She manoeuvred around the damp
patch she had created on her
threadbare sheet, pulling her laptop
onto her lap. A dozen or so
messages had landed in her inbox in
the last hour, the majority of which
were inevitably more gratuitous,
often creepy expressions of
admiration for her pornographic
offerings; these were always
promptly deleted with scarcely a
second glance. This evening,
however, a message had appeared
which stood out and intrigued her,
appealing to her greatest desire in
life while simultaneously, though
perhaps unknowingly, taking
advantage of her biggest insecurity.
Shivering under her thin duvet, Belle
dwelt on the words of that message
the whole night, sleep evading her
in her state of conflicted indecision.
Tears dripped onto her pillow,
making her aware of the deep-
seated sadness she had long since
trained herself not to feel. She
didn’t want to live like this, but nor
was she so sure that the alternative
that message had offered her would
be any more bearable. The passing
of the night brought not a whisper
of clarity, and she wept still even as
the heaviness of her eyes overcame
her tortured mind and she fell into
a disturbed sleep in the wee hours
of the morning.
***
Belle pulled her faux-leather jacket
close around her and tugged at the
hem of her short skirt in a feeble
attempt to make it somehow cover
more of her pale, skinny legs. She
perched on the standing seat in the
corner of the crowded District Line
train, wishing herself invisible; the
eyes of every passenger in the
carriage felt to her to be silently
judging her, as though they knew
where she was going, and why. For
all the discomfort she felt, she may
as well have been naked on that
tube, exposing to the self-absorbed
commuters what she exposed to
thousands each and every night. Her
empty stomach growled not quite
loudly enough to be heard over the
rumble of the train, a slight jolt
making her feel as though she might
vomit.
As they arrived at her destination
station—a part of London to which
she had never been—she squeezed
out onto the platform, flinching and
shrinking with every inevitable brush
with a fellow Londoner. The air felt
close as the train sped away through
the dark tunnel, and Belle stood
alone for a minute next to the tiled
wall, close to tears as she struggled
for breath. Weak legs carried her
blindly through the ticket barrier to
the exit where she was able to
breathe air about as fresh as the
capital had to offer, lightening her
head further but relieving her panic.
Looking around, she recognised
nothing, but knew where to go; her
hesitance was apparent in her every
mannerism, from the darting of her
pale green eyes from side to side,
expecting danger, to the trembling
removal of her phone from her bag
to check the time.
Her battered old phone told her she
had thirty minutes in which to make
the five-minute walk, should she
decide to do so—she still did not
know with certainty that she would.
It was little more than desperation
and the memory of a now dust-
covered dream of her youth, buried
away in a rarely visited corner of her
mind, that had brought her this far.
What prompted her first step in the
direction of the address that
repeated on loop in her head was
the daunting realisation that her
purse contained scarcely enough to
cover her return journey, and her
bank account still just shy of her
overdue rent payment.
The shield that deflected the
imagined stares from passers-by,
that protected her vulnerable self
from the shame and self-loathing
that more than a few times had
driven her to the edge of giving up,
rose invisibly about her as she
walked with increasing steadiness. It
was the same shield that allowed
her to sell her body each night on
the internet and show her face on
the streets the next day without an
apparent modicum of disgrace. It
felt weaker today than it usually did,
as though it might crack and
disintegrate at the first direct
assault, shattering the outward show
of composure and confidence it was
apt to give her.
She faltered in her low heels as she
turned onto the street, reaching out
and grabbing the metal rail to stop
from crumbling to the dirty
pavement. Her staccato breaths and
painfully quick heartbeat were the
manifestation of her anxiety,
contradicting her facial expression of
cold indifference. The street before
her was long, but a quick mental
approximation indicated she had
barely a quarter of its length to
cover. Belle extracted from her jacket
pocket the half of her last cigarette
she had been saving for the
neediest circumstance. The first
drag, normally conducive to a
soothing of her stress, felt hollow
somehow; perhaps she expected too
much of the pathetic little dout, or
perhaps the situation was too big
for her usual tricks of self-
preservation.
On reaching the door almost fifteen
minutes prior to the agreed time,
she paused to take stock. The
outside of the building gave nothing
away, its plainness putting to rest
any doubts she had that any of the
relatively few pedestrians passing
her by did not know the purpose of
her visit, while simultaneously
raising suspicions about the
legitimacy of the invitation she had
received. Bearing in mind that the
message had said and
telling herself that it would be
stupid to turn back now, having
come this far, she pressed down
with excessive firmness on the
buzzer next to the name she
recognised, preferring to make the
social faux pas of arriving early than
to give herself waiting time enough
to talk herself out of it.
came a low, raspy voice with
a volume that managed to startle
the on-edge Belle.
