She Just Wants To Be

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 “intensity” 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 “magic” 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

self-loathing—a 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 contortionist’s 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 ‘slutty’ 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 “low-key”, 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.

“Hello?” 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, “Isabelle

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.

“Belle!” 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.

“We’re 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 “interview” 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 be—”

“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. “I’m

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.

“You’re 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. “There’s 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. “I’m

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,

“Harold,” 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.

“Oh…” 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. “Don’t,”

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 life’.”

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

find”—his voice cracked and shook

—”I find you very beautiful, and

have always wanted to shoot you.

I’m a photographer,” 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 odd—creepy,

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

modeling.”

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, unadorned—

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 ‘fans’. 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,

“Hello?”

“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 professionalism,

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, boundaries-respecting

self, “We could do a few shots in

this? It should fit—I’ve 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. “I’ll

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. Please…” 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 world—she

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,

“That’s 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.