The insistent ringing of his phone sliced through the quiet concentration of his editing session. Hank’s attention snapped away from the vibrant image on his screen. It was a young girl, maybe fourteen, striking a bold pose in her Mystique cosplay. But this wasn’t your typical portrayal. Her eyes were mismatched, a striking detail, and a quarter of her body was transformed into a soldier, a creative twist that ignited Hank's artistic spark. He had been meticulously crafting a dramatic backdrop, an army clashing with the X-Men, but the interruption stalled his creative flow.

  He glanced at the caller ID. “(((Constance))),” the name was enshrined in those triple parentheses, a digital crown marking her as the most important contact in his world right now. He knew, with a thrill of anticipation, that when he needed her, her number would be right there, a beacon in the sea of his contacts. He pressed the answer button.

  “Hi, Constance,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

  “Hi, Hank. So, Lily said you called,” she replied, her voice smooth and professional, yet with an undercurrent of something more, something that made Hank's pulse quicken.

  Hank chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. “Did she wait until she finished her cartoons?” he asked, picturing Lily's bright-eyed focus. It had been over an hour since he’d called.

  “Yeah…” Constance laughed, the sound light and melodic. “She told me as I tucked her in.”

  Hank laughed again, the image of Constance, both powerful businesswoman and caring mother, adding another layer to his growing fascination. “So, you want the job?” she asked, the question direct, yet with a hint of playful challenge.

  Hank’s gaze shifted to his notepad, his list of demands and desires. "Yeah, but there are a few things we need to discuss first,” he said, his tone firm.

  “I’m listening,” she answered, her voice a silken invitation.

  Hank leaned back in the bed leaning against the backboard, the fabric creaking softly beneath him. “First off, you know I’m a photographer, and if you’ve seen my page, cosplayers want me at the next big con, the one in Miami in four weeks,” he stated, laying down his first condition.

  “Hank, there’s always time for your own thing too. Tell you what…” Constance began, her voice taking on a lower, more suggestive tone, a deliberate purr that sent a shiver of awareness down Hank's spine. “We fucked, and I loved it. Hell, I want to do it again. You’ll be working as my director, and it comes with everything you need: laptop for work, cellphone, a business expense card for whatever you need, and floating vacation days. Take what you need, when you need it. Hell, I’ll even pay for your hotel rooms.”

  Hank's breath hitched. Her words painted a vivid picture of their encounter, the raw passion, the intense connection. The thought of experiencing that again, and the blatant invitation in her voice, stirred a potent mix of desire and anticipation within him.

  He smirked, a flash of his confident self. “No, if I go do my own thing, I’ll pay for that,” he insisted, a point of pride.

  She laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through the phone. “Hank, last year I made three hundred million in investment profits. I’m looking at three times that this year, and now that my ex-husband isn’t here to hinder the work, I think I could make even more,” she boasted, the power in her voice undeniable. “I tell you what, if you want to pay for your own hotel rooms, okay, but I’m setting your salary at two-hundred-fifty.”

  Hank swallowed hard. A quarter of a million a year. It was a staggering sum, five times what his old job paid. The offer was almost too good to be true, and the implied promise of more intimate encounters with Constance was a powerful draw.

  “Constance, are you sure you want me to take this job? I have no experience in this,” he asked, a flicker of doubt creeping into his voice.

  She laughed again, the sound rich with amusement. “Hank, your job is just to keep an eye on the people there, check the numbers. If they’re red, you come to me. If they’re green, make sure to note it. Everyone has their own unique trading numbers. You just keep track of the numbers and keep me in the loop. Fuck a few of the girls if you want, but keep it at home, not in the office,” she instructed, the last part delivered with a playful, almost possessive tone.

  Hank’s smirk widened. This wasn’t just a job; it was an open invitation, an open relationship with Constance, if he chose to take it. The promise of her frequent visits, the freedom to explore his desires with others, it was a heady combination.

  “So, if I want to go to every con to take pictures?” he pressed, needing to clarify the boundaries.

  She chuckled, the sound warm and indulgent. “Hank, you can use your laptop at work while you look at numbers. You can edit to your heart’s content while I pay you,” she said, the offer a blatant display of her generosity and her desire to keep him close.