“It’s Belle,” she croaked, speaking to
another human being for the first
time that day. She cleared her
throat and repeated, /> Buxton.” Her dear grandmother
would likely be spinning in her
grave to know that her maiden name
was being used for such purposes; to
Belle it was the last remaining
thread linking her to a family that
never wanted her, and for whom she
had no love left.
The heavy black door clicked and she
pushed into a dimly-lit stairwell with
a faint aroma of damp. The same
raspy voice bellowed, “Third floor,”
from above, the noise echoing
jarringly off the cold concrete. She
started to ascend, each step a battle
against her own trepidation and
rising nausea. Nothing felt
welcoming about this place; only the
protection of her shield, weak
though it was, prevented her from
fleeing all the way back to her
coldwater flat. Even as she reached
the landing of the third floor and
was greeted by the broad smile of a
jolly-looking man, her distrusted
instincts told her to turn and run.
The cheeriness of his deep
voice sent an uneasy chill up Belle’s
spine and she froze uncomfortable a
few feet from where he stood in the
doorway. “So glad you could join us
this morning; please, come in.” Her
last chance to walk away from the
opportunity she had thought she
had been looking for came and
went; she followed him into flat, her
heels clipping loudly on the wooden
floor of the narrow hallway. As the
door slammed shut behind her and
caught on the latch, her stomach
lurched and she steadied herself
against the wall.
The raspy-voiced man led her into a
large but rather bare bedroom
where the distinctive smell of stale
sex hung in the air. The door closed
behind Belle and she jumped at
noticing the tall, scruffy man with
the thick, brown beard who had
silently followed them in carrying a
small digital camcorder. Without
acknowledging Belle, he took a seat
in the corner of the room and began
fiddling with the device, apparently
readying it for what was to follow,
while the first man attempted to fill
the awkward silences with even more
awkward and misguided small talk.
She noted that at no point did
either man introduce himself to her,
retaining their comparative
anonymity whether intentionally or
not.
Fulfilling the request of her to sit on
the end of the bed, she tugged
again at her skirt, more aware than
ever before of how exposed she was
to these two strange men of almost
twice her age. She sat as though
ready to leave, her jacket still close
around her and her bag clutched
tight to her hip. Words went in one
ear and out the other, failing to
register in between, and it took an
unwelcome tap on the shoulder to
rouse Belle from her anxious trance.
just going to do a little
interview,” he repeated, a hint of
impatience laced through his
cheerful tone, “To ensure you’re
suitable for the projects we
discussed. But based on what we’ve
seen of you already, we don’t think
we’ll have anything to worry about.”
The two men shared a seedy smile,
causing Belle to tense at the
thought that they had already
shared in what should have been
some of her most private moments.
The bearded one pointed the camera
at her, yet to utter a word, as the
other asked his questions, starting
with the mundane and everyday, but
quickly progressing to those of an
explicitly sexual nature. She knew
how these things worked, and did all
she could to play along, surprising
herself with her seeming calm and
even wit, while internally forcing
down the bile that threatened to
follow every disgustingly girlish
giggle. Her on-camera persona
fought her way to the surface, wholly
disguising the fearful bag of nerves
and angst that quivered beneath.
It was not long before they got to
the part of the that Belle
had not wanted to admit was the
real purpose of her visit; the
bearded man moved in closer with
his camera, his expressionless face
not quite displaying the same
eagerness as his larger companion.
Another internal warning bell rang,
but she felt she was in too deep to
do aught but ignore it and proceed
with the guided striptease, slowly
removing her jacket to reveal the
tight, cropped vest top through
which the outline of her ribs was
just visible.
She smiled her fake smile and stood
as she lifted her top to her chest,
baring her small breasts and
squeezing them gently in her hands,
autopilot kicking in. Her finger slowly
circled her large, pink areola until
her nipple was fully erect, while she
unconsciously licked her lips in a
tremendously seductive fashion. She
avoided the eyes of the two men,
knowing it was easier to pretend
they weren’t there but rather that
she was in her own room performing
one of her shows; she made skillful
use of her mind to remove herself to
a familiar scenario with which she at
least knew she was emotionally able
to deal. It was just her and the
camera once more.
