The Emily Branch - Shadows on the Shelf

(Author's Note: this branch will largely be told in Emily's perspective, with the occasional branching off during Joe's domain adventures, hope you enjoy it.)

I stood in his office, the soft hum of the city outside filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden morning glow over the evidence of his career. The shelf was lined with his curated memorabilia: a few antique cameras lovingly restored, their brass bodies gleaming; some of his freehand sketches, intimate and unapologetic; and photographs of his past projects and subjects, each one a quiet testament to his creativity.

One of them was a black-and-white four-shot of Zendaya, Zoe Saldana, Karen Gillan, and Jamie Alexander from his Vanity Fair “Women of Marvel” edition. He’d photographed them in a natural, candid state; warm smiles, genuine laughter frozen in time, bodies relaxed yet radiating something electric. It was that shoot that got him snatched up by the agency he’d been working at for the better part of three years. That, and a glowing recommendation from Zoe, who’d raved about how he made her feel seen without ever making her feel hunted.

I was stunned by his work every time I saw it. He had a talent for coaxing out a natural beauty in the women he worked with; the way their eyes sparkled with unguarded light, their lips parted just enough to suggest invitation, bodies arched in poses that felt both **** and commanding. Iris had confirmed it to me more than once: more than a few had wanted their sessions to go a little further, a little more… private. Whispers of “accidental” touches lingering too long, offers to extend the shoot into late-night hours, hints of lingerie slipping just a bit more than planned.

A large framed poster dominated one wall: the Sports Illustrated cover of Hannah Davis, her fingers tugging at her bikini bottom just enough to reveal the smooth swell of her hip, the fabric straining, making men’s; and most likely a few women’s; blood boil with that teasing promise of more. The image was raw, erotic without being vulgar, her eyes locked on the camera like she was daring you to look away. Joe had never crossed that line, even before I came along; Iris had assured me of that. I never worried about it. I trusted him implicitly, knew that quiet intensity was reserved for me in the bedroom, where he’d pin me down and claim me until I was begging, trembling, utterly his.

Still, I was surprised he didn’t have an impressive “body count” of ruined women behind him; women left quivering and addicted to the memory of his touch. And truth be told, I was shocked that he and Iris had never become a thing before I entered his life. She was just as gorgeous as the women he photographed: tall and slender, with piercing emerald-green eyes, caramel-colored skin that glowed like warm honey under any light, and she wore the hell out of those business suits that hugged her curves. Pencil skirts clinging to her firm ass, blouses unbuttoned just enough to tease the swell of her petite breasts, and heels that made her legs look endless.

We’d all grown closer; Iris, Joe, and I; when tragedy struck her last year: a sudden loss that left her shattered. She needed a shoulder to lean on, and I was happy to offer mine, but two shoulders are better than one. Joe held her up alongside me, his strong arms wrapping around her in comforting hugs, his voice murmuring reassurances against her hair. It was why we were so close now, an unbreakable trio bound by shared grief and quiet loyalty. I’d heard the gossip about the two of them from some of his co-workers; dumb snide whispers at agency parties, assuming there must be more than met the eye. “They spend so much time together,” they’d say, eyes narrowing. “You know how it is in this industry.” But I knew the truth: it was platonic, professional… until my mind wandered into forbidden territory, my eyes drifting again to the photos... of Hannah, of the others.

There was a part of me that wondered “what if” he allowed himself what those women wanted. What if he came home with the smell of their skin on his mouth, the musky tang of their arousal clinging to his lips, the taste of their slick, dripping sex coating his cock when I knelt to greet him. The thought sent a forbidden thrill straight to my core, my thighs clenching involuntarily as I leaned against his desk, feeling the cool wood press against my ass through my skirt.

Joe with other women was a fantasy I kept close to the vest… but not just other women… Iris too. We’d seen plenty of each other during our shopping trips, stripping down in shared dressing rooms, our bodies bare under the fluorescent lights. She had a perfect body: small, pert breasts with dark nipples, an hourglass waist flaring into hips, and that small Playboy bunny tattoo on her right hip, inked in delicate black lines, right where her thong would ride up.

I’d catch myself staring, my pulse quickening as I imagined that very body writhing on top of Joe, her moans piercing my ears as she took his length deep inside her, her tight pussy stretching around his thick shaft, juices glistening as she rode him with that fierce competence she brought to everything. I could picture it so vividly: her emerald eyes locked on his, her skin flushed with heat, small breasts bouncing with each thrust, her hands braced on his chest as she ground her clit against him, chasing her release. And me? Watching from the shadows, my fingers slipping between my own thighs, circling my swollen clit as I heard her gasp, “Fuck, Joe, you’re so big… filling me up just like Emily said.”

She knew about his size; I’d shared stories over wine-fueled girls’ nights, my cheeks burning as I described how Joe left me utterly wrecked, happily sore, feeling the echo of his cock pounding my cunt for days afterward. I’d even shown her the phone pictures we’d taken during our wilder nights together, where we’d ridden that thin line between tender lovemaking and passionate disaster: me on all fours, ass red from his spanks, his cum leaking from my pussy in thick, creamy drips; or him buried in my throat, my lips stretched wide around his veined girth, eyes watering with blissful effort. I’d seen her blush, and I’d wondered if she touched herself later, imagining it was her body he was claiming, her walls clenching around him as he flooded her with his cum.

I never shared these desires with Iris or Joe. The thought of sharing him; of watching him plunge into her, hearing her cry out as he made her come undone, then turning to me with that dominant gaze, his cock slick with her essence, ready to fill me next; it made my panties dampen right there in his office as I shifted my weight. Maybe it was because I was scared of losing him, or Iris. Or maybe it was the fear that voicing it would make it real, and I’d crave more: the taste of her on his lips when he kissed me, the three of us tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, his hands and mouth everywhere, until we were a mess of limbs and moans.

I looked at my watch: seven after nine. That was unusual for the strictly punctual Joe. I wondered if he’d fallen asleep on his recliner in front of the TV like I’d left him the night before, his body sprawled out, remote in hand, deep into episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I knew he had a major crush on Sarah Michelle Gellar; hell, who wouldn’t? She was gorgeous, all lithe strength and blonde allure. She was one of his hall passes we’d joked about having, along with a few others we’d listed in those tipsy, teasing conversations where boundaries blurred into fantasy. “If you ever got the chance,” I’d say, straddling him on the couch, grinding against his hardening cock, “I’d want every filthy detail.” And he’d grin, flipping me onto my back, pulling my panties aside and thrusting deep as he whispered how he’d make her scream, then come home to show me exactly how.

Their voices coming toward the room brought me back to reality, pulling me from the heat pooling between my legs. I could hear them bantering back and forth, their years of working together evident in the easy rhythm: Joe’s low, confident timbre teasing Iris about the elevator taking too long to get to their floor, her witty retort laced with that affectionate edge. He was focused on the small box I’d provided Iris for this day, turning it over in his hands as she mentioned something about a potential client waiting in his office.

He didn’t catch me standing there through the windows, leaning playfully against his desk, my skirt riding up just enough to expose a sliver of thigh. But I wasn’t his client… not really. Because in that box were some trinkets from his real potential client: Sabrina fucking Carpenter; that petite, bombshell frame, golden hair, and eyes that promised mischief. A signed vinyl of her latest album, a custom espresso martini recipe card, and a note hinting at a collaboration that could skyrocket his career.

My heart raced; not just from the surprise I’d orchestrated, but from the wicked thought of her in his lens, her body willing for his art. It would be the first time I’d be able to watch him work up close, and truly see how he affected the subjects in front of his lens.