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 manâ??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 wasâ??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 wakeâ??
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. "Iâ??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.
"Youâ??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 didnâ??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, itâ??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. "Thereâ??s a nice café
â??round the corner. You donâ??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 timeâ??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 Belleâ??s first real,
albeit brief, smile in months. "Iâ??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 â??oldâ?? 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.
"Ohâ?¦" 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, donâ??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 donâ??t know
what you must think of me, Belleâ?¦ 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. "Donâ??t,"
she found herself saying, more out
of instinct than any conscious
thought process, "I want you to
stay." She really didâ??for the first
time, she actually desired the
physical presence of one of her
viewers.
"You look different in â??real lifeâ??."
Belleâ??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
majorityâ??s. As they spoke, he made
her feel rather an artist than a porn-
starâ??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"â??his voice cracked and shook
â??"I find you very beautiful, and
have always wanted to shoot you.
Iâ??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 runâ??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 oddâ??creepy,
evenâ??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 couldnâ??t
pay you, but youâ??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 wouldnâ??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, Belleâ??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 donâ??t trust me." She
watched him, searching for his angle,
for the cracks in his veneer, but
there were noneâ??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 youâ??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 showâ??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 beingâ??
raw, vulnerable, unadornedâ??
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 â??fansâ??. 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?"
"Itâ??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, "Itâ??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 herâ??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 Haroldâ??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 Haroldâ??s
instructions, firm without being
forceful.
He moved with a modest air of
confidence and professionalism,
capturing Belleâ??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 herâ??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 Haroldâ??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, Iâ??m going to apply a little
make-up, if you donâ??t mind," he half-
asked as he studied her face closely,
carefully.
She thought she neednâ??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,
"Itâ??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 itâ??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 fitâ??Iâ??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 Belleâ??s lips perfectly. "Iâ??ll
just go â??round the corner so you can
get châ??" 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 neednâ??t have
asked how she looked for the answer
was written all over Haroldâ??s face.
"Thank you," he muttered, almost to
himself, "Thank you for looking like
this. Pleaseâ?¦" 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
didnâ??t need a Hitachi Magic Wand to
transport her to another worldâ??she
felt beautiful just as she was,
standing in the centre of Haroldâ??s
studio.
Harold stood up after another five
minutes, or another hour, with a grin
as wide as his face, and announced,
"Thatâ??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
Haroldâ??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 sexyâ??
so wantedâ??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 Belleâ??s pelvis added
a new dimension to the cacophony
of sensations they felt, causing
Haroldâ??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
Belleâ??s eyes glazed over while her
fingers dug painfully into Haroldâ??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 himâ??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 Haroldâ??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 Haroldâ??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.

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