Her hands slid slickly down her
sides as she turned on the spot,
dutifully following each raspy
instruction, and Belle bent forward
slightly, pushing her petite bottom
towards the camera. The skirt she
had been tugging down all morning
was eased up slowly, teasingly, until
it bunched around her waist,
exposing her buttocks, separated
only by the light blue fabric of her
sheer thong. She did not think
about what she was doing; she
didn’t need to. She did not think, or
even feel, as she bent further
forward and gave her right cheek a
playful swat.
While turning back to face the
camera, letting the skirt fall to the
floor as she did, she inadvertently
met the icy stare of the cameraman,
freezing her insides. Her breath
caught in her throat and she
faltered in her movements, swaying
dizzily against the edge of the bed.
The men seemed not to notice,
continuing with their amateur and
clichéd direction of her, and she
resumed her persona, ignoring the
dull thump at the front of her head,
which blurred her vision, and the
fresh release of bile that burned
against the lining of her stomach.
Seated on the bed again, she
pushed her legs apart, her whole
milk-white body trying to blush at
the knowledge that her scanty
underwear did nothing to conceal
her modesty, if she even still
possessed such a thing. Her breaths
became shallow as the shield wore
too thin for comfort and the
confident cam-girl started to give
way to the panicking teenager she
masked. She watched in silent horror
as big, sausage-like fingers
approached her thigh; the
anticipation of their touch rendered
her immobile.
His fat digits grazed the inside of
her thigh, their rough touch feeling
traumatically familiar. Belle stopped
breathing, shield shattered and
screaming internally, wanting to stop
him but somehow unable. It wasn’t
until the man, who, in the brief
physical contact they had shared,
she had come to loathe, pressed the
blue material into her, evidently
hoping to find Belle in a state of
arousal, that her instincts won over
her desperation.
“No!” She had not expected the
outburst any more than the taken
aback men, nor was she fully
conscious of hastily gathering her
belongings and fleeing from the
room half-naked.
Raspy words echoed down the
hallway after her. “Belle, don’t you
want to /> “No!” she yelled again, fumbling
with the handle of the front door,
blinded by her own tears. She
stepped into her skirt, adjusting it
as she started to descend the first
flight of stairs, and pulled her top
down over her breasts again. There
was no indication that the men were
following her, but she dared not
look back or slow down for fear they
might.
The morning sun blinded her
through the tears as she burst out
onto the street; the fresh air hit her
like a stone wall and caused her to
vomit on the stoop, the violent acid
burning her throat and mouth. She
did not let it impede her, charging
hurriedly along the street, not
knowing where she was going, only
needing to get as far away as
possible, as quickly as possible. A
full twenty minutes must have
passed before she stopped walking,
vomiting painfully again down an
alleyway between two shops, and
looked up around her at the entirely
unfamiliar part of London. She
panted for breath, leaning against a
wall to prevent her collapse.
In that moment, Belle despised
herself and everything she had
become in the last year; she could
not erase the image of the raspy-
voiced man’s hand, dark against her
pasty flesh, and the thought of what
she had almost allowed him to do.
Her body wretched but there was
nothing left to bring up. Never had
she felt further from her dream;
never had she been so far from what
she wanted to be. As she scrolled
through the short list of contacts on
her mobile, she realised just how
alone she was—it was not the
feeling of isolation that was new, but
the feeling of being completely
responsible for it.
Stumbling another hundred yards,
she fell onto a wooden bench in a
busy, inner-city park, dried of tears
and utterly devoid of any hope that
may have remained within her. She
must have been a pitiful sight to
the many city-dwellers who strolled
or cycled by, not one failing to
glance in her direction but, typical
of London, none with even the
consideration of stopping. Her mind
whirred, worsening her headache,
with questions the answers to which
she did not even know where to
seek. She prayed that the world
would swallow her up, leaving not a
trace of her existence in its wake—
another prayer unanswered.
“You okay there?” The deep, smooth
voice startled Belle, rousing her from
the despair into which she was
rapidly plummeting. Soft, blue eyes
looked down at her, the gentleman
to whom they belonged standing
awkwardly a few feet away, his brow
wrinkled with concern. Her mouth
opened to answer him, but only a
meaningless croak escaped before
she retreated into herself, making
herself as small as possible as
though to impossibly hide herself
from the stranger.
“Is everything okay?” he repeated,
seating himself a purposefully
unthreatening distance away on the
other end of the bench. “Can I call
someone for you?”
