(This is the second part of a longer story. If you haven't read Part One, you're going to be very lost. I hope you read Part One and I'll see you back here!)
A year had passed for Tim, a year that had been unexpectedly lucrative, in which a corporate project which took up only a few weeks of his time ended up earning him more than he would in the average year. This allowed him to move forward with the project in ways he'd never considered, including being able to rent an apartment on a short lease in London due to a contact that he'd never have once considered possible.
Participants from over one hundred countries had now taken part, and Tim was beginning to struggle to find nationalities locally that he hadn't already crossed off his list.
He'd had success with finding many different nationalities in Birmingham and the surrounding area, with Europe and most of Asia fairly well represented, with a good smattering of the African nations thrown in for good measure, but there were holdouts that census data showed him he would have to move to them, rather than hoping they'd all come to him, especially as some of the possible candidates that he'd spoken to via phone or internet were willing to take part, they just lacked the money, means or, in some cases, the effort with which to make the journey.
Thankfully, Jessica, having called for an update, had helped him organise an apartment for peanuts, and he was making the most of it. He'd spent two weeks of his four shooting eighteen participants, six of whom had brought their own 'supply' of cum to Tim's relief. He enjoyed cumming, or sometimes even being lucky enough to get sucked off to completion, but there were days when he just needed a fucking rest.
In the year he'd been doing this, it had made the possibility of finding a long-term partner fairly non-existent, whereas he didn't necessarily have the energy to want anything short-term, doing so much of it for 'work'.
Being in London, Tim was doing his best to make the most of the nightlife and spent most of the evenings he wasn't working discovering the different bars that were only a short walk from the tube, and where he spent most of his time drinking as he wasn't interested in chatting up any of the many attractive people present.
The downside of this extra drinking was that most mornings Tim was waking up with a blinding hangover or slept through multiple alarms, such as the one he'd set before he went out last night. This meant he woke up to the doorbell skewering his delicate brain.
"The fuck..." he moaned, rolling over onto a glass bottle, "is that?"
It was only when it rang again that Tim awoke, finally realising what and who that noise was.
"Oh fuck!" He hissed, quickly putting yesterday's Jeans back on and picking up the first shirt he found on the floor, "I'm coming!" He shouted as he ran towards the door, the bell ringing a third time, this one held down for longer, signifying their discontent at waiting.
"Hello!" He declared violently cheerfully, pulling open the front door with enough force to open a bank vault, "I'm so sorry for the delay. I'm Tim Smith, please, come in."
The woman he greeted seemed stunned, but be that from the greeting or his appearance it was difficult to tell, her eyes looking him up and down as if he were a commodity to be bought or sold. Tim, doing the same thing, noted the elegant black dress, an oddity at this time of day, but also the red circles around her eyes. These circles and his still drunken state made him brave enough to announce;
"Sorry for the delay, I got absolutely bladdered last night and slept through my alarm."
To his relief, the girl at the door sighed with relief.
"Oh thank fuck," she spoke in a tone that sounded pained, "I went out last night too and I am proper hanging out of my arse. Got any paracetamol?"
Inviting her in, Tim was able to assess her more thoroughly as she took her ridiculously high-heeled shoes off. She'd looked tall, hitting six foot, but it was apparent she was barely scraping average height. Her dark skin marked her out as a 'foreigner', but her accent screamed boarding schools and the Queen. Stocky in appearance, her face had a broken nose and cauliflower ears that spoke 'rugby', but a delicate curl to the lip that screamed 'aristocracy.' Her colour was somewhere between a dark white or a light brown, yet her eyes were sparkingly green.
For Tim, as he made his intial assessment, he considered that a lot of the other participants in his project had been more beautiful, had been more classically pretty, but out of them all she was inarguably one of the most stunning creatures he had ever seen. She was perfectly imperfect, and Tim immediately found himself drawn to her, but rather than declaring his immediate, undying love for her, he boiled the kettle and fished around in his in-often used apothecary, mostly made up pain relief and anti-histamines, it did contain the odd bandage and plaster thrown in for good measure. Also a bottle of Zinc, but he didn't have a fucking clue how that got there.
"Good night then?" Tim asked politely, dropping the paracetamol on the table before her while simultaneously closing the curtains in his temporary lounge due to the sun causing his head major problems.
"Fucking amazing, popped into the worlds end," she replied, before sighing in relief as the natural light was defeated, "oh thank fuck for that. I couldn't take much more of that nonsense. Is that the kettle I can hear? Great, coffee, black, three sugars."
With a grin, Tim returned to the kitchen and made two black coffees, plonking one indelicately in front of his guest.
"I am making the assumption," he spoke with a groan, his headache returning as he pressed it against the sofa, "that you are Princess Amal Al-Ahmad of Kuwait?"
"That's me love!" She raised her coffee as if in a toast, "the disappointment herself."
"I'll be honest," Tim replied politely, "I'd never heard of you until I got your PA's message. I had to do some digging and I don't think I'd read about you being called the disappointment."
"That, my dear, is because that's saved only for my parents. My Dad's second son of the emir, but he acts as if I'm the line of succession, so family dinners are always fun. What daughter doesn't like being called a disappointment in front of all their siblings and extended family?"
Nursing his coffee, Tim let Amal rant for some time, going on about how many cousins and whatever were ahead of her, then moving on to how her education was supposed to have made her a businesswoman when all she really wanted to do was see the world. As she moved on to how she'd been bullied at school for her ethnicity Tim checked his phone as it buzzed. His mum was wondering when she was going to get a phone call.
"Oh, I'm sorry photographer," Amal's words dripped with sarcasm, "I appear to be boring you."
"You are actually," Tim spoke honestly, "the vast majority of those involved in my project have had actual problems in their lives, while you just seem upset that you don't get to do exactly what you fucking want. You sound spoiled, and whereas you might photograph well, this isn't about taking pictures of attractive people. This is about taking pictures of people who've had a struggle in their life."
It will come as no surprise that Amal took offence at his words, once more looking him up and down.
"Who the fuck are you to judge me?" She demanded angrily, "You who couldn't even be fucked to shower or dress properly before you met an honest to god Princess? What makes you so special?"
