Hannah Forever Single -- Chapter 03
I leaned on the wall outside Hannah's studio door. I heard voices inside. She was panting and moaning. His voice was harder to hear because it was coming over her computer speaker. He was a client watching her in a cam session.
I was her business partner. We both worked out of a house we rented together. She had her studio, and I had my office where I consulted on web security.
Today, I couldn't help myself as I walked past her door on my way to the kitchen. The sounds were too exciting to avoid. I knew they were exaggerated. (I'd helped her come for real, so I knew.) Even so, I strained to listen, leaning my head against the wall to amplify the sounds, while softly rubbing my hard on through my sweatpants.
"Come with me," I heard her say. I wanted to, but she didn't mean me.
I knew to give her privacy. This was her work, after all. We had an arrangement that made sense for the two of us, but few outsiders would understand. When we met, we were both sworn off dating, and so, when she gave me her number, she entered it under the name 'Hannah Forever Single.' It was an inside joke. And even though we'd had brain melting sex together, we weren't 'together' together. I didn't see anyone else, and as far as I knew, she only met clients online; but we had no promise of exclusivity. In fact, our sex was half therapy, have experiment.
She was ten years younger than me, but twenty years wiser. I was early thirty and had one failed marriage. I wasn't looking to repeat that mistake either. So, I was happy not to push this farther than Hannah wanted. And she pushed me however she wanted. We shared a few kinks. She loved to have me eat her out after I came inside her. I loved doing it for her. I lived for her praise and her subtle (and not so subtle) humiliation of me.
One day, we went out for a day of shooting photos. It might have looked like a date because we had meals in cafes, we went to parks, and galleries; but at each of these places, I helped take photos and clips of her in revealing outfits.
At the cafe over breakfast, I held the camera under the table for a few upskirt shots. It seems easy, but we had to find a private spot with enough sun and reflected light that the camera could see far enough, but not too far for the socials. She hated to have to blur images prior to posting. It was more fun to think of clever ways to hide her nipples or her naked pussy. But if you got the material sheer enough, you could practically show every little detail of her labia or nipples and stay within the rules.
Pushing the bounds was a game Hannah liked to play with me, too.
She grabbed the camera after I took one upskirt shot and zoomed in. She showed me the image. It clearly showed her vulva, both lips slightly puffy.
"See this?" she said.
I gulped as I nodded. I'd spent a lot of of time licking those lips.
"Delete that one," she said.
"A shame," I said. "You could put it behind the paywall."
"You think?" She zoomed in closer. I could make out the light pink of her clit, hidden under its hood. She made a gesture up and down the slit. "I'm not wet enough here, am I?"
"I... I think it's an effective shot."
She handed the camera back. "Try another before we lose the light." She tossed her hair -- today a long, blond wig hid her natural brunette pixie cut. She had many wigs that she reserved only for her on-camera work. She preferred to debut new wigs and outfits in these outdoor shots so that no one would recognize her in public from her private sessions.
I took another photo, and she did the same action to blow up the image, holding it between us.
She said, "See how you can see a sheen on the inner lips and my clit is just a little more prominent?"
"Y- yes, I can see that."
As she leaned into me, she slipped her hand between my legs and brought it up to rest on my cock.
"Yes," she said, "I think you
can
see that." She squeezed my erection through my jeans. I drew a sharp breath. She said, "Save
that
one for the paywall."
My first reaction was to think how sharp she was at grooming her content. My next realization was that the second picture was better because it showed her excitement. And why was she excited? Because she was teasing me.
A day's outing started early and ended late. We took advantage of golden hour when the light was most flattering for the outdoor shots. Those were great for getting shots of her figure, backlit in gauzy outfits. She knew men zoomed in on her breasts to see the hint of pink of her nipples, or the shape of the curve where her breast met her ribs. I even helped her with the online eyetracking.
Besides looking for the cleft of her vulva, the curve of her ass, or the shape of her breasts, many men would spend time with her eyes. The pics with a light crinkle of a smile engaged them. They all wanted to believe she enjoyed their gaze. She did. But she knew she was sexy and beautiful. The men she interacted with were the ones who laughed at her jokes, engaged with her stories, or complimented her on anything but her physical appearance. So, if she was wakeboarding, playing tennis, doing yoga, or working out, she responded most to praise of her technique or other fun activities to try.
For the rest, most of the responses to flirty comments were from the chatbot I set up. Not that it mattered. She never dated clients.
In the middle of the day, we went to this tree-lined park in the city. On the weekends, it would be busy with joggers and dog walkers, but now, during weekday afternoons, we had the place largely to ourselves. She could take a risk by removing the swimsuit cover she was wearing and showing a little more of her sweet, round ass in her thong bikini. Or she could untie her top and cover her breasts with her hands.
And if a bicyclist or jogger came around the bend, I had the cover-up handy. I also broke into my "fashion photographer" mode and we pretended I was shooting a cover model.
My favorite part of these sessions was her "is this sexy?" check ins. Between shots, she looked at my pants to see if I was erect. Or she'd lean against me and feel for herself.
"Do I need to bend over more?" She might say.
"That'll work."
We'd take the shot, and she'd come back, lean over my shoulder to look at the image while feeling my cock.
"Yes," she'd say, "That's more like it."
I'd be so worked up by the time we got back to our car that I'd lay her down in the back seat and eat her out.
Just before I'd try to mount her, she'd say, "Let's take that home. Wouldn't want to mess the seats."
But we both knew it was so I could come inside her and eat her cream pie until she came again.
On this day, we broke for a late lunch at a casual dining spot. We'd already done the park and some playful but tame shots at the aquarium. She changed back into street clothes. She came out of the bathroom with her wig and outfit in her bag, scrunching her fingers in her spiky hair.
"That's a relief," she said as she plopped down across from me. She wore a t-shirt and leggings, and had pulled the shirt tight with a knot at her midriff that showed off her toned belly, adorned by a diamond stud in her belly button. The thin fabric outlined the contours of her breasts, showing the shape of her puffy areolae. If you knew where to look, you could see the faint hint of the tattoo on her ribcage that simply spelled, "Serenity" in script.
On her inner arm, she had a gold dragon emerging from an egg. She showed that to me when we first met, the day I celebrated my tattoo of a Phoenix rising from the ashes. I absently rubbed my tattoo as I took in all this. She was stunning. I loved her like this -- the long-legged dancer, right out of
Chicago
. (She must have a bowler hat somewhere in her vast wardrobe.)
"Oh, shoot!" she said. "I forgot my order."
She was up before I could volunteer.
I looked at my phone while I waited. But after a couple minutes, I realized she should be back by now. I looked up to see her chatting with a man by the drinks counter. She smiled and laughed at something he said, and a cold pang hit my stomach. I felt the rising of my heartbeat in my chest.
She chatted for a few minutes. He was tall and muscular, but not blocky. He had a short beard. She touched his arm where there was a tattoo. It looked to be military -- Navy or Marines. (I know there's a difference, but I was far away.) Finally, she pointed toward me, smiled and walked away, to my relief.
When she sat down, she said, "Sorry, I got to chatting."
I nodded. "S'okay."
She started to talk, but looked up when we both noticed he was standing near us.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said.
"Oh, no problem," she said. She gestured to me. "This is my assistant, Johnny."
"Hi," he said warmly, holding out his hand. I shook it, grateful he didn't attempt to crush my hand.