Belle shuddered against the breeze
and almost laughed. There was no
one to call, no one who cared. /> fine,” she replied meekly, turning
her face away from him and hugging
her knees. She was perplexed by this
stranger; he exuded a warmth that
somehow quelled her fear and
anxiety.
clearly not fine.” His voice
carried with it sincere compassion,
the like of which Belle had rarely
come across in all her years in
London. He did not move any closer
to her, but she sensed that he had
no intention of leaving her; in a
strange, inexplicable way, she didn’t
quite want him to. She shot him a
sideways glance, catching his big,
blue eyes again, and naturally
relaxed her posture, letting her
short legs dangle off the edge of the
bench. “Can I help?” he continued.
“No, it’s fine,” she lied, but not
really knowing how he could possibly
help, “Thank you.”
“Well, are you hungry? Can I buy
you some lunch, and a cup of
coffee?” There was a tremor in his
voice now, aware of the potential for
his offer to be misconstrued in any
number of ways, especially as a
strange man addressing a young
woman in a park.
The agonising growl of her stomach
prevented Belle from denying that
she was starving. Her hesitation
must have told him as much and he
spoke again without awaiting her
verbal response. a nice café
‘round the corner. You don’t even
have to let me join you; just let me
get you something. Please.” At the
last word, she turned to look at him
face-on for the first time—he
appeared on the verge of tears,
desperate to help somehow but
obviously as clueless as Belle as to
how he could do so. A glint of
recognition appeared in his eyes as
she stared right into them and
vanished almost as quickly.
“Thank you,” she said quietly,
standing up and wrapping her small
jacket around her. It took him a few
seconds to realise, or perhaps
believe, that she had accepted his
offer, and he sprung too exuberantly
to his feet, eliciting Belle’s first real,
albeit brief, smile in months. /> Belle, by the way.”
She detected the slightest of
hesitations in his step at her almost
inaudible introduction, but he
carried on and responded brightly,
leading her back in the
direction from which he had come.
It seemed to her much too ‘old’ a
name for such a youthful man;
indeed, everything about his
character which she could observed
seemed quite discordant with his
apparently few years. She walked a
few paces behind him, curious but
cautious.
They took their seats in the bizarrely
quaint café and Belle wasted no
time in feasting on the first proper
meal she had had in weeks while
Harold supped at his black coffee
with a bemused look on his face.
she heard him utter. When
she looked up from her sandwich,
his face was ashen and open-
mouthed. It quickly turned beetroot
red and he averted his gaze, while
he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Swallowing the bite in her mouth
and dropping the baguette onto the
plate, Belle pushed her chair back,
readying herself to make a swift exit
if needed.
“You recognise me, don’t you?” she
asked, knowing the answer.
He could not meet her eye, suddenly
stricken with the adolescent
awkwardness of a teenage boy
caught masturbating. “I don’t know
what you must think of me, Belle… I
should probably go.”
This was not the first time she had
been recognised, though it was,
needless to say, the first time under
such peculiar circumstances. /> she found herself saying, more out
of instinct than any conscious
thought process, “I want you to
stay.” She really did—for the first
time, she actually desired the
physical presence of one of her
viewers.
“You look different in ‘real /> Belle’s lips curled into another smile
at his bashfulness and awkward air
quotes. She imagined the morning of
crying and vomiting had done little
for her appearance. It felt unusual
to her to be the less embarrassed of
the two, despite being the one who
had flaunted her body online for all
the world to see; it made her even
more assured of his good character.
“With clothes on, you mean?” He
laughed nervously at her flippant
remark, the closest thing to a joke
she could manage. She knew, though
she knew not how, that he was far
from typical of her audience, and
sensed that his interest in the show
was somewhat different from the
majority’s. As they spoke, he made
her feel rather an artist than a porn-
star—not a slut, but a performer.
Following a decidedly lengthy lull in
their interchange and a healthy gulp
of his coffee, Harold assumed
something of a serious tone as he
spoke. “In all honesty, Belle, I have
admired you for a long time. I
voice cracked and shook
—”I find you very beautiful, and
have always wanted to shoot you.
I’m a he hastily
clarified, seeing the alarm in her
eyes.
Of all the things Belle might have
expected to happen that day, she
could not possibly have conceived of
the entirely insane situation in
which she now found herself. Part of
her told her to run—that her stalker
was an extraordinarily good actor
and she was in extreme danger. The
other part told her to put her trust
in his warmth and his sincerity, to
trust that there was still some
goodness in mankind.
While this internal battle was fought,
Harold went on, “Look, I know this
must all seem very /> even—but this is just too much of a
coincidence to not take a chance.”
