[A/N] (pre-chapter): Since I only put it as a single short paragraph in chapter 36, I will reiterate that at this point, none of the photos Leo is taking are being sent to anyone anymore. He's only using it as a way to get them alone with him in better situations. As the author I apologize for not making that more clear.
Also, Webnovel has been censoring the images I post for the chapters. I will keep trying, but I will also post them and also extra pictures in the discord server. The ones for this chapter are pretty nice.
https://disc0rd.gg/ Z8vXmypeq
remove spaces and and replace 0 with o. If expired use the one in the fanfics bio
….
…
…
"Wait… am I taking the pictures?"
Leo had just informed Marge that it was his turn to be in front of the camera.
She looked at the camera that was still in his hand the way you look at something you have just been handed and have no idea what to do with.
"I don't know what I'm doing, Leo, I don't know any of the angles, I don't even know which of these buttons is the one that —"
"Marge."
"What if I cut your head off in the photo —"
"Marge. The tripod takes it."
"…The tripod."
"The tripod. I've got a timer on it. I just walk in front, the timer counts down, the shutter goes. You don't have to do anything."
"Oh, thank goodness."
"You can stay right where you are."
"Oh, thank goodness." She repeated.
"Just enjoy your drink."
"Oh, I will."
She pulled the margarita up to her mouth with both hands and took another long pull.
He set the camera up on the tripod, framed the shot, set the timer to a five-second auto release on a ten-shot loop, and walked over to the prop table. She had carried her glass with her and was leaning a hip against the side wall a few feet from the camera, watching. Just these normal actions were enough to turn any man on.
"You can't laugh at me. I am not a pro like you. I am a complete amateur in front of a camera and I am going to look terrible doing it. So hold it in for my sake."
She smiled into the rim of the glass.
"I'll try my best not to laugh." For once, Marge didn't deny being a pro model. She was really looking forward to seeing this.
He sat on the edge of the prop table with one hand braced on the surface and the other holding a margarita up to his mouth like he was about to take a sip. The timer beeped down. The shutter went.
…
Two streets over, Lisa Simpson stood on Mr. Leo's front porch and rang the bell.
She waited.
She rang it again.
Nothing.
She stepped back off the porch. The driveway was empty, though she already knew the driveway told her nothing because Mr. Leo had his car parked in one of the garages to the side.
'Maybe they're somewhere deeper in the house and they can't hear the bell. Mom said something about paperwork. Maybe they're at the back. Or maybe they already left and I missed them.'
She bit her bottom lip and thought about the beautiful worksheet sitting on Mr. Leo's table.
'I really need that paper.'
Then she thought about Mr. Leo. She thought about how every single time she had been over here he had been kind to her. Tuesday he was so thoughtful and nice. Earlier today, he had given her a snack without asking. He even had said her last answer was "the kind of clean work he liked to see." He had told her she could come over with questions any time.
'He's a nice man. I don't think he would mind if I find a way to let myself in for one minute just to grab the paper. I'll leave a note. I'll write a note on a sticky pad and stick it to the kitchen counter so he knows I came in. He'd understand.'
She walked around to the side of the house where there was a side door tucked into the gap between the house and the fence. She tried the handle.
Locked.
'Okay. Maybe one of the garages. Maybe one of the two doors can be lifted up.'
She kept walking.
…
Back inside, the tripod had clicked through three more frames.
Marge took a sip and lowered the glass.
"Move your hand."
"What."
"Your hand. The one on the table. It looks stiff like that. Try putting it on your side a different way."
He looked at her over the rim of the glass.
"Oh? Are you directing me?"
"…Maybe."
"I didn't know you were a director on top of being such a good model. You really are a triple threat over here."
"You are being silly again —"
"I am being accurate. So come here. You're the director. Come move my hand for me and put it where it's supposed to be, since you can see what I can't."
She took a final sip of her margarita. It was now empty. Her face was flushed.
"Come on. Show me."
She huffed at him, but she was already pushing off the wall.
