He Made Me Ch. 01

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Synopsis:

She wants to become a famous pornstar, she wants to be the erotic fantasy of thousands of people and she’s willing to do anything to achieve her goals. However, she soon realizes that she needs help and when it comes in the form of a much older, unattractive and yet well endowed man, who claims that he can mold her into a star, she accepts it against all reason, embarking herself on a quest to transform into a (erotic) dream version of herself.

Can dreams coexist with reality though?

Author’s note:

This story is not meant to give a realistic or accurate portrait of the internal workings of the sex industry.

Also, it’s not about getting a job in exchange of sexual favors, it’s about a woman who wants to be transformed.

Finally, my first language is not English, so please let me know if I did unspeakable things to Grammar.

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He made me

1. Michelangelo

I’ve always wanted to be a magnet, to turn eyes the way it turns compass needles. In a crowd I wanted to be people’s new north, where they wanted to be if they were women and where they wanted to go if they were men. Perhaps that’s why, when I was little, I wanted to be a famous actress. As far as one’s dream job goes, mine didn’t change that much growing up. As an adult, I just realized that sex is the hidden driving force of most of human behavior, and that’s why my ambition changed into becoming a famous porn actress.

Of course, this explanation is not what was in my mind when I decided to join the industry, it’s the hard-earned product of my musings about life and everything after the fact. Sometimes it takes years and you to actually do something, to understand the reasons why you did it in the first place. Life is weird that way.

Back when I was eighteen, I only knew that I was an unusually avid watcher of porn, for a girl I mean, and I just dismissed it as me just being a horny slut. Little did I know that I was subconsciously planning my future. The signs were all there though: why else being so obsessed by the actresses in those movies rather than the movies themselves? I remember painstakingly sifting through their twitter feed, their interviews, podcasts and whatever they posted on the internet, in search of a hint of whom they actually were, the people behind the promotional bullshit, the fake orgasms, the fake attraction to one another, the fake bisexuality and whatever mask helped them sell. I wanted to know what it was like to be them.

Before I could acknowledge that I found my vocation, a few things needed to happen though. The first was me failing to be admitted in any good college and, for my own disconcert, realizing that I was actually relieved. The second was most of my friends leaving my town for a better future, which started in the same academia that had rejected me without a second thought. As soon as most of them disappeared, it had become clear to me that they had been a living and breathing magnifying glass, without which my town finally revealed itself as the small, backwards place in the middle of nowhere that it really is.

The proverbial last straw that set me free, however, was a huge fight between me and my folks, which ended with them calling me a failure and me storming out the house. They have always been very demanding of me and my sister Cara, which is probably why I used to be a very anxious student and dancer, and that word, failure, as much as it hurt me, made me realize that there was no winning the game of earning their approval, not now that I didn’t get any scholarship. So why even play? I would always lose and always pay with tears and shame. No, I thought, fuck them and their simplistic and narrow-minded idea of success, I’m going to be whatever makes me happy and rich, even if everyone disagrees.

Yeah, perhaps there was also a hint of revenge in my decision of shooting porn as soon as I came of age, but there was also some wisdom. I had learned something about pornstars by following their lives: the world looks very different depending on whom you surround yourself with and the trick to achieve happiness is having a solid wall of people supporting your choices to protect you from those who don’t. As a friend of mine who paid her degree in psychology doing porn would say, your self-worth is derived from those surrounding you.

Most people frown at the decision of fucking strangers on camera because they wonder “how do you even live with the stigma?”. Well, some in the industry don’t. I knew about a few suicides and actresses or amateurs regretting dearly their choice of shooting porn. However, the truly successful pornstars, the winners of the game, seemed to have all a few things in common, according to my “studies”: the aforementioned solid wall. They had a lot of friends in the industry, a loyal and, most importantly, positive fan base, sometimes mental health counselors to cope with poker oyna the haters and finally their personal life never seeped into their work or their social media, which often were full of lies. If you had that and earned a shit-ton of money too, stigma could become just an annoyance.