  Hank smiled, the warmth spreading through him. This truly was an offer he couldn’t refuse. It was a chance at financial security, artistic freedom, and the tantalizing possibility of a passionate relationship with a powerful, sensual woman.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice filled with newfound confidence.

  “Okay as in you take the job?” she asked, a hint of playful challenge in her voice.

  Hank nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah… I take the job. And Constance, I’ll move in soon. After all, this beautiful woman I know paid for this awesome hotel room with free access to the minibar for a few more days,” he said, his voice laced with playful innuendo.

  Constance laughed, the sound a delighted trill. “Enjoy it. And when you move in, I’ll help you enjoy that new bed of yours,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, sultry whisper, thick with suggestive promise.

  Then, she hung up, leaving Hank with a racing heart and a mind filled with possibilities. The future stretched before him, a landscape of opportunity and desire, and he was ready to explore every inch of it.

  Hank was riding a wave of pure euphoria. A quarter of a million a year wasn’t just good; it was a damn tidal wave of possibility. And the fact that he could still rake in serious cash from his photography? He was practically levitating. He put the finishing touches on the Mystique image, a masterpiece of digital artistry.

  He posted it on his page, making sure to give the young cosplayer her due. “@Freya2011 surprised me at the con with her mind-blowing take on Mystique. <3 Her creativity knows no bounds! The duotone eyes, the seamless morph into a soldier… pure genius! Keep up the incredible work, Freya! See you at the next con. #Mystique #XMen #CosplayArt #DigitalMagic #ArtistSpotlight #Freya2011”

  He hit post, the image exploding into the digital ether, ready to captivate his ever-growing audience. A notification pinged, pulling his attention away from the rush of satisfaction. A private message. His breath hitched.

  “Hi Tiger, your uncle told me you want me to come to San Diego, you will photograph me,” Hank read, his eyes tracing the words. The tag burned into his retinas: @ItalianmodelTiffany.

  He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. This was it. The first direct contact. The first time she had reached out to him on Instagram. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He clicked on her profile, the screen transforming into a breathtaking gallery of beauty.

  Hundreds of modeling shots stared back at him. Each one a testament to her ethereal allure. Some were sultry, her eyes smoldering with come-hither intensity. Others were more daring, showcasing her flawless figure in ways that sent a jolt of pure lust through him. Her following was staggering, a testament to her global appeal. Almost a million pairs of eyes worshipped her every post.

  “@ItalianmodelTiffany… Yeah, he said there is new jewelry coming in soon, and he wants me to shoot it, and if you are the model, we can make magic together,” he wrote, his fingers flying across the keyboard, the words laced with a boldness he barely recognized in himself. A newfound confidence, forged in the fires of recent encounters, surged through him. He was no longer the timid, hesitant man he once was.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  He clicked send, the message disappearing into the digital void. He scrolled through her feed again, his eyes lingering on each image. The power, the sensuality, the sheer perfection of her… it was intoxicating. He noticed the comments, a tsunami of male attention. Guys begging her to marry them, offering her the world, some with crude, explicit invitations. But he noticed something else: she had never replied to a single one.

  Then, he froze. His eyes landed on a picture, a snapshot he hadn't seen before. It wasn't of her, but of him. He was standing in his booth, caught in a candid moment with Scarlett Johansson and Mel. It was a picture taken by a cosplayer at the con, a casual shot that had somehow made its way to Tiffany's feed.

  The text under the picture sent a jolt of electricity through him. “OMG, Scarlett Johansson is at Comic-Con! She is with @HankShootsReal!”

  Hank smirked, a surge of pride and adrenaline coursing through him. He hadn't even known the photo existed. Then, his eyes dropped to the comments. And there it was. Tiffany's words, bold and possessive: “This hunk, @HankShootsReal, he will be the next one to take my pictures. Keep your eyes out, Hank will bring the modeling world to its knees. <3”

  Hank swallowed hard, the heat pooling low in his belly. “Fuck Tiffany,” he whispered, the words a mixture of awe and raw, unadulterated desire. His fantasies, his long-held yearnings, intensified tenfold. The thought of photographing her, of having her under his lens, of capturing her beauty and power… it was almost unbearable. But the thought of having her for himself, of exploring the depths of her sensuality, of making her his… that was a firestorm of longing.