Her steps were not quite straight. Her hip clipped the side of a tool on the way over and she laughed at herself for it.
"Sorry, sorry —"
"Easy."
"I'm fine."
She got to him. She reached for his hand to move it the way she could not say. The other hand came up to brace against his shoulder. She tried to move his hand and pushed off the floor for extra force for some reason.
Marge lost her balance.
The world tilted violently. Her bare foot slipped on the slick seamless white floor, and she came down sideways, half-twisting in mid-air, her long blue hair whipping across the air. The cheap hollow prop table — already groaning under Leo's weight — gave way with a sharp, dry crack of splintering wood beneath both of them.
He caught her before she could crash.
His arms snapped up on pure instinct, wrapping tight around her body and yanking her against his bare chest. He fell straight down, taking the impact on his ass and lower back so she landed sprawled on top of him, her thick, plush ass settling perfectly into his lap. The long, bare line of her back pressed flush and hot against the hard, bare plane of his stomach, skin sliding on skin. Her endless golden legs splayed out in front of him, the thin black bikini bottoms riding obscenely high on her hips, the narrow strips of fabric cutting deep into the soft, creamy flesh of her inner thighs and framing the plump mound of her pussy.
Leo's jaw locked, teeth grinding. The old car hit pain exploded through his ribs and spine like white fire, but he didn't loosen his grip. Because her body — soft, heavy, trembling — was already making his cock surge and throb violently against the thin fabric of his shorts. The thick, rigid length of it was right between the cheeks of her ass, the thin bikini doing nothing to stop the feeling.
He held her there, locked in place.
She was sitting fully in his lap now, head tipped all the way back against his right shoulder, the flushed side of her cheek resting against his neck. His right arm was around her narrow waist, fingers splayed possessively over her belly. His left arm had crossed over her chest in the catch, and his left hand… his left hand was cupping the full, heavy weight of her left breast from underneath, palm completely filled by the warm flesh barely contained by the thin black triangle of her bikini top. The fabric was so sheer and stretched it felt like wet silk under his fingers; he could feel the stiff, pebbled peak of her nipple drilling into the center of his palm. The heel of his hand was braced against her ribs, and his fingers spread wide, the edge of the triangle having slid up half an inch so the bare underside of her heavy tit was pressed against the side of his thumb.
The entire studio fell deathly silent.
Marge didn't move. Neither did he.
Then she let out a high, shaky little laugh — the kind someone makes when they're not sure if they're hurt — but the sound died instantly in her throat the second she registered exactly where his big hand was. Her pulse began to beat wildly against the pad of his thumb, right over the swollen side of her nipple.
Leo said nothing.
He could feel the frantic flutter of her heart.
His thumb moved.
Just the smallest, slowest sweep of his thumb across the very tip of her left nipple through the thin black fabric. The sensitive bud was already rock-hard, poking against the material like it was begging for more. Marge's entire body went rigid in his lap for a heartbeat. Then a tiny, broken whimper slipped out of her, soft and helpless and dripping with unwilling need.
"Leo…"
"Mmm."
"Leo, your hand —"
"I know exactly where my hand is," he murmured, voice low and dark.
His fingers curled gently, possessively, around the heavy side of her breast, squeezing just enough to feel the soft flesh spill and overflow between them. His thumb dragged over her nipple again, slower this time, deliberate, circling the stiff peak in tight, filthy strokes that made the thin fabric drag across her sensitive skin. Her back arched hard, pushing her tit deeper into his greedy palm.
"Leo — we said —"
"I know what we said." Another slow, filthy circle of his thumb, pressing the soaked fabric right against her aching nipple. "But I also said a part of me wants more, Marge. I'm a greedy person. I'm sorry. And anyway, right now… it's barely even more than how we were pre-pantry."
Her thighs trembled violently. The long muscles jumped and fluttered visibly under her smooth skin.
He moved his hand.
…
Outside, Lisa had reached the garage doors.
She tried pulling up on the first one. Locked. The second one was the same.