So there I was, on a plane to Los Angeles, leaving everything behind and dreaming to become everyone’s erotic dream. I had a “plan”, of course. A laughable one, of course: I was still a teenager who just made a rash life-changing decision after giving the middle finger to her parents, after all. My intent was to start earning money with camming before finishing what I had saved up, a stash that had already been severely reduced by the high-quality webcam and the sex toys in my bag. Then, when I would be sufficiently at ease in front of a camera, I would begin shooting. Considering the costs of living in Los Angeles, there was barely a month between me and bankruptcy.

Did I have a chance? Well, I did look pretty. My skin was blessed with very few imperfections and a nice natural tan. I was slim but not too much and fit. My face is literally heart-shaped, because my hairline forms quite a sharp V that I highlighted by keeping my black hair tied in a tight braid, which could act as a useful handle for men to grab and use to push my mouth down their dicks, when they wanted rougher blowjobs. I deemed myself good at the latter, with my juicy lips and a tongue longer than average. I’m also endowed with a nice, well-proportioned and toned ass. As for sex in general, I had a good amount of experience. My only problem seemed to me that my boobs were disappointingly small.

I was wrong.

Failure is not just an event, it’s a feeling, a certain atmosphere contaminating all the places where you spend your time. The first taste I had of it, was the shitty two-room apartment in a condo that I had found for myself. The stained carpeting, the cheap, old, dull brown furniture, the inexplicably purposefully grayish walls. There was a foreboding quality to that place. Of course, I immediately started to decorate, with the same result that you have when you try to cover stench with perfume. My colorful string lights, the blue chiffon tents that I used to create a “camming studio”, the posters… They worked for a while, but they didn’t erase the underlying stench.

I remember very vividly the first night. Perhaps spurred by this presentiment, I immediately began working. I was so excited! To the point of being wet. This really was the job for me. Whereas everybody thinks it’s humiliating to undress for strangers, for me the idea that someone was going to masturbate thinking about me was extremely erotic, not to mention the fact that they could see me whereas I could not see them, so that my audience could be not attractive to me. I loved that too, because that made it not just forbidden, but also dirty. I would obey their orders, for money. “Whore” was a term that made me feel free and excited, not an insult to me.

I’m pretty sure that most people would fear of being discovered by their loved ones, but I was sure, in my arrogance, that everyone I cared about was just too boring for that to happen and I had blocked users from my home state. Now I realize how naive this expectation was: I just had to look at the mirror to realize how much otherwise “normal” people can hide!

Anyway, all in all, I started in the best way possible. My name was Jenny Jones, I was the newest user in a popular camming platform and I was ready to let the world see me naked! Indeed I soon began to receive a lot of private messages and I happily answered back. It’s not so easy to turn a stranger on by text, so I put some effort in my dirty talk and the personalization of my messages.

Any minute now, I kept thinking, waiting for some payoff, but there was none. Nobody seemed interested in private shows or in tipping me. They were just talking me for kicks and using my precious time for free! Feeling discouraged, I disabled the private messaging, finding out that I was by far not alone in that.

The next day I logged in a different hour, hoping for better results. The virtual equivalent of tumbleweeds. Right when I was about to log out, my first request came, but I was so anxious to keep my first client there that I became flustered and quickly ruined my strip-tease, making him leave. And I was so good at it when I rehearsed!

The following day I decided that I was doing something wrong, so I made a few changes, like my profile picture, which now was a better shot in a sexier pose. At least that’s what I thought. Still, almost nobody around, virtual crickets in my chat. My first real client was someone writing to me in broken English “She show boobs”. So I began taking my time. I was wearing a small blouse and a checkered miniskirt, in my attempt at a naughty schoolgirl outfit. First, I licked my lips and my fingers, pretending to be shy, then I let them move slowly canlı poker oyna towards the buttons. It was finally happening and, on top of that, I could finally show off my recently made nipple piercings! I wanted to touch myself so much!

“Boobs”

Yes, dude, jeez! I hurried a little and when my erect nipples were out he just wrote “Too little”, left me a meager tip and went away.

“Fuck!” I yelled in frustration.

