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  The next thing I know, he is reaching for the bottle of lube we keep in the office drawer for just such occasions, and I frown. I’m wet enough and I’m never up for an ass-fucking, nor is he. I watch him lube up a finger, and know the pleasure that is about to come. He pulls out, causing me to gasp, before thrusting his hard cock back inside me. His thumb is on my clit again, but his other hand is snaking down my spine, until he stops just above my asshole. He has it down to a fine art and, whilst thrusting and stroking my clit, he gently pushes his finger into my ass. He plays with all three, as my delicious agony of orgasm builds; it is going to be a brutal one, I can feel it, as my senses are overloaded. I am all-over electric and feel as if every hole is filled, as he thrusts faster and faster, rubbing harder, pushing in and out of my ass.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I almost scream, as a violent orgasm ripples through my body like lightning. Just as I am coming, he pulls his finger out my ass, adding an extra layer of electricity, as every part of me pulses in ecstasy. I shake and shiver and tremble as my orgasm subsides. He is still inside me, holding onto me, as he lays me back down on the floor of the light box. I am sure the shutters must have gone off a thousand times over, but I didn’t hear them; I was in another place entirely. He waits a moment or two, until I grasp his cock and slide him back inside me; I want him to come. The motion takes him by surprise, and a gasp escapes his lips, but he is still good to go as he grinds against me, his thrusts more desperate, more eager.

  ‘Come for me,’ I whisper.

  He doesn’t need telling twice as he speeds up, his hips thrusting fast as I grip his ass and push him deeper and harder into me. I bring my legs up, the sensation exquisite as he fucks me. He is close, and I feel him speed up as he comes to his orgasm. I grip his ass tight as he comes inside me, crying out against my shoulder.

  I never liked it when he had to come on my back or my stomach; I wanted him inside me the whole time, so I made sure I saw a doctor after the first time. Since then, I have kept him inside me, feeling the pulse of his cock as he comes. Often, it brings me to my own orgasm, all over again, the pulse and thickening of his cock as he orgasms.

  He lies on me for a few minutes, catching his breath, and I hold him tight against me, his cock diminishing inside my pussy. When the moment is over, we sit up and Martin grabs the laptop with all the images downloaded to it, from the cameras set up. He clicks the frames and begins to work through them, a look of glee on his face as he moves through each shot. I see them from over his shoulder as I cuddle into him from behind, my arms wrapped around his waist. They are beautifully captured, I’ll give him that.

  I blush a little as he moves through each series, triggered by the motion sensors. Mostly, it is just our naked bodies entwined, oddly static, yet somehow fluid. On some, you can catch sight of the moment in which Martin first thrust into me, and the look of exquisite pleasure on my face as he does it. There are others, in which I am on the floor and he is above me – a dynamic shot – my eyes staring into his as he takes me from behind. Each one arouses me; I can’t help it. I am jealous of the woman in the photos, with Martin’s cock forever inside her, always fucking her, bringing her pleasure. It is the look of pleasure that I believe Martin wants to capture, and I watch his face as he scans through the images, looking for that magical moment; the impossible expression of purest pleasure. It is almost there on some of the images, but they are mostly blurred or distorted in some way, as if such honest pleasure is not meant to be captured on film, for the eyes of mere mortals. Sure, there is porn, but porn isn’t real; it can never express the pure, sensual vitality of a genuine orgasm, a genuine lust and love between a couple.

  Eventually, Martin stops on one particular image. It is one in which his body is close to mine, skin on skin, his mouth millimetres from my own as if we had just been kissing, seconds before. My thigh is up over his hip, and the image is more demure than others he might have used; there is nothing rude or risqué on show. However, the look on my face is the look of absolute ecstasy; the look of purest indulgence that Martin is looking for. My head is tipped back somewhat, my eyes closed, my mouth open and yet so close to his, my neck and back subtly arched. It all looks as if it has been designed by somebody; as if a photographer has laid out the specific shaping and forming they want, and we have forged ourselves into that image. Martin is the same; his chest is up a little, neck arched back, the expression on his face one of impossible pleasure, captured precisely in the moment at which it happened.

  I envy the pair of them, captured forever on film.

  Still, I ask Martin to delete the footage, and he duly does. We have seen the picture of pure ecstasy, and it is beautiful; it does not need to be seen by anyone else, and should not be seen by anyone else. I watch as he destroys the SD cards, left with the memory of the couple, looking forward to the prospect of further exploration.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Months pass by like days, in the heady haze of the office. My hands, my lips, my eyes, my face, my body, are plastered on the walls of many an art gallery in the city, and my name is on the lips of countless casting agents and model bookers across the country. The phone rings non-stop asking for me, but it’s not what I want. I politely decline, knowing I am on the way to having everything I ever wanted. I do not need the runway shows and fashion spreads and famous campaigns; I just need the college and the course and my intellect and, perhaps, the man who helped me to make it all possible.

  I am moving into my own place with some of the extra money I have set aside, and I have come clean to my parents. I told them what I have been doing, and their faces said it all. At first, they didn’t believe me but, in the end, they had to, when I took them to the galleries and they saw my face in all the photos – to them, and to me, it finally became real. I had done it, with my unorthodox beauty and my own route.