She was getting desperate.
She walked around the corner.
Lisa quickly found a final sliver of hope. A tall narrow window set high on the back wall of the garage. It was high, a good foot above her head, but if she stood right under it on her toes and stretched, she might be able to see in, maybe it would even be unlocked.
She got under the window. Both hands pressed flat against the siding for balance. She pushed up on her toes.
The angle was bad. She could see the inside of the garage but only the upper third of it. There were lights. Two big tall stands on either side of the room with.
'Were those umbrellas? Why would there be umbrellas inside a garage?'
They were the silver kind. They opened the wrong way, with the silver part facing into the room instead of toward the rain. There was a track running across the whole length of the ceiling with more lights mounted on it, the long bar kind, with the silver hoods around them like the hoods on the lights at the dentist's office.
'A photo studio?'
She kept looking. The longer she looked, the more pieces she found. There was a long white sheet that came down from the ceiling and ran out across the floor where she could not see, like a rolled-down blank wall. There was a tripod near the corner with a real camera mounted on it. The little red light on the back of the camera was blinking.
…
Inside, on the floor, Leo had not stopped.
He worked both his hands on Marge with slow, filthy patience. He was in no hurry. Both of his palms rolled and kneaded the front of her bikini top in long, possessive circles, the pads of his fingers tracing the heavy outer curve of her breasts through the black fabric while his thumbs never left those stiff, swollen nipples. He pinched them lightly, rolled them, tugged them gently until the thin material was visibly damp from her own arousal and her nipples stood out like hard little peaks begging to be sucked.
He also applied downward pressure, pinning her plush, bikini-covered ass down hard onto the thick, throbbing length of his cock so she could feel every inch of him pulsing between her cheeks.
Her mouth had fallen completely open against the side of his neck. She had stopped trying to close it. A soft, needy, almost-whimpering moan leaked out of her on every shaky exhale. Her eyes were squeezed shut, brows knitted tight in desperate concentration, like she was fighting not to come apart right there in his lap. Her legs, those long, gorgeous, trembling legs, were stretched out in front of them on the white floor, slightly parted, the high-cut black bikini bottoms doing nothing to hide the way the thin material was now clinging obscenely to the puffy, swollen outline of her pussy lips, a faint wet spot already darkening the fabric between her thighs.
They weren't still anymore.
Her right knee lifted half an inch, then dropped. The left followed a heartbeat later. A visible shiver rolled up the inside of her right thigh, the muscle quivering hard all the way to her hip. Then the left thigh started the same slow, uncontrollable flutter. Her legs parted another inch, the soft, glistening inner flesh on full display. Then they tried to close, only to open wider again, like her body was silently begging for something thick and hard to slide between them.
Her feet were even more telling. Her right foot arched hard against the floor, toes curling tight. They clenched so hard. The big toe flexed back while the little toe tucked under the others and released, over and over in frantic little spasms. Her left foot mirrored it on a stuttering rhythm. Heels lifting, balls of her feet pressing down, toes spreading wide and then clenching again like she was trying to grip the floor while her soaked cunt throbbed helplessly against nothing but the hard ridge of his cock.
Her hips rolled in his lap. Slow, unconscious little grinds that dragged her ass up and down the rigid leaking length of him. The thin black bikini bottom was soaked through now.
Neither of them knew they were sitting four feet of vertical distance away from being seen through the window on the back wall of the garage.
…
Outside, Lisa pushed up higher on her toes.
She could not get any higher than she already was. Her calves were burning from the stretch. The angle of the window was not changing. She still could not see anything below the upper third of the room.
She thought, for one second, that she could hear sounds from inside.
She held very still and listened.
It was hard to tell. The siding was thick and the window was closed. She thought she heard something — a low voice maybe, or a long breath, or a small sound. She could not be sure.
She tried to pull herself up by gripping the lip of the window with her fingers.
She got her chin to the level of the windowsill. She saw the rest of the upper studio. She saw a folded white reflector. She saw the back of an empty director's chair. She saw a small side table she had not seen from below — and on the side table, some glasses with green liquid inside of them.