In the following week, I realized that just being pretty wasn’t going to cut it in camming and, in all likelihood, in porn. There were just too many girls on the internet, just as pretty as me, willing to undress and play with toys for paying customers. In my desperation, I even tried to change my looks a bit, by wearing a print scarf as a head band and wearing big hoop earrings, paired with a new name, “Pirate Jenny” for some reason. Predictably, to no avail: I could barely scrap a few dollars a day, which for sure wasn’t enough to pay the bills. I had just arrived and already had to change plan. I needed to find another way to make money. Fast.

Of course there was proper porn. I mean, that was the end goal anyway, right? So I started looking for my first gig. Of course, one thing is to get naked on camera and be the one who fucks you, another is to have a stranger do it. That’s why I had been hoping to transition into it more gradually, but considering how bad my career as camgirl was going, it seemed to me that it was going to be a swim-or-drown situation.

However, without referral, the only jobs I could find were clearly for desperate people: little pay, shady people and suspiciously foggy details.

I cried many nights. No friends, no family, no money… I was about to come back home the same way my parents apparently saw me: a failure.

Until he wrote to me. I was masturbating with a tentacle-shaped dildo for an Indian dude, the only one vaguely interested in me that day apparently, when another user appeared in my audience. He tipped me with a shit-ton of tokens and wrote his request:

“Tell me honestly why you are doing all of this.”

I didn’t know how to react. It’s common knowledge that you need to keep your true self and your private life out of your performances, but I guess that I was so desperately in need of somebody to actually give a shit about me that I broke the rule and said, just when the other client disappeared:

“It was my dream to become a porn star, but I am clearly not cut for it, so not even I fucking know why I am doing this anymore!”

I still blush when I think about it.

“You’re failing because you are doing it wrong, girl. I can teach you.”

Shivers run through my spine. This could have been the perfect beginning of a horror movie.

“I’m known in the business as Michelangelo, look for me on the internet and come find me if you want to become a star. Full disclosure tho, I ain’t doing it for free. I’m an old man who likes to fuck young women. I do deliver, however. So, ask yourself why you are doing all of this and answer honestly.”

And with that he logged out too, leaving me alone even in the most crowded place on earth: the internet. I didn’t need to look up his name. He was legit, the agent of a couple of the youngest and most successful talents in the previous few years. So he did deliver even though, of course, I couldn’t know how often: who knows how many women he promised the same thing and did not become successful enough for me to be aware of them?

Needless to say that I didn’t sleep that night. If I have to be honest with myself, in the darkness I actually kept looking for an excuse to go, against all reason, and ask for his help. Was I ready to fuck an old, possibly disgusting man? Was I ready to trust a stranger? Was I ready to lose my dignity? This last question settled the matter. The most certain way to lose my dignity was to go back home and I wasn’t fucking ready for that, even if it meant risking my life. Man, I truly was a crazy teenager.

The next day, with trembling hands, I ringed the bell of a fancy villa surrounded by tall hedges. On top of a bikini, I was wearing a see-through white summer dress that I bought the first day I arrived to celebrate the fact that my job was going to be about being proud of my body. With a sudden flash of inspiration, I removed the bikini, so that my boobs with their shiny piercings and my shaved pussy were now both clearly visible. Seconds after a deep voice spoke in the loudspeaker:

“Look at that, you’ve passed the first test before even taking it!”

I couldn’t help but smile to the man that was probably about to kidnap me or something. Well, to be precise I wasn’t a complete idiot and I had told to a couple of friends where I was headed, refusing to explain why obviously. Moreover, I had nicked a thingamabob from my dad, a sort of chip originally meant to allow you to track with GPS a stolen laptop and stuff like that, which I had hidden in internet casino my hair. Since both of my friends had access to it, I felt moderately safe. Unless this Michelangelo wanted to rape me, of course. No, come to think about it, I was definitely a complete idiot.

