The Booking

Andrew Kline eased his SUV into the faculty parking lot outside the university gymnasium, the late afternoon sun glinting off the windshield. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, fingers tapping the steering wheel. Forty-five years old, a solid commercial photographer with a decent client list, and yet this particular booking had him unusually keyed up. The cheer squad. University marketing department had called it a high-profile campaign, promotional stills and behind-the-scenes video for the new athletics website. Big exposure. Bigger paycheck. He reminded himself it was just another job. Still, the thought of fit, energetic college athletes in uniform had stirred something he quickly shoved down.

He grabbed his heavy camera bag from the passenger seat, slung the strap over his shoulder, and headed for the side entrance. The double doors opened into a rush of sound. Sneakers squeaking on polished hardwood, sharp claps, rhythmic counts echoing off the rafters. The gym smelled of sweat, lemon floor cleaner, and something sweet like vanilla body spray. Andrew paused just inside, taking it in. Twenty young women in crimson and gold uniforms stretched, tumbled, and practiced lifts across the floor. Their pleated skirts flared with every movement, bare midriffs flashing as they moved.

A tall woman in a polo shirt and whistle around her neck spotted him and waved him over. Coach Reynolds, the woman who had hired him. She shook his hand firmly.

"Mr. Kline. Glad you could make it. The girls are excited. We've blocked off two hours. Group shots first, then individuals if time allows. Sound good?"

"Perfect," Andrew replied, already scanning the court for angles. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "I'll set up over by the bleachers for natural light. We can move to the logo wall later for the branded stuff."

Coach Reynolds nodded and blew her whistle. The squad gathered in a loose semicircle. Andrew's gaze moved across the group until it locked on one girl near the front. She stood slightly apart, rolling her shoulders, long blonde ponytail swinging. Skylar Morgan. He knew the name from the brief the university had sent. Star flyer. Social media darling. The one they wanted featured most prominently.

She was smaller than he'd expected. Five-six at most, but every inch carved from disciplined muscle. Toned legs that looked powerful enough to launch her to the ceiling, a narrow waist that flared into hips any photographer would kill to frame. Her uniform top hugged perky D-cup breasts, the fabric stretching across them with each breath. A sliver of toned midriff showed above the skirt. When she turned to speak to the girl beside her, Andrew caught the edge of small pom-pom tattoos high on the backs of her thighs, just below the hem of her skirt. Bright green eyes flicked toward him. She smiled, slow and knowing, before looking away.

"This is Mr. Kline," Coach Reynolds announced. "He's a professional. Treat him with respect and give him your best energy. Skylar, you're front and center for most of these. Let's start with the main squad formation."

The girls moved into position with practiced ease. Andrew set up his tripod, mounted his Canon, and began framing. He directed them gently at first, finding his rhythm. "Little tighter on the shoulders. Yes. Now, big smiles. Think championship win."

They responded well. Laughter rippled through the group as they hit poses. Skylar stood at the apex of the first pyramid, lifted smoothly by two bases. Her body extended into a perfect scorpion, one leg pulled back above her head, toes pointed. The stretch made her uniform ride higher. Andrew's lens captured the clean lines of her body, the way her abs flexed, the confident tilt of her chin. She held the pose without a tremor. When they dismounted, she landed lightly on the balls of her feet and shot him another glance. This one lingered half a second longer than necessary.

Internal voice kicking in already. Professional, Andy. She's twenty-two. You're married. Focus on the light.

They moved through several formations. Andrew loosened up, calling out adjustments. "Skylar, can you angle your shoulders toward me? Perfect. Now everyone, on three, give me the big cheer wave." The girls obliged, voices rising in unison. He snapped frame after frame, the shutter clicking rapidly.

Then the mood shifted playful. One of the girls suggested they run through the actual routine for the camera. Coach Reynolds shrugged approval. Music started from a portable speaker. The squad launched into their competition routine. Skylar was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of precision and power. She executed a tumbling pass that ended in a layout twist, ponytail whipping like a golden banner. Her form was flawless. When the music hit the final eight-count, she hit a toe-touch jump that made her skirt flare dramatically.

On the next kick sequence, Skylar moved to the front. She locked eyes with Andrew for a beat, green irises bright under the gym lights. Then she executed a high kick that rose well above her head. The pleated skirt flew up completely. For one frozen second, Andrew's camera caught everything. A tiny black thong nestled between firm, rounded cheeks. The fabric looked damp with effort. A small tattoo of crossed pom-poms decorated the smooth skin just above her mound. She held the kick a fraction longer than the other girls, then lowered her leg with a bright, innocent smile.

"Oops," she said loudly enough for him to hear. Her voice carried a teasing lilt. "Uniform malfunction. Hope that doesn't ruin the shot, Mr. Kline."

The other girls giggled. Andrew felt heat crawl up his neck. He kept his expression neutral, checking the camera screen as if reviewing composition. But the image burned behind his eyes. That flash of black against sun-kissed skin. The way her thigh muscles had flexed. He cleared his throat.

"It's fine. These things happen. Let's do another set. Keep the energy."

Skylar's smile widened. She knew exactly what she'd done. Her glances toward him grew bolder as the group session continued. Each time she was lifted, she arched her back a little more than necessary, pushing her chest forward. When the squad broke for water, she walked past him close enough that he caught the scent of her coconut lotion mixed with clean sweat.

Coach Reynolds checked her watch. "Twenty minutes left. Skylar, why don't you do some solo portraits while the others cool down? The marketing team specifically wants hero shots of our star flyer."