He reached into his jacket for
something as Belle watched on
curiously, looking for anything that
might sway her either way. “This is
my card,” he stated, placing the
small red and white rectangle on the
table between them, “I run a studio
from my flat, totally legit. I couldn’t
pay you, but you’d get a cut of any
sales I make, and it would be great
exposure if you wanted to start
/> Her eyes darted suspiciously from
him to the card on the table, and
back to him, looking for the catch.
Silence reigned for a minute before
he spoke again, correctly reckoning
that she wouldn’t. “Nothing seedy or
anything, I swear. Look.” He
retrieved from his small briefcase an
album of samples from a recent
shoot he had done in an attempt to
convince the sceptical Belle that this
was genuinely his career, and he was
making her a genuine offer.
Another minute of unfathomable
silence passed, Belle’s expression
giving little away. “Well, you have
my card now.” He sounded almost
disappointed. “Call me if you want
to have a shoot. Bring someone with
you, if you don’t trust me.” She
watched him, searching for his angle,
for the cracks in his veneer, but
there were none—as best she could
work out, Harold had no ulterior
motive.
He stood to leave, giving the silent
Belle a sad parting smile. “It really
was a pleasure to meet you. Sorry if
I freaked you out. I hope you’re
okay.”
“Thank you, Harold,” she whispered
as he exited the café, not loud
enough to be heard. She picked up
the card, and stared at it in semi-
disbelief. Clutching it tightly in the
palm of her hand, she grabbed her
bag and rushed from the restaurant,
faintly smiling as she wandered
around, regretting having never
asked for directions home.
***
Belle stepped onto another unknown
platform, quiet in the early
afternoon, and took a deep breath as
she turned to see the train speed
away through the dark tunnel. Her
nerves were born more of excitement
now than dread or anxiety. Her
battered phone told her she had
twenty minutes in which to make the
ten-minute walk, and she was
certain this time she would;
stepping out into the bright
sunlight, she harboured no doubts
about her decision to come that day.
It had been over a week since she
had done a show—every time she
thought of it, she could feel the
rough fingers of the raspy-voiced
man on her thighs, and she found
the persona she ordinarily assumed
to overcome such things, the shield
she always put up, had abandoned
her. The feeling of simply being—
raw, vulnerable, /> unnerved her, but had given her
some sense of self-worth, especially
when she thought of Harold. The
memory of his voice soothed her;
she felt the warmth he exuded when
she pictured his blue eyes.
He had sounded more than a little
surprised when, after three days, he
had received a call from Belle.
Giggling at his flustered stammering,
she had been reassured that her
trust had not been misplaced. Their
brief exchange was just the right
amount of awkward; his having seen
every naked inch of her, up close
and in high definition, did not result
in the overfamiliarity she often
encountered in messages from even
well-meaning She liked the
fact that he treated her with the
polite respect one ought to treat a
practical stranger, rather than
behaving as though seeing her
diddle her goodies gave him
profound insight into the inner
workings of her mind.
As she approached the building, she
withdrew a pilfered cigarette from
her purse and lit it as she walked,
quickly achieving the desired effect
of suppressing her nervous
excitement. She knew she still had
to be cautious, distrusting of her
instincts as she was, and, in lieu of
anyone she knew who could have
possibly accompanied as a
chaperone, protect herself. With a
long drag, her ordinarily chaotic
mind became alert and focused, on
the lookout for the first sign of
danger, though she hoped and
expected there to be none.
Twisting the flat sole of her shoe
against the pavement, crushing the
last centimetre of her cigarette into
the street, she stepped up to the
baby blue door and pressed the
buzzer Harold had instructed her to.
He promptly answered with a cheery,
/> “It’s Belle.” Her voice rang out
clearly, melodically. She listened
closely for the customary click of the
door, but it seemed not to be
forthcoming and she stood in silence
for what felt like an eternity. For a
second she panicked, until the door
swung open effortlessly before her,
and Harold stood there, his hair
atussle, with a shy grin on his face.
He stepped back, welcoming her into
the bright stairwell, but she did not
proceed past him, waiting for him to
lead her.
He cleared his throat and ran his
fingers through his hair, leaving it in
slightly less of a mess, speaking
quietly as she drew level, “It’s good
to see you again, Belle; thanks for
coming.” They paused, no more than
a foot apart, looking intently as one
another. Belle saw no threat in his
eyes, no malice in his posture. She
saw a purity in Harold that endeared
him to her—she could not believe
this geeky, lanky man to be anything
but harmless.
He led her into his ground floor flat,
and she marveled at the huge,
modern space. The high, white-
washed walls were liberally sprinkled
with gorgeous artwork and beautiful
photographs, and here and there
she spotted curiously quirky
ornaments and pieces of furniture.