She craned for one more inch. For one half-second, in the very corner of the angle, low against the white floor, she saw a flash of blue.
Just a flash. A swatch of color that her eyes registered as blue and then the angle dropped before her brain could decide what shade it was. Could have been blue. Could have been the side of a piece of equipment. Could have been the trick of light off something silver. She had only seen it for a second. But it felt like a familiar color of blue.
Her grip slipped.
She came down off her toes harder than she had meant to and landed with both feet flat. The jolt traveled all the way up through her knees. She stood under the window for a second and tried to catch her breath.
She tried to pull herself back up.
Her arms had nothing left in them. The stretch had used everything she had. Her fingers slipped on the lip of the window before she had even cleared her own chin.
She tried again. Same result. Her shoulders shook and gave out.
She gave up.
She backed away from the wall, slowly, looking up at the window the whole way. She told herself the flash had not been blue. Even if it was, there were a lot of things were blue, the trash bin was blue, the ceiling tarp covering somebody's lawnmower over by the side fence was blue, she could be wrong.
She let go of the wall. She walked back around the side of the house, past the garage, past the locked side door, out across the lawn, back across the street, and home. The whole way back her brain ran the same loop.
A flash of blue.
She needed to write things in her journal.
…
Inside the studio, Leo had not stopped.
Marge had given up on protesting. Her head had fallen all the way back against his shoulder, lips parted, breath coming in soft, broken pants. One of her hands had come up at some point to wrap around the back of his right hand and wrist that was squeezing her boob so tightly. Her other hand was on his thigh, her fingers tightening, nails digging in as she held on for dear life.
Leo dipped his mouth close to her ear, lips brushing the shell as he pinched her nipples again, harder this time, rolling the stiff peaks between his thumbs and fingers until she whimpered.
"Your nipples feel fucking incredible, Marge," he breathed, voice thick with lust. "So stiff. So sensitive."
"Mmm — Leo — oh god —"
"You know what would be perfect for the next shoot?" His thumbs kept circling, slow and relentless, tugging her nipples in long, filthy pulls that made her hips jerk harder against his throbbing cock. "No bikini at all. Just you. Spread out on this set for me."
Her eyes flew open, glassy and dark with arousal.
"Leo…"
"Just for me."
"I can't — I shouldn't —"
"Think about it," he whispered, giving her nipple one long, slow tug that made her whole body shudder and her pussy clench visibly against the soaked bikini. "That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."
A broken little moan escaped her. "...I'll think about it."
He smiled against her hair, voice dark and satisfied. "Good girl."
Marge made that same helpless, needy sound again. The protests had melted out of her somewhere between the first stroke of his thumb and now. All that was left was a gorgeous, bikini wearing woman sitting in a younger man's lap with three margaritas burning in her blood, her soaked pussy grinding slowly and shamelessly against his throbbing erection, her heavy tits heaving in his hand while her toes kept curling and uncurling helplessly against the floor.
He kept playing with her breasts for another long, luxurious minute. Slow, greedy rolls of his palms, lazy pinches and tugs on her nipples until he finally felt her body start to come back down. Her breathing slowed. The violent tremors in her thighs eased. Her toes finally relaxed, spreading flat against the seamless again.
Only then did Leo loosen his hands from her tits.
"You okay?" he asked softly, lips still brushing her ear.
"…Mm-hmm." Her voice was hoarse, fucked-out and trembling.
"Take a second."
She did. Then another. Finally she sat up on shaky legs, one hand braced on his knee for balance, and stood. Her knees wobbled visibly. The front of her bikini top was visibly askew, her left nipple still stiff and poking obscenely against the damp black fabric. A faint, glistening sheen of her own arousal coated the inside of her thighs as she walked, carefully and unsteadily, toward the changing room.
She closed the door behind her with a soft click, leaving Leo still rock-hard, still aching. The process of slowly making Marge his was so much fun.