"Happy to," Skylar answered. She sauntered over as the rest of the squad dispersed toward the bleachers. Up close she was even more striking. The ponytail had loosened slightly, a few strands clinging to her damp neck. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion. Those green eyes studied him openly now, traveling from his salt-and-pepper hair down to the subtle wedding band on his left hand.

"Where do you want me, Mr. Kline?" The question sounded perfectly innocent. The slight emphasis on you was not.

Andrew gestured toward a clean section of wall with the university logo. "Here is good. We'll start with some standing poses, then maybe a few on the mat for flexibility shots if you're comfortable."

She moved into position. He adjusted the lighting umbrella, trying to ignore how her presence seemed to fill the space. When he stepped behind the camera again, Skylar tilted her head.

"Is this angle good?" She shifted her hips, turning slightly. The movement made her skirt sway. "I want to look my best for you."

"You're doing great," he said, voice tighter than he wanted. Click. Click. "Chin up a little. Eyes on the lens. Good."

She obeyed, but as he moved closer to adjust a reflector, her hand brushed his forearm. The contact was brief, electric. Her skin felt fever-hot. She didn't pull away immediately.

"Your hands are really strong," she murmured, too low for the others to hear. "I noticed them earlier. Must come from all that camera equipment. Bet you know exactly how to hold things steady."

Andrew's pulse jumped. He straightened, focusing on the viewfinder. "Just doing my job, Skylar. Let's try a seated pose on the mat. Show me that flexibility the coach bragged about."

She dropped into a full split without hesitation, legs sliding apart until her thighs pressed flat to the floor. The skirt rode dangerously high again. This time she made no effort to adjust it. Andrew's lens captured the smooth inner thighs, the tight stretch of muscle, the way her chest rose and fell. She leaned forward, pressing her palms to the mat in front of her, which pushed her breasts together inside the uniform top.

"Like this?" she whispered. Her eyes locked on his through the camera. "Does it look good from there?"

His throat felt dry. A low stir of heat built in his stomach, completely unprofessional. He thought of Nicole at home, probably making dinner right now, her auburn bob swinging as she moved around their kitchen. Eighteen years of marriage. Steady, comfortable, if a little routine lately. This girl was trouble wrapped in a crimson skirt.

"Perfect," he managed. "Hold it there. Now arch your back slightly. Yes. Just like that."

Skylar's smile turned mischievous. She performed a slow backbend from the split position, shoulders rolling until her ponytail brushed the mat behind her. The move thrust her breasts upward, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric. When she rose again, she crawled forward on all fours for a moment before standing, deliberately brushing her shoulder against his thigh as she passed.

"You're very focused," she said softly while pretending to adjust her ponytail. "Most photographers get distracted. But not you, Mr. Kline. I like that. Makes me want to work harder for the shot."

Andrew swallowed. The attraction was undeniable now, a persistent tug low in his body. She was magnetic. Her confidence, the way she moved like she owned every inch of space around her, the playful dominance lurking behind those bright green eyes. He reminded himself again: married. Professional. Father figure age to these girls. The thoughts helped, but only barely. His cock had thickened enough that he was grateful for the loose fit of his jeans.

They continued for another ten minutes. Each pose she gave him felt more charged than the last. A high kick that mirrored the earlier flash. A slow stretch where she held her ankle above her head, balancing on one foot, eyes never leaving his. Every time he stepped close to adjust her position or show her an image on the LCD screen, she found a way to touch him. Fingers grazing his wrist. Hip brushing his side. Once, she reached up to tuck a stray strand of his hair back, smiling innocently.

"You have nice hair," she whispered. "Salt and pepper looks good on you. Distinguished. Sexy, even."

"Skylar," he started, voice low with warning. But she just grinned and returned to position.

When the session finally wrapped, Coach Reynolds thanked him and led most of the squad toward the locker rooms. Skylar lingered, helping him break down the last light stand. She moved with the same fluid grace, bending at the waist to coil a cord. The view was deliberate. Andrew looked away, packing his camera with more care than necessary.

She stepped close as he zipped the bag. Her hand slipped something into his palm. A folded napkin from the campus coffee cart, he realized. Her fingers lingered against his.

"For inspiration, Mr. Kline," she said, voice pitched for his ears only. That cocky little smile played on her lips again. "My private page. Some of my best flexibility work happens there. Maybe it'll give you ideas for our next shoot. I'd love to do some one-on-one stuff. Very... creative."

Andrew unfolded the napkin just enough to see the elegant handwriting. A OnlyFans username. @SkyHighMorgan. He closed his fist around it quickly.

"This isn't appropriate," he said, though his voice lacked the conviction he wanted. The paper felt dangerous in his hand. "I'm married, Skylar. This was a professional booking."

She stepped back, ponytail swinging, and gave him the sweetest smile. "Of course it was. But a girl can dream. Thanks for the great shots today. I can't wait to see them." Her eyes dropped briefly to his waist, noting the slight bulge he hadn't quite managed to hide, then back up. "You know where to find me if you want to explore more angles."

With that she turned and jogged toward the locker room, skirt swishing, leaving him standing in the emptying gym with his camera bag and a napkin burning a hole in his pocket.

Andrew exhaled slowly, staring at the spot where she'd disappeared. The stirrings of attraction had grown into something hotter, more insistent. He thought of Nicole's face, her soft hazel eyes, the way she still kissed him goodnight every evening. Guilt twisted in his chest. This was nothing. A silly flirtation from a cocky college kid. He'd delete the username when he got home. Or at least never look at it.

Yet as he walked back to his car, the napkin stayed in his pocket. The image of that black thong and those powerful thighs kept flashing behind his eyes. The booking had gone well. Maybe too well. Andrew climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, telling himself it ended here.

He almost believed it.