Chapter Text
Mel’s days start with comments. Moderating them, reading them, getting inspiration from them, it’s a solid chunk of her morning to go through them, almost like reading the paper.
Most of them are tame, just commenting on how beautiful she is, questions as to where to find more of her content, and she answers those easily, thanking them and redirecting them to her OnlyFans page. Some are weird, she ignores them, deletes and blocks appropriately without thinking about it too much.
It inflates her ego, just a little bit, when she gets comments from fellow creators.
Samira, her best friend, is always there to hype her up. At first, Mel thinks it’s odd, for a friend to comment on naked pictures of another friend, but that wears off fast when Mel reminds herself that she’s showing her pictures to the public.
The newest picture gathers a lot of views, a lot of downloads—its of her laying in bed, tripod set up above her—and she’s covering her breasts just barely with both hands, really just covering the nipples, and the smallest peek of lace at her hips accentuates the bottom of the frame. It’s a tease, she’s told, and it makes her blush with the knowledge of it. She’s glad she can still surprise people who have seen nearly everything.
There’s a comment that gives her pause, a name she recognizes from her “recommended” feed, of another creator. A male one.
Guys in the online porn industry are a bit of mystery to Mel, mostly because she doesn’t see them successful very often. For once, it’s a girls’ world, she had figured, but every now and then, someone pops up that takes her by surprise.
Just a heart, nothing fancy, nothing weird, but perplexing all the same. She finds herself biting her lip, mind racing.
She sends the screenshot to Samira, who’s typing bubbles immediately pop up.
Samira follows her message with a link to his public profile, and Mel huffs, because she already had access to that, but hadn’t really looked before telling her.
He is conventionally attractive, she’ll give him that, with blue eyes you could swim in and a chin dimple that makes her think about him smiling more. He shares gym selfies, showing off a lean body, v-cut and all, suggestive, and Mel feels her face getting warm. She forcibly shakes her head, almost like an etch a sketch of delirious thoughts, trying to move on to the videos on his page. She hovers over a preview, a still shot of hands—his hands—around the neck of a woman that looks completely wrecked, her makeup smeared.
She goes back to the conversation with Samira.
Mel feels her smile brighten as she looks down at her phone.
It’s fun to tease Samira, especially because she’s never had the guts to actually interact with Jack Abbot, a traditional porn industry director who is well known in their circles. Sometimes it has Mel thinking about her own goals in this industry—she certainly is capable of more, but does she want to go in that direction? Or will she stick to online?
She ponders that question. It feels easier to respond to other people in the industry when they’re girls, a weird distinction that at first feels more about safety, but she realizes is more because of something else. Nervousness, actually.
Her finger comes to her lip and she bites the tip of it, a bad habit.
Mel looks at the video preview again, a warm feeling in her stomach. She decides to take a chance, standing from her desk and walking back into her bedroom. There’s a push to be laying down when she’s doing this, an urge she listens to as she gets nestled into her pillows.
The video starts from the beginning, a jarring redirect from the preview, with a shot of the back of his head between her thighs. Mel puts two and two together quickly and realizes that they actually have staff, someone outside of the two of them filming, which warms her cheeks even further.
She wants to ask him, “How can you do that? Have sex in front of other people?” but realizes the hypocrisy of the question. Mel takes pictures and does video work of her naked, of course there’s an audience, but somehow this feels different, performing directly in front of someone else. Regularly. And its sex, not just being naked, or playing with a toy. She’s never had sex on camera, couldn’t imagine the confidence to do it.
The camera focuses on the way he eats his partner out, tongue lapping at her clit in such a way that it makes the girl’s legs shake, her hand worming its way into his scalp—messing up the near perfect coif of his brunette hair. Her hands are manicured, bright pink and sparkly, Mel’s are not, and she looks down at the blank nail beds on her other hand for a moment as the video continues to play.
The scene shifts to missionary, the girl under him near panting with how loud and near obnoxious her moaning is, and he’s licking down her neck, hands hooking around her breasts to direct them into his wanting mouth as well. Mel feels her neck prickle, secondhand embarrassment maybe, but an interest she can’t shake as well.
Legs crossing, she keeps watching, enraptured by the way his eyes pour over the girl, like he can’t think of anything else but pleasuring the person in front of him. The camera shifts again, and Mel watches him react to her going down on him, all fluttery eyes and biting lips.
It’s interesting, she figures, because usually in these types of videos, the focus in on the act itself, on the girl going down, rather than the man receiving. She likes it.
Maybe too much.
This is harmless, this is nothing, but Mel really wants to get off right now. Is it awkward to get off to a peer? Most definitely. But it’s also something she’d never tell anyone, not even Samira.
She barely wants to admit to herself what this is doing to her.
Pausing the video, she throws the phone on the other end of the bed, sitting up. Mel’s body tingles with anticipation, with a want. Of course she masturbates, she’s a adult woman, but usually it’s on camera.
Doing it for herself feels self-indulgent in a way she doesn’t quite understand.
She grabs her firmest pillow and shoves it between her legs, the only way she knows to actually finish. Grabbing the phone, she leans forward and stutters her hips, exhaling shakily as her thumb rewinds back to the closeups on his face—Frank’s face.
Forcing her mind to go blank, she rubs herself against the fabric of the pillow, through her sweatpants, and watches Frank feel good. He lets out a shaky exhale, the camera focusing on the way his eyes watch her bob between his legs with a kind of reverence that makes Mel feel crazy. She feels good too, great even, the pressure between her legs building with every jerk of her hips.
Mel finds it slightly embarrassing, this secret of hers. Its something she’s never even admitted to Samira, who, for all intents and purposes, truly believes Mel is an experienced sex worker with plenty of notches in her belt. But the reality is much different.
The reality is her rutting against a pillow, stuffing her hand in her mouth to hold back the squeak that escapes her lips when her orgasm rips through her. On the bed, the video still plays, Frank thrusting up into his willing participant, camera focused on the way his face changes with every movement.
The reality is even more grim than this, something that she barely likes to think about, nevertheless advertise it.
Mel King is still a virgin.