Anyhow, the austere gate opened, revealing a big garden with a nice pool. On an expanse of white tiles I also spotted a jacuzzi. The house itself was… Well, tacky, if you ask me, the kind of style that is meant to parade wealth: the pale pink facade was adorned with white neoclassical columns and the windows had golden frames. I was timidly ambling along the walkaway, when the front door opened and… It wasn’t a man the one I saw. That was Barbie Baby, a blonde porn star who, well, looked very much like the doll. She wasn’t there to welcome me, because she lit up a cigarette and began walking majestically on her high-heeled white boots seemingly headed towards the exit rather than me:

“You’re the new girl?” she asked, mildly curious, when she reached me.

I just nodded with a lump in my throat: she was Barbie friggin’ Baby! One of my role models, right in front of me!

“Well, do whatever the old man says and you’ve stricken gold, girly!” she replied with a benevolent smile and a pat on my shoulder. Then she just resumed her walk out of the garden.

Feeling much better, I went on towards the door and I met for the first time Michelangelo. He was a living stereotype. He was in his late forties, slightly taller than me, with a paunch, and wearing square sunglasses with a golden frame, a flowery shirt and linen shorts. As I approached, I saw that he was quite hairy. He was smoking a cigar and that allowed me to notice that he had a couple of big tacky golden rings on each hand. One in his right pinky of course. His hair was streaked and longish, combed back with a lot of gel.

“What’s the name?” he boomed, with a deep and somewhat soothing voice.

“Jeri,” I mumbled shyly, almost in a whisper because of my returning anxiety.

“Isn’t that a man’s name?” he chuckled.

“Oh, no, Jeri with just one ‘r’, and an ‘i’!” I hurried to clarify, blushing.

“Yeah, I got that, I was joking!” he explained, laughing by himself again.

“Now, as I said, you passed the first test: you” he added, pointing at my dress, “can be a real slut! And don’t think it’s easy. It’s effortlessness I’m looking for, and you showed it without even trying. Many women just try too much, you know what I mean? It comes out pathetic.”

I smiled.

“Can I see your bikini?” he asked then.

I fetched it out of my purse. It was neon yellow, to make it more visible under the dress. He took it in his free hand and brought it to his nose, sniffing deeply the bottom. I blushed, but he apparently liked the smell of my pussy, because he put it in his pocket.

“Now, before we go further, let me explain what’s happening. You saw Barbie Baby, right?”

I hastily nodded.

“She used to be like you, wasted talent in a sea of mediocrity. She was very different back then. Boring, forgettable, making it up as she went. Poorly I might add. Until I found her. I made Barbie Baby. I transformed her into one of the highest grossing porn stars. That’s why they call me Michelangelo: where others see a boulder of dull unmolded marble, I see the statuesque beauty underneath the surface and what needs to be done to show it.”

I think I just raised my eyebrows at that point.

“So, if you are willing to become the rich version of you, stay and do as I ask. I’m not going to be your agent, not yet: I want you to see me as your coach. So this is not you getting work in exchange of sexual favors. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, that’s the exit,” he finished, pointing with the cigar at the gate.

“I’m not going away from this opportunity,” I replied resolutely.

“Then kiss your benefactor like he deserves!”

Perhaps it was that his promise seemed much more real after meeting Barbie Baby and I felt really lucky, or perhaps it was a strange tingling in a deep and previously neglected part of me, which craved the dirtiness and debauchery of what I was about to do. Anyhow, I threw myself on him and, hugging his short neck, adorned with a couple of golden chains emerging from his chest hair, I gave him a passionate kiss. His mouth tasted like cigar in a very off-putting way, but I made every effort to pretend that it was the most inviting place where I could put mine, which I opened eagerly as soon as his tongue tried to invade it. The more I thought about how disgusting he was, the more I was getting wet. I was such a whore! We made out like that for a whole minute at least.

“Now, why don’t you show me your other oral skills?” he boomed, pulling my braid away from him and then using it to push my head down.

I immediately fell on my knees and reached under his floppy belly to find the button of his trousers, wet with his sweat. When I finally managed to pull down his shorts, I found a huge dick waiting for me. Now that was actually inviting! I began to lick it, showing off my long tongue under his studying gaze. I was struggling because my mouth was a little dry for the agitation.

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