Harold seemed to rush about the
place in front of her, moving things
and closing doors as though his
parents had just arrived quite
unexpectedly. However, when he
turned and smiled widely at her, she
knew it was nothing more than a
show of his own nerves.
The door behind him creaked open
and Harold stood to the side,
revealing his masterpiece to Belle.
She walked into the room, her
shoulder brushing against his chest,
and audibly gasped at its
magnificence. Mounted lights
illuminated the brilliant white
studio, like something out of a
movie, or a dream. The wall behind
the readied tripod hosted an
impressive catalogue of what was
clearly some of Harold’s finest work,
from a glowing young couple kissing
on the beach to a family portrait of
four generations; the breathtaking
collage seemed to tell the story of
his career, spectacular in its brevity.
His intimidatingly professional set-
up was a far cry from the pokey,
makeshift studio of an amateur into
which Belle had half-expected to be
welcomed.
Upon entering the room behind the
awed girl, Harold visibly relaxed, his
posture giving him the commanding
presence of a person for whom no
place in all the world could feel any
more like home. Belle saw in his
eyes the love and passion he had for
his work, and for this space, and she
felt humbled and privileged to have
been granted access to such an
obviously sacred place. She stood
quietly in the middle of the room,
gazing around and taking in as many
of its meticulous details as she
could, awaiting direction.
Having sadly never had a
professional photograph taken of
her, she knew little of what to
expect and shuffled her feet
uncertainly, a slight but immovable
smile brightening her thin face.
Harold came to her, his warmth
enveloping her as he neared, and
positioned her to his satisfaction,
guiding her with the gentlest of
touches. Before she was quite aware
of it, she found herself in the
middle of her very first photo-shoot,
turning and posing and moving her
hand there and pushing her hair to
that side, responding obediently,
fluidly, to each of Harold’s
instructions, firm without being
forceful.
He moved with a modest air of
confidence and /> capturing Belle’s petite figure from
various angles, adjusting the
lighting without missing a beat,
owning the studio like a well-oiled,
one-man photography machine.
Everything was purposeful,
everything was natural. His smooth
voice sailed across the space
between them and through her
body, sharing with her his aura of
self-assuredness and connecting
with a part of her that some might
have called her soul. It was a show,
but it was his show; she was the
medium through which he expressed
his beautiful mind. The camera was
nothing to her—she could not see it
for the man behind.
It took no more than a few minutes
for her to relax into the setting. It
felt effortless to her, something she
was born to do, and it thrilled her
more than he knew to hear his
encouraging words of praise as she
moved for him, eager to appease
him. She fancied herself under-
dressed for the occasion but,
stealing glimpses of the shoots that
had gone before, warmly watching
over each new addition to their
number, she came to realise that
the magic of Harold’s photography
lay as much in the form and
composition as it did the content, if
not more so. With every second that
passed, her trust in him grew, too,
allowing each of her hang-ups and
insecurities, however minute, to
evaporate.
Belle lost all sense of time, wrapped
up in her small taste of glamour,
and it might have been five minutes
or an hour that had passed when
Harold let his camera hang from his
neck and smiled, gesturing for her to
follow him to a hidden corner of the
room. He seated her on a small
wooden chair and adjusted a nearby
lamp just so before crouching down
in front of her with a serious
expression on his face. “For the next
part, I’m going to apply a little
make-up, if you don’t mind,” he half-
asked as he studied her face closely,
carefully.
She thought she needn’t have
answered, but his questioning look
patiently awaited her approval
before he proceeded to skillfully
apply the cosmetics with no small
amount of artistic flair. Belle had
never had someone else do her
make-up and, while it was a
completely alien sensation to her,
she could not help but feel safe in
his nimble hands. When he was
done, Harold startled her with his
strength by lifting her and the chair
up without hesitation and replacing
her in front of a tall mirror, leaning
down behind her and catching the
eyes of her reflection as he asked,
“It’s okay?”
Rendered speechless by the vision
before her, she nodded, tilting her
head this way and that to admire
the stunning young woman Harold
had sculpted out of the
comparatively plain Belle. No one
had ever taught her how to apply
make-up, but she had not reckoned
her skills inadequate until faced
with the realised potential. She felt
acutely the mismatch of her
immaculately done up face and the
decidedly regular attire she sported.
As though reading her mind, Harold
appeared again behind her,
delicately carrying a long garment
carrier from which he wasted no
time in removing a bright red dress.
