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He pushes off the wall, leaving me there with my breath in my throat. Theo nods in understanding. I can’t decide if I want him to get it so I don’t have to do that again, or if I want him to play stupid so I can have BK pin me against the wall repeatedly. Decisions, decisions.
“Thanks for your help in demonstrating. Carter, you can take your seat again,” he dismisses me coldly as if he wasn’t just using me as a human scratching post. I was just as willing in that scenario once I knew what was going on, but he still set me up for it.
As I glide back to my chair, I can feel the dampness between my legs and the chafe of my stiff nipples against my bra. Crap, I am hot for teacher. This can’t happen right now. My vagina needs to be put back in her place and that place is nowhere near what BK is packing between his thighs.
I slide into my chair, crossing my legs to muffle the pleas coming from between them. I need to get laid, and soon, if she is going to be barking at me every time BK is near. My horny vagina cares little about who owns the body that just made me tingle all over. All she cares about is getting her rocks off.
Our demonstration seems to have inspired Theo and Lacey because the rest of the shoot they are all over each other. Lacey, being more professional than I would expect, maintains the poses to show off the dainty accessories for this portion of the spread, her hand always splayed along Theo’s skin or tangled in his hair so you can see the sparkle.
Mybodyfoldsintothe couch, feet floating onto my ottoman even though they feel heavier than steel. Sensible shoes were no match for the hours spent running all over and now I am seriously contemplating if I can survive without them. Just cut them off to numb the pain. I loll my head back onto the cushion and I could fall asleep right here.
The tension on set has been the opposite of productive and civil. This is how I end my days, collapsing into the living room and talking myself out of quitting. That bully BK made me feel like I was breaking into the photography scene when I was only a gloried coffee gopher.
What I didn’t understand was when BK called me his second shooter, he really meant I was his errand girl. He had me running all over set, fetching this, asking someone about that, on a continuous loop. If I wasn't glued to my assigned seat, I was bolting everywhere.
I have never wanted to take a hammer to something more than the walkie-talkies the crew uses on set. The channel I spent all day tuned into was constant chatter and demands.
Non-stop.
Never-ending.
All dang day.
But the worst part? I was running around all day, so I barely got to observe and learn from him. Even though he is a jerk face, I wanted the experience. At least to get to touch a camera, see his settings, and discuss his techniques.
He refuses to let me contribute in any way that doesn’t involve his lunch order and it is slowly eating away at my resolve. Why is lighting people on fire frowned upon? The best part of my day is when I catch BK in his element, eliciting emotions, and capturing some breathtaking images.
He is good at what he does. It makes it harder to hate his existence. I want to light him on fire but also crave the knowledge that he has. I wonder if I can extract it with a surprise lobotomy in a sketchy basement? He was the last person Patrick McLellan mentored. He is as close as I will ever get to training with someone of that caliber. But he is less than willing to share.
Not to mention this week, with his body pressed against mine, his breath tickling along my neck. I might as well have become a puddle at his feet. I don’t know if I should be angry with him for putting me in that position, or at myself for leaning into his advance.
Maybe that’s not the right word for it. Since that moment, he has kept me at an even further distance from him. I barely even get to hand him his coffee order in the morning. It’s always “Just leave it there.” Is he as affected by our interaction as I am? Is he getting colder as time goes by?
I am thankful that it's almost the weekend. My feet need a break from the constant shuffling around the set, fetching this and that for him. Yet I am absently scrolling Instagram to find his feed. I am surprised to see a self-portrait of him coming up, his familiar black beanie hanging loose off his ears. I notice the shadow of stubble on his face, something he hasn’t had since the shoot started, and I can’t help but daydream about it. The rugged look adds to him. The scruff against my skin.
My neck.
My chest.
My thighs.
I run my nails along the top of my breasts, exposed from the low-cut tank top I changed into when I got home. The juxtaposition of pain mixes with the familiar tingle between my legs. My fingers dance lower, scratching along my side from over the soft shirt fabric. Dipping between my thighs and delivering another scratch as I picture his stubble, imagining his face nestled in my center worshiping me.
My fingers brush over my clit before dipping into my panties. Work has been tiring and I haven’t found the energy to release the tension in my body. Until now. Until the imagery of him between my legs lights up my entire body, like the sun shining through the window, casting warmth into the room. The dampness grows as I tease myself with the vision of him.
Tightening toes, arching back, muted moans falling from my lips. I am getting close and I can already feel the tension releasing, flowing off me from the week. My fingers quicken their pace, rubbing the most sensitive place on my body, and I shatter, breaking into a million little pieces. Lips parted with every breath, spine sinking into the cushions, toes flexing back to their normal state.
My chest rises and falls as I come off the most intense orgasm I have ever had. BOB, who is still tucked away in my nightstand drawer, didn’t even make an appearance. Impressive. I crack my fingers, the bones tense from how hard I was going at it. Shoot, I hope this tides me over for at least a week of being around BK constantly. Though, if he hasn’t shaved by the time we get back on set, I might be in bigger trouble with myself than I already am.
I slide out of my now-soaked panties and trade them for a fresh pair of leggings, tying my hair into a ponytail, the waves from the braids cascading to my shoulders. I grasp my apartment doorknob, twisting it unlocked, noticing flushed cheeks in the mirror. Man, I hope Rory doesn’t notice my post-orgasm glow. The perk of being single neighbors is that you know the other person is getting their rocks off somehow. When there’s no guy around, you know it’s her doing.
A sigh leaves my lips, the same volume as the moans I was hushing into the couch pillow only minutes earlier.
Outdated magazines clutter the coffee table, but they are some of my favorites, so I pick one up. I thumb through it, not bothering to read any of the articles or pay any mind to the “What kind of best friend are you” quiz. I know what kind of best friend I am, the kind without friends.
Rory is the only exception to that rule, and if I’m being honest, she found me more than I found her. We bonded over the fact that our moms shared the same name, plus we were in the same photography class, and that was all it took. We strive to be low-maintenance friends, the kind you can talk to once a quarter and still pick up right where you left off.
I came to college without friends. I didn’t like enough people I went to high school with to even consider staying in touch with them. Not to mention, I wanted to leave the state and see somewhere new. In the end, I am right where I have always been. Born and raised in Elysian.
