ONLYFANSThe absolution of a star
Laura, a porn star, recalls her scandalous initiation with her former tutor. On stage, she provokes the audience with a bold speech, celebrating her freedom. An unexpected message from her parents upsets her. Back in her suite, she indulges in a moment of intimacy, asserting...
The full-length mirror in the presidential suite reflected every curve of her body like an obscene work of art. Laura ran her fingers along it, slowly tracing the line of her slender waist before moving up to her heavy breasts, still marked by the traces of the hands that had kneaded them the night before. The black silk of her robe glided over her skin, barely held in place by a loose knot between her thighs. She exhaled, her lips parted, as she relived the scene as if it were yesterday: her parents' living room, the equations scribbled on the whiteboard, and him, her tutor, his eyes fixed on the neckline she had carefully chosen that day.
The first lesson had been innocent. Or almost. She was seventeen, her grades were plummeting, and she had a growing obsession with the way her math teacher—a man in his forties, divorced, with hands that always seemed too close—looked at her when he thought she wasn't noticing. Then there was that day. The living room door locked under the pretext of concentration, the pen slipping between his trembling fingers as he leaned over to correct a mistake, his hot breath against her neck. “Do you understand, Laura?” “ His voice was hoarse, almost a growl. She nodded, but her mind was already elsewhere, fixated on the obvious erection straining his pants against his thigh. ”No... show me again." That's when the game began. A touch of his fingers on her knee. Then her hand, guided toward the hard bulge under the fabric. “Are you sure it's math you're interested in, little one?”
The mirror smiled back at her mockingly. She pulled her dress open a little more, letting the cool air from the air conditioning caress her already damp crotch. Memories flashed through her mind, brutal and precise: the first time she had to kneel under the desk, her lips wrapped around his salty glans while he continued to explain derivatives in a trembling voice; the following lessons, where equations were solved with thrusts of his hips, her bare ass pressed against the edge of the table as he took her from behind, his fingers dug into her hips to hold her in place. “Damn, you learn fast.” She laughed, panting, as his semen ran down her thighs, mixed with her own juices. The diploma? She didn't care about that anymore. What mattered was the way her body responded, how each moan elicited a new growl of desire from her tutor, how she had discovered that she loved being watched, used, turned into an object of pleasure.
A shiver ran down her spine. She slid the robe off her shoulders, letting the silky fabric fall to her feet. Naked, she turned slightly, admiring the curve of her hips, the roundness of her buttocks, which she knew were so sensitive, the way her nipples hardened at the mere thought of the mouths that had sucked, nibbled, and stretched them until they hurt. The phone on the nightstand vibrated, a message from her agent: “The limo is waiting for you in 10 minutes. Are you ready for your speech?” Laura burst out laughing, a hoarse, unrestrained sound. Ready? She was born for this.
The amphitheater at the Palais des Congrès was packed, a sea of eager faces, some familiar—directors with whom she had shot scenes so extreme that she still bore the marks, actresses with whom she had shared beds (and men) in swingers' clubs from Berlin to Tokyo. The spotlights hit her like a burning caress as she stepped onto the stage, her stiletto heels clicking on the parquet floor. The dress she wore that night was provocative: a blood-red sheath, slit up to the hip, hugging her breasts like a second skin, the neckline plunging so low that one wrong move would have exposed her nipples. She knew the cameras were already zooming in on her chest, that hundreds of men in the room were adjusting their pants. Good luck concentrating, she thought, smiling.
The trophy was heavy in her hands, a stylized crystal phallus, ironically appropriate. The applause crackled, but she waited, savoring the silence that gradually settled in. Then she spoke, her amplified voice echoing through the speakers:
“When I was seventeen, I was told that if I didn't pass my exams, I would never amount to anything in life.” A loud laugh rose from the audience. “Well...” She paused, running her tongue over her lower lip, “I didn't graduate. But look at me now.” The cheers exploded. She clutched the trophy tighter, feeling the cold metal against her sweaty palm. "I want to thank everyone who believed in me. My fans, who watched me get fucked every which way—literally—and loved me for it. The directors who pushed me to go further, to fuck harder, to play with my limits until I had none left." An excited murmur rippled through the room. “And above all...” Her voice almost broke, “above all, I want to thank the man who taught me that true talent is knowing what you want. Even if what you want is to get down on your knees and suck like a slut.”
Silence. Then laughter, whistles, and cries of “Damn, Laura!” rang out. She smiled, her eyes shining. “I fucked like an animal, and look where it got me. So to all those who think you have to follow a set path...” She raised the trophy, “...go fuck yourselves.”
The standing ovation was instantaneous.
Backstage, the adrenaline subsided, giving way to a dull warmth in her stomach. Her phone vibrated again. A message from her parents. She hesitated for a second before opening the notification, her heart suddenly beating faster.
"Congratulations, sweetheart. We are so proud of you. Not for the choices we would have made in your place, but for the woman you have become. Strong. Free. Happy. That's all that matters. —Mom and Dad."
Tears welled up in her eyes before she could hold them back. She leaned against the wall, her head thrown back, laughing and crying at the same time. Proud. The word resonated within her like absolution. All those years of fearing their disappointment, imagining their horrified looks if they knew what she did in front of the cameras—getting fucked by four guys, swallowing loads of cum until she threw up, playing the submissive in orgies where she lost count of the hands touching her. And yet... proud.
“Holy shit,” she muttered, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. She had won. Not the degree, not the bourgeois respectability they had hoped for her, but something far more precious: the right to say “it's my life” without apology.
Back in her suite, she poured herself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid burning her throat as she slumped onto the leather sofa. The city stretched out behind the bay windows, an ocean of indifferent lights. She placed the trophy on the coffee table, next to a vibrator she had forgotten to pack. “Tomorrow, a new scene,” she thought, sliding her fingers between her already wet thighs. “A new partner. A new way to make me scream.” But tonight, for the first time in years, she didn't want to play a role. She just wanted to feel.
She lay down, legs spread, and closed her eyes. Her fingers found her swollen, sensitive clitoris, and she moaned softly, imagining her tutor's hands guiding her again, his hoarse voice ordering her to touch herself “like a good little slut.” “Look at yourself, Laura. Look how beautiful you are when you give yourself.” She complied, opening her eyelids to see herself in the mirror on the ceiling: her breasts rising with each gasp, her fingers sinking into her, her hips undulating on their own, eager. “Yes... like that...” She added a second finger, then a third, arching her back when her knuckles brushed against that sensitive spot inside her, the one that made her see stars. “I'm a whore, so what? I'm your whore.”
The orgasm hit her like a wave, violent and liberating. She screamed, her fingers buried deep inside her, her other hand crushing a breast as if to punish her flesh for so much pleasure. Her juices spurted onto her thighs, onto the leather of the sofa, and she laughed, breathless, as the last tremors ran through her. “No one can take this away from me,” she whispered, licking her soaked fingers. “No one.”
Tomorrow, the cameras would roll again. Tomorrow, she would start acting again, giving her all, pushing her limits even further. But tonight, in this suite that smelled of sex and victory, Laura knew one thing with absolute certainty: she had chosen her destiny. And she would choose it again. Without regret.