  He closed his laptop, the image of her seared into his mind, and smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “We will see soon how far you are willing to go, Tiffany,” he whispered, his voice thick with anticipation. The game had changed, and he was ready to play.

  Hank, his mind still swirling with the intoxicating possibilities of his future, the lingering warmth of Constance's imagined touch, had laid the laptop aside. He stretched out on the bed, the day's whirlwind of events finally catching up to him. He closed his eyes, the sensation of Constance's body pressed against his, the memory of her soft moans, a vivid echo in his mind. A smirk played on his lips. He knew she would soon have that chance again, and he was more than ready to welcome it.

  Suddenly, a loud commotion shattered the near silence of the hallway. A sharp thud, followed by a choked cry. Hank’s eyes snapped open, his body instantly alert. It sounded like someone had fallen, and something in the urgency of the sound sent a jolt of adrenaline through him.

  He swung his legs off the bed and rushed to the door, throwing it open. He stepped out into the hallway and the scene that unfolded before him was a brutal tableau.

  The older woman he met earliere, her face contorted in pain, lay sprawled on the carpet. Her long brown hair was disheveled, and a dark bruise was already blooming on her cheekbone. Standing over her, his silhouette a menacing shadow against the hallway light, was a young man. His fist was clenched, raised high, poised to strike again. His face was a mask of fury, his eyes burning with a rage that seemed disproportionate to the situation. Veins bulged in his neck, and his chest heaved with each ragged breath. He was a coiled spring of violence, ready to unleash.

  Hank didn’t hesitate. Instinct took over, fueled by a protective surge he hadn't known he possessed. He moved with a speed that surprised even himself. He grabbed the young man’s arm, his grip firm and unyielding, and yanked him backward, disrupting his intended blow.

  “Is there a fucking problem here?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous, a growl rumbling in his chest.

  The young man spun around, his eyes locking onto Hank’s. His face contorted further, his anger momentarily shifting focus. “Yeah, you interrupting,” he snarled, his voice thick with venom.

  Hank’s smirk was cold, devoid of humor. “Not talking to you,” he said, his tone ice cold and utterly calm. It was a controlled calm that belied the fury building within him. He turned his attention to the woman, his voice softening. He helped her to her feet, his touch gentle and reassuring. He could see the fear and pain etched on her face, the tremor in her hands. The bruise on her cheek was already darkening, a testament to the force of the blow.

  He turned back to the young man, his eyes narrowing. “So here’s your choice,” he said, his voice level and steady. “Walk away, or we’ll talk to the police.”

  The young man took a step forward, his rage reignited. He lunged, trying to shove Hank aside and grab the woman again. It was a foolish move.

  “Never mind your choice,” Hank said, his voice a low growl. He moved with a speed and precision born of instinct. He sidestepped the young man's clumsy lunge, his movements fluid and efficient. He grabbed the man's arm, using the momentum of the lunge against him, and executed a quick, decisive maneuver. The young man found himself on the floor, Hank’s weight pressing him down, his arm twisted behind his back.

  Hank held him there, his grip unyielding, his eyes fixed on the man's face. He pulled out his cellphone from his pocket, his movements smooth and practiced. He dialed 911, his voice calm and steady as he spoke to the operator.

  “Yeah, operator, I’d like to report an assault,” he said, his voice clear and concise. He gave the operator the necessary information, his eyes never leaving the struggling young man.

  Within minutes, the elevator doors hissed open, and two police officers stepped out. Hank hadn’t even finished his call.

  “Yeah, they’re here now,” he said, his voice still calm, his grip remaining firm. He relinquished his hold on the young man, allowing the police to take over.