“I thought, if it’s okay with you,” he
started, avoiding her eye as his
assertive photographer persona
threatened to come into conflict with
his respectful, /> self, “We could do a few shots in
this? It should a pretty
good eye for that kind of thing.” He
successfully avoided a boastful tone
in making this last statement, but
rather delivered it in a matter-of-
face manner quite in keeping with
the confident humility Belle had
become quite taken with.
He hung the dress from the side of
the mirror and fussed over a few
imagined creases in the flawless
material, the colour of which
matched Belle’s lips perfectly. /> just go ‘round the corner so you can
get ch—” He froze mid-rotation, a
deer in headlights, confronted by an
already topless Belle. Shameless in
her nudity when comfortable
enough, and knowing Harold had
seen her naked already, she thought
nothing of changing in front of him,
and she giggled at his unexpected
though comical reaction to her
exposure. His eyes locked on her
small breasts momentarily, his
mouth still searching for the rest of
the word he had yet to finish, before
his face flushed a deep scarlet and
he scurried off, lacking composure
for the first time since he entered
his haven.
When she stepped out shyly from
behind the screen, wracking her
brains to think of the last time she
had worn a dress, she needn’t have
asked how she looked for the answer
was written all over Harold’s face.
“Thank you,” he muttered, almost to
himself, “Thank you for looking like
this. He ushered her with a
hand and a look to where he needed
her to be. The cold of the floor on
her bare feet felt in sharp contrast
to the heat that rose and spread
across her skin. The knee-length
dress swayed slightly as she walked,
the silky material brushing
pleasantly against her hips; the fit
was perfect, as though tailored just
for her.
The show resumed with a fresh lease
of energy on the part of both model
and photographer. There was
dynamism, chemistry, fun. Belle felt
alive with the rush of losing herself
in what she had long dreamt of
doing, no longer a cam-girl but the
true Belle, a person who she was
quickly coming to love. This time she
didn’t need a Hitachi Magic Wand to
transport her to another /> felt beautiful just as she was,
standing in the centre of Harold’s
studio.
Harold stood up after another five
minutes, or another hour, with a grin
as wide as his face, and announced,
a wrap, Belle. Thank you so
much.”
He had barely finished his sentence
when the exuberant girl bounded
towards him, throwing her arms
around his slender frame, and
planted a big, dramatic kiss on his
unsuspecting lips. “Thank you, thank
you, thank you,” she rambled,
squeezing him tight in her pent-up
excitement, “This meant so much to
me; I had so much fun. How can I
ever repay you?”
Their eyes locked and they silently
communicated something they had
both unknowingly been yearning to
do so all day. He blushed again but
did not hesitate as he pulled her
into him by the waist, seeking and
finding the consent in her eyes to
kiss her once more. It was deliberate
and sensual this time, filled with all
the passion he poured into his
vocation, drawing Belle onto the tips
of her toes. Knowing suddenly that
this is what she had wanted since
she picked up that phone, she
pushed her fingers through his thick
hair to the back of his head, pulling
him in.
Arousal stirred between her legs for
the first time in over a week, desire
burning in her core as she grabbed
at him with increasing urgency.
Strong hands clutched her waist,
almost lifting her, as a fervent
tongue explored her mouth. She
pushed her hand down brazenly
between them and needily massaged
the growing bulge in his tight
trousers.
“Not here,” Belle insisted
breathlessly, her reverence for
Harold’s studio winning over her
immediate lust for him. Without a
question, he led her by the hand to
another immaculate room further
down the hall, closing the door and
turning to face her at foot of the
king-sized bed.
“Are you sure?” The question alone
made her doubly so. She answered
with a smile and a kiss, enjoying
becoming accustomed to his soft
lips, sliding an exploratory hand up
the inside of his shirt to feel his
smooth chest which radiated the
warmth she now wished could
embrace her at all times.
Harold eased the thin straps of her
dress from her shoulders, guiding it
down her body to the floor, leaving
her in naught but a small pair of
white cotton underwear, on the front
of which a tiny damp spot had
formed. He lifted her out of the pile
of red material and laid her down on
the plush duvet as delicately as one
might a newborn baby, placing light
kisses along her torso as he crawled
up over her. As he went to kiss her
again, she tugged at his t-shirt
without much success in removing it
until he obliged in aiding her
efforts.
There was an easiness to their clinch
which she had never experienced
before. Everything seemed a rush, a
race, to the handful of boys she had
slept with before, but Harold
seemed contrastingly measured in
his approach to exploring and
enjoying her body, slowly running
his hands over her with the
apparent intent of physically
memorising all that she was. It was
Belle, in fact, whose primal need
drove the pace of proceedings, albeit
without resistance from her attentive
partner.
