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.