  The officers began to interview Hank and the woman, their questions sharp and efficient. The young man, however, was a whirlwind of incoherent rage. He yelled, he cursed, he refused to answer any questions. He made the mistake of trying to attack Hank again, a desperate, futile attempt at regaining control. The cops, having witnessed his violence and uncooperative behavior, wasted no time. They threw him to the ground, his face grinding against the carpet, and efficiently handcuffed him, his struggles becoming increasingly pathetic.

  An hour stretched into what felt like an eternity as Hank and the woman, now introduced to him as Doria, meticulously recounted the events to the police. The sterile hotel hallway, still buzzing with the aftermath of the confrontation, slowly began to quiet. Hank learned the disturbing details: the young man, a predatory presence from the volleyball camp, had followed Doria into the hotel, his intentions clear and unwelcome. She had tried to deflect his advances, politely informing him of her marriage, but her gentle rebuffs had only fueled his aggression. The memory of her frightened face, the raw terror in her eyes, still burned in Hank's mind. It was then, in that moment of escalating danger, that Hank had intervened.

  The cops, after hearing the accounts, commended Hank for his decisive actions, acknowledging that he had likely saved Doria from a far more horrific ordeal. One of the officers, her eyes widening in recognition, pointed at Hank. "Hey, aren't you that guy that saved that little girl?" she asked, a flicker of admiration in her voice.

  Hank smirked, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone. "Yeah, right place, right time," he said, downplaying his heroism.

  The cop laughed, shaking her head. "Yeah, you absolutely were," she said, her voice filled with genuine appreciation.

  The officers, their duty fulfilled, thanked them both and finally departed, leaving Hank and Doria alone in the hallway. Doria turned to Hank, a tentative smile gracing her lips. But Hank, with his keen photographer's eye, saw the lingering pain behind the forced pleasantry. The bruise on her cheek, a stark reminder of the violence she had endured, throbbed visibly. The shock of the experience still clung to her, a palpable aura of vulnerability.

  "Want some ice for that?" Hank offered, his voice gentle, his eyes filled with concern.

  Doria's smile softened, a glimmer of gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you, but we have ice in our room," she whispered, her voice still trembling slightly.

  Hank nodded, understanding her need for privacy. "If you need anything, you know where I am," he said, his voice low and reassuring, indicating his room right next door.

  Doria nodded again, her smile a little brighter this time, and turned to head to her room. Hank watched her go, his gaze lingering. Her figure, though not as voluptuous as her breasts, was undeniably firm and sculpted. The way her hips moved beneath her dress, the subtle sway of her walk, it was a captivating display of mature femininity. A surge of desire, unexpected but potent, flared within him. "Fucking MILF," he whispered under his breath, the words a mixture of appreciation and a primal attraction.

  Doria stepped into her hotel room, the door closing behind her with a soft click. The sounds of the night still drifted from outside, the distant music and laughter of her younger friends. They were out partying, embracing the youthful abandon she felt a million miles away from tonight. The memory of the assault replayed in her mind, each word a fresh wound.

  The young man's venomous insults echoed in the silence. "Whore," he had spat, the word dripping with contempt. "Slut. Fucking cock-tease." The accusations, so undeserved and so cruel, pierced her heart, fueling a wave of shame and anger. She sank onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. Quiet sobs escaped her lips, the tears hot and stinging.

  Had her husband been there, she wondered bitterly, would he have even lifted a finger to defend her? The thought filled her with a wave of resentment. He was often too passive, too hesitant, lacking the courage to stand up for her. Not like the young man next door. The image of Hank, strong and decisive, fearlessly stepping in to protect her, flashed in her mind.

  A strange, unfamiliar sensation began to stir within her. It was a potent cocktail of vulnerability and a burgeoning desire. Her body, still reeling from the violation, was also reacting to the memory of Hank's strength and the raw masculinity he exuded. A flush spread across her cheeks, and a warmth bloomed in her core. Her pussy, tightening with a confusing mix of shame and arousal, grew a little wet. The memory of his eyes, the way they had burned with protective fury, ignited a flicker of longing.

  She glanced around the empty room. Her friends would be out for hours, lost in the revelry of the night. The silence pressed in on her, amplifying the conflicting emotions within her. A daring thought, fueled by a desperate need for connection and a reckless surge of lust, began to form in her mind.