Her hand again reached between
them, this time squeezing inside his
waistband and coming into direct
contact with his rigid member; he
gasped into their kiss as her fingers
closed tightly around him. He
started to grind against her
attempted strokes, but the
constriction of his trousers fast
became a frustration to them both.
It took him but a few seconds to
dispose of the remainder of his
garments, giving Belle full,
unfettered access to his swollen
cock.
She stroked it slowly, rubbing her
palm over the weeping glans and
spreading the viscous fluid over the
length of his stiff shaft, her other
hand slipping unconsciously into her
own panties to feel the slickness he
had induced in her, readying her
entrance for their intimate union.
Belle needed the man who had
made her feel so beautiful, so sexy—
so wanted—to fill her void, and she
told him as much with her wanton
eyes.
The condom rolled easily over his
hardness, and Harold matched her
intensity in the swift and forceful
removal of her underwear, and the
way he pushed just the tip of his
fingers into her dripping pussy, a
tease before the main event for
which her body practically begged.
Belle whimpered at his touch and
pushed her hips towards him,
pushing his fingers in just a
centimetre further than he had
intended.
Their kiss was tenderly firm at the
moment when his length gently
penetrated her and slid into her
greatest depths. Harold paused,
searching her eyes once again for a
signal, while a breathless Belle
allowed her body to adjust to her
lover and enjoy the ability to savour
the feeling of a thick cock deep
within her. A loving smile gave him
the go-ahead, and his hips began a
slow back and forth, gradually
building to a steady, rhythmic fuck.
The rotation of Belle’s pelvis added
a new dimension to the cacophony
of sensations they felt, causing
Harold’s breath to catch in his
throat more than once, invariably
followed by a thankful smile.
The intense stare they shared never
wavered throughout, every minuscule
part of his pale blue irises becoming
a most cherished memory, the feel of
his hot breath on her skin enflaming
her desire all the more. As his
thrusts became slams against her
sensitive pussy, she began to feel
the pressure of an orgasm build, but
the familiar sensation that grew
within her brought with it a curious
uniqueness which she was unable to
identify. Harold must have sensed
her impending climax, for he held
her tight at the waist and adjusted
the angle of his entry, pushing up
into her in the hope of a collision
with the spot that was sure to drive
her over the edge.
His skillful ploy quickly paid off as
Belle’s eyes glazed over while her
fingers dug painfully into Harold’s
back, and a great seismic surge
coursed through her body. Harold
struggled to keep a grip on her
wildly spasming body which
shuddered and tremored and bucked
against him while a mixture of high
squeals and grumbling moans of
pleasure filled the room. It seemed
unending, and Belle must have
appeared to him to be lost to
another world, but her mind was
only with him—his perfect eyes; his
soothing voice; his comforting
warmth. This was the uniqueness
she had felt, the factor which ranked
the experience beyond compare with
even the most intense, wand-
induced orgasms she had ever had.
The prolonged tensing of her
muscles and gyration against the
determined Harold’s hips brought on
his own orgasm quite unexpectedly,
and he cried out as his cock
throbbed and swelled inside her,
unleashing a generous volume of his
thick ejaculate, filling the strained
condom to bursting point. Belle felt
the pulse of his climax against her,
blended in with the glorious
concoction of sensations that
swamped her body.
She blindly reached out to kiss him,
bumping clumsily against his lips
before uniting in their steamy
passion until gradually their orgasms
subsided and their bodies relaxed
into each other on the enormous
bed. Slipping from her and swiftly
disposing of the bulging, semen-
filled sheath, Harold pulled her
close in his arms, reassuring her
with his presence and his warmth.
Her naked body curled against his,
and she let out a long, contended
sigh, not a solitary worry rattling
around her head, threatening to
ruin this perfect moment.
As she lay her head on his chest,
quietly she whispered to him,
“Thank you, Harold.”
He put his arm around her, hugging
her tight. “For what?”
“For stopping that day; for the
sandwich; for the shoot. For this.”
Belle paused for a moment, the true
significance of Harold’s appearance
in her life dawning on her for the
first time. “You saved my life.”
His lips met her forehead by way of
response, and they lay there, one. A
tear rolled down her cheek to the
corner of her smile, and she closed
her eyes, listening to the beat of his
heart. In that moment, she no
longer wanted to be anyone but
Belle. In his arms, she was
everything she wanted to be.

story by: Gotze

Tags: fiction sex story

Author: Gotze

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