  Today, on the doormat, there is a letter. I don’t open it straightaway, but pick it up and rush straight over to the studio, to open it with Martin. The emblem at the top is a distinct one; it is the letter I have been waiting for. It is the letter that all of this has been for. I knock on the office door and wait for the customary ‘come in’, and enter when I hear it. He is sitting at his chair, sipping coffee and reading through the day’s paper. I look at the clock on the wall; it is only five to nine.

  ‘You’re here early,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘I know. Look!’ I exclaim, pulling the letter from my bag and holding out to him. His face lights up, as he stands and comes around to the front of the desk, to be closer to me. He takes my hands in his.

  ‘Whatever it says, there is nobody who has worked harder,’ he smiles, giving my fingers a squeeze.

  ‘Careful, these fingers are expensive property,’ I tease, as he lets go, giving me the chance to open up the envelope.

  ‘Tell me about it. I’ve had Balmain on the phone this morning, wanting to book you for some editorial. I presume you want me to tell them no?’ he asks, amused.

  I shrug. ‘It depends what this says,’ I chuckle, though my stomach is doing anxious flips. I have the grades, the money, the drive, the intelligence, but they can still say no. I think back to the girl in my year who never missed a mark, who had all As in everything, had done every extra-curricular activity going, in order to build a knockout CV for Harvard, only to be rejected. Even when she reapplied, they rejected her again. It can happen, and the thought of it is making my heart pound.

  ‘Well?’ he says excitedly, nodding to the letter.

  ‘Here goes,’ I whisper anxiously, flipping the envelope around and tearing at the seam of it. It feels light, and my heart sinks. There is only one measly letter inside and, usually, when it’s an acceptance, the letter is thick – everyone knows that. I unfold the letter and begin to read, as Martin watches me nervously from his spot on the desktop. His fingernails tap against it with nervy energy. I look up at him and he frowns, unable to read me. I feel as if I might be sick, and his concern grows as the colour drains from
my face, my hands shaking as they grip the letter.

  ‘Zoey? What does it say?’

  My throat is dry. ‘It says … we are delighted to offer you the place on the Zoology course, starting in the summer term!’ I shriek, as I fall to my knees, overwhelmed with joy. He rushes to me and wraps his arms tightly around me, kissing my hair, kissing my face, squeezing me tightly.

  ‘I am so proud of you! I knew you could do it – I knew you could, my clever, beautiful, incredible girl!’ he whispers as he holds me to him, rocking me as we sit on the floor of the office with the letter, and my whole life, in front of us.

  The dream is real and tangible in my hands, with a start date and a game-plan. I know the money is there, in my bank account, squirrelled away exactly for this moment. Now it’s here, it doesn’t feel real. I think of all the things I have to do, and the moment begins to overwhelm me, but Martin’s arms wrap tighter around me, feeling my distress, knowing me better than anyone, and the panic seems to ebb away. There is time for worry, there is time for panic, but, for now, this is a happy time, for celebration and happiness; it is the moment I have worked so hard for.

  EPILOGUE

  I stand on the steps, just beside the stage and the podium as they read out the names. It is breezy and my gown is flapping in the wind, one hand holding my mortar board on, to keep it from blowing away.

  As they call my name, I look down into the crowd and see the faces of those I love smiling back. My parents are there, clapping uproariously and taking far too many pictures, whooping and hollering as it comes to my turn, and then there is Martin beside them, handsome in a dark suit, grinning up at me with his hands clasped to his heart as I step up to get my degree diploma. I smile at him, and he smiles at me, and I think of our future. For four years, he has stood by my side, getting me through the difficult times; the deadlines and the long hours and the moments where I thought I might not make it. For four years, there he has been, beside me, encouraging me, making me see my worth.

  Thank you, I mouth to him as I pick up the scroll and shake hands with the Dean, before getting my picture taken by the professional photographer. It is still strange, having my picture taken by anyone other than Martin but, on this occasion, I can allow it.

  As soon as the ceremony is over, I run over to Martin, who is waiting for me. I throw my arms around him and hug him tight, as he kisses my cheek.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispers.

  ‘So are you,’ I whisper back, as he slips his hand into mine, and we set off towards the evening’s celebrations.

  Now Live: Envy by Summer Wynter

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N9RZHWJ

  Rebecca

  Every time he walks into the building, I imagine myself under his touch.

  I've thought of him a thousand times. The way he could bend me, shape me into whatever he wanted me to be. He's brought me to countless pleasures without ever laying a hand on me.

  For now.

  Connor

  Why does she have to be my best friend's daughter? So delicious and so out of reach.

  Her skin is like porcelain and I know she's fresh as snow. All I can think of is how her body would contort underneath the restraints. How she'd move. How she'd moan. It's all I can do from taking her right there in the coffee shop, but I withhold.

  For now.

  I'm just your normal, everyday woman who can't get enough out of life. When it comes to writing, I enjoy stories about couples who just can't say no, even when life says that they should.

  Come get passionate with me and see where my dirty little